whatupbuttercup | PSL Catchall with Conjurechaos

Why bother pretending she was not scrounging? She was. Oh, whatever they've done with it salted and seasoned well (no doubt to prove how darling the barmaid can be for a man who asks) it is delectable. Yennefer had enough wits about her to chew with her mouth shut though she does not let that stop her from expressing her opinion.

"Both would not make it a beautiful story. Or is that to be a harrowing ballad, something to lug out on somber occasions? This is your area of expertise, so forgive my pedestrian assumptions." If Jaskier can make a tremendous, emotional upheaval and craft it with a tune and words to transform it to be a whole new bloom, than perhaps he too is his own mage. Break the bones and twist the spine and create a new story without the pain of the first. True transformation was pain.

The amethyst orbs blink at the bard. The scales of emotion are luckily tilted into amusement. "A bit of my face, maybe. My eyes?" So obvious and yet no one had ever termed it as such. Never. Yennefer tosses her hair back and laughs at herself, at genetics and how anyone would believe she looks natural by any capacity. The compliment could tear her to pieces. "We both will drink! Though I must make it cold again or I'll perish." Inebriation brought out the dramatic in her too.

Oh, Yennefer, is that a challenge? Do you think Jaskier, greatest bard in all the land, cannot make a story about a warrior princess who saves a beast into one of the most popular compositions of all time? He is absolutely beyond words--and now he is determined. It shall be his greatest song. Greater than anything he wrote about Geralt.

"Excellent," he congratulated as she cooled the fresh bottle and her own cup as well. Jaskier broke the seal on the second bottle and refreshed them both before lifting his cup and taking the requisite drink.

His lute was lovely, though, and quite an excellent gift.

But, if she was going to play the obvious--that did give him an idea for his next challenge. He'd have to suffer for it, but it was the best chance he had to make her drink again.

"Alright, here's one," Jaskier tells her and breaks to pick at the food some more. He has no issue with her taking from the plate, indeed he hasn't bothered to move it from the center of the table.

"I've never held a title in any land," Jaskier challenges and it is a lie but, come on--his satisfaction is just this side of smug as he smiles at her.

There are so few songs, more than that popular songs about individuals that buck the long held traditions of beauty. Jaskier already has "Toss a Coin" can he get another with equal or greater popularity? Yennefer does love playful and not so playful antagonism. She batted her lashes at him and cups are brimming again.

His next question had her mid chew. Since he insisted on not sharing, Yennefer had no fork. He's got her with her fingers in her mouth again. Thankfully she had conjured a napkin at the very least to clean her pointer and thumb. She didn't drop it at the prompt but wound it tightly.

"Court mage. Trusted advisor. Deputy mayor." For each, she took a sip. No slurping, no, no. Yennefer is a lady, is she not? The cool kiss of cherry contrasts with the building warmth in her cheeks.

"Hah! I knew it, well, sort of," Jaskier crowed and the lifted his cup to take a long drink. She had sipped for each title but, in fairness, his was more along the lines of what he had been fishing to learn.

"I mean, I would have guessed Duchess or at least an 'in waiting'," he admitted. He gestured with his cup hand in an idle way. "You carry yourself with that vein of confidence."

He let's out a short sigh and gestures back at himself.

"I do not, but I am technically a Viscount of Redania, so, cheers again."

He really just wanted another sip, frankly. He could feel the easy heat settling against the surface of his skin, the fog of alcohol dulling his movements. This was fun and extremely comfortable. He wished they had pillows--he could really go for reclining on a pillow.

"Duchess? Ahhh," Yennefer sighs and cups her cheek. "No, I've not yet been awarded for my efforts and duties to the realm so handsomely." There goes the songbird, a sweet, sweet tune. She laughd softly again though nothing funny was spoken, that is until she finds herself seated with not just a bard but--

"Viscount of Redania! Jaskier!" She reached across the table for his hand, his sleeve, for whatever so long as she's not reaching into the dish. "You scoundrel!" Viscount! "How long have you held title! Tell me!" Whatever Yennefer managed to hold she gives a tug on like a petulant child. Nibbles and long gulps of their liquor have softened her considerably. "His lordship must tell me!"

The face he makes as she announces him, as her expression goes from fond to excited? Amused? Oh, she was going to mock him for this, he could feel it...and yet he didn't think he would mind overmuch. She grabs his cuff, then his forearm, reaching round their dinner in her delight.

Oh, then she calls him Lordship and he looks like he has swallowed something sour whilst listening to Valdo Marx butcher some poor shanty.

"Lordship?" he repeats, strained and dismissive, grimacing playfully. He takes a drink again and sets his cup aside. He does nothing at all to dislodge her hold of him, nor to prevent her from arranging his arm as she likes.

"Well, since I was born," Jaskier admits. It is not as grand a story as being bequeathed the title, sadly. "My father is the Duke de Lettenhove, and therefore, all of his relatives are, to varying degrees, impressively titled. His only son most of all."

"Lordship," she parrots amused. Now the peacocking of times before makes so very much sense. Jaskier has the plumage of title and rank by birth. Her eyes have widened and lips parted both taking it in. She