Geralt Sprouts Dog Ears and a Dog Tail
1,600 words.
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Geralt barely stopped himself from punching the vanity. Not long ago, he'd been in this very room with a woman, and she'd teased him about the White Wolf truly becoming a white wolf. Geralt hadn't paid it any mind—figured she was just flirting. But when it was over and he looked at himself in the mirror, those bright white pointed ears atop his head were impossible to miss.
Then he spotted the tail, about the length of his forearm, dangling behind him. Geralt grew even angrier. Never mind the parade of oddballs he'd been running into lately—including some self-proclaimed bard who'd insisted on tagging along. Sure, this third-rate poet had done wonders for Geralt's "advertising," but the trade-off meant unclogging drains and clearing rats out of basements all fell on him too.
Jaskier never seemed to tire, always volunteering to handle the cleanup after Geralt's contracts: washing his clothes, scrubbing his hair, restocking supplies, organizing potions and blade oils—the whole tedious list.
Geralt figured he'd better dodge Jaskier for a while, or the nosy bard would never let him hear the end of it. Just as the witcher pulled on his shirt and threw his cloak over his shoulders, ready to track down whoever was behind this prank, he nearly collided with Jaskier in the doorway.
Before Geralt could tug his hood up, those perky little ears stood out plain as day, looking impossibly soft. The bard clapped a hand over his mouth in exaggerated shock, and Geralt already knew exactly what face he was making. "Oh, my God, Geralt. My God!"
"Shut up—"
"How can anyone shut up? I can't help it!" Jaskier's laughter bubbled through his fingers. "Have you turned into a puppy?"
Geralt shoved past him, storming outside with a scowl, and the bard trotted after him as always. "Hey, Geralt—your cut! That's what I came for! You don't want it?"
Geralt stopped. Jaskier nearly slammed into his back—*nearly*, because after months of that exact thing happening, he'd developed excellent reflexes. Otherwise, Geralt would've clocked him one for sure. The witcher snatched the coin purse from Jaskier's hand and marched on.
The bard trailed beside him with a grin, sneaking curious glances under the cloak, trying to catch a glimpse of those hidden ears. Geralt shot him a weary glare. "Don't even think about moving your hands!"
"I won't! How could you accuse me of that? That's so unfair," Jaskier tilted his head. "I'm just wondering—who are you going to see about… you know, your dog-ear situation? Don't tell me it's that sorceress!"
"Yep, you guessed it. So you can leave now."
"Then I definitely can't leave! What if it goes like last time?" Jaskier's eyes went wide.
Geralt spat to the side, untied his mare's reins, and swung up into the saddle with practiced ease. Jaskier looked up at him with hopeful eyes, but the witcher simply spurred his horse forward, ignoring the plea entirely.
The bard put on his most pitiful expression, though Geralt wasn't cruel enough to ride off at full speed—he held the horse to a walk.
They traveled a ways in silence.
"What kind of magic is this?" Jaskier finally asked.
"No idea. The most annoying prank imaginable."
"I really want to touch them, Geralt. Forget the tail—at least… at least let me pet your ears?"
Geralt said nothing.
They stopped in front of a tent—home to a traveling fortune-teller, an old woman who knew her share of magic. Jaskier looked around with eager curiosity while Geralt cut straight to the point, pulling back his hood.
The old woman smiled, her eyes crinkling. "Gwynbleidd—the White Wolf."
"You know him?" Jaskier popped up on tiptoe behind Geralt's shoulder.
"Of course. I follow the threads of cause and fate. I came here to meet Gwynbleidd," she said mysteriously, turning to rummage through her shelves. "Creation from nothing—old magic. Not particularly deep, not particularly shallow."
"Just get to the point," Geralt said.
"The cure is simple enough." She handed him an empty glass bottle, her gaze shifting to Jaskier. "White Wolf, you suffer from what most do: you avoid your own heart. Stop using coldness and anger to drive away those who love you. When the time comes, the river will find its own course."
Before Geralt could press further, white light flooded his vision. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the inn room, standing before the mirror—still staring at those wolf ears on his head. In his hand was the glass bottle, now engraved with letters: *JASK*.
Not an illusion.
Well. That was about as subtle as a brick.
Geralt glanced out the window. If he'd read the magic right, he was back before he'd left the room—which meant in a few minutes, Jaskier would knock on the door.
Right on cue, the door gave a hesitant rap. Two soft taps at first, barely noticeable to anyone else, but Geralt caught them clear as day. Then two more, a little louder, though still not quite at normal knocking volume. Geralt crossed to the door and pulled it open, finding Jaskier mid-motion, frozen with his hand raised for a third knock.
The bard quickly shook off his awkwardness, beaming and holding up a pouch of coins. "Our—our share! We made a decent haul!"
Geralt smiled back—though it didn't look particularly friendly from Jaskier's perspective. He grabbed the bard by the scruff of the neck, hauled him inside, and kicked the door shut behind him, pressing the poet against the wall. "Let me guess—you remember what just happened too, don't you?"
"What? What? I think… I'm not sure I follow," Jaskier tried, batting his big, innocent eyes as if that would convince Geralt of his sincerity.
Geralt gripped his chin. "You little idiot. If you didn't remember, you'd have screamed at these ears all over again."
"Ah! I did *not* scream the first time!" Jaskier corrected indignantly.
Geralt shrugged and released him, and only then did the bard realize he'd given himself away.
"So… I still have no idea how to break this curse," Jaskier said, scratching his head and plopping onto Geralt's bed. "Oh! Speaking of—let me touch your ears!!"
"Fine."
"Wait, you're agreeing that easily?" Jaskier stopped swinging his legs.
"We're friends, aren't we?" Geralt sat beside him, deliberately leaning down closer. Jaskier blinked, suddenly not caring whether this was some trap—his one and only desire was to feel those soft ears.
The bard reached out carefully. The texture was like stroking a dishcloth—Geralt wasn't stooping low enough. Jaskier stood up, trying to get a better look at the ear's anatomy, but he lost his balance and tumbled into the witcher's arms. Geralt caught him around the waist, and as Jaskier landed against his shoulder, he spotted that tail wagging like mad.
On the vanity, the glass bottle seemed to have filled with some shimmering, translucent liquid. Geralt noticed without making a show of it.
Jaskier pulled back, saw the tail stop its frantic motion, and suddenly a wave of heat rushed to his face. He covered his burning cheeks. "Geralt… did you… did you mean that?"
"Mean what?"
"That we're… we're friends." Jaskier hid his mouth behind his hand. "I thought you were just using me to break the curse, and then you'd go back to ignoring me like you always do."
Geralt coughed awkwardly. "So that's why you pretended not to remember—you thought that."
"Well—you—" Jaskier mumbled, "I was just going to make you suffer a little, so you'd realize how important friendship is—especially how important *Jaskier* is—and then I'd burst through the window and surprise you."
"Good thing you didn't. I'd have shoved you right back out," Geralt said, shaking his head.
"In that case, witcher, I'm going to take full advantage of this moment and get completely insufferable," Jaskier announced, his enthusiasm flaring up—only to be slightly dampened by the murderous look Geralt shot him.
"Fine."
"*Fine*? But your expression…" Jaskier caught sight of that wagging tail. "Oh. All right, then."
Jaskier's spirits lifted again. "First—I want you to—" He grabbed Geralt's hand and placed it on his own waist. "Oh, this feels amazing! When you hold my waist, your fingers almost touch!"
"Ahem." Geralt pulled his hand back, still somehow incapable of blushing. "That's impossible?!"
"Anything is possible! Now I have a question—you don't have to answer out loud. I'll just watch your tail." Jaskier giggled.
Geralt looked away.
"I already know we're friends. Now, second question—what do you really think of my songs?" Jaskier crossed his arms.
"All right, are you planning to get full revenge here?" Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. I admit—I've secretly listened to you sing plenty of times."
"I knew it!" Jaskier burst out laughing, and that little puppy tail wagged joyfully.
"Now, third question—*ahem*—pay attention, Geralt, this is serious." Jaskier planted his hands on his hips. "Tell me you don't like Yennefer at all—not one bit—not that sorceress!"
"Come on, we broke up," Geralt cleared his throat. "I haven't had any contact with Yennefer in ages."
Jaskier watched the tail with satisfaction. "Last question!"
The bard's face turned red.
"I… I said I like you. Do you like me?"
"To be fair, you're very cute," Geralt said flatly—but his tail wasn't wagging.
Jaskier's face crumpled in disappointment. The witcher walked to the vanity, picked up the now-full glass bottle, and watched it shatter in his grip. At the same instant, the ears and tail vanished from his head.
"Idiot. I won't be lying to myself anymore," Geralt said, pressing a kiss to Jaskier's hair. "I'll say those words to you—but give me some time to get ready."
Jaskier looked up, eyes bright.
It was the most genuine embrace they'd ever shared.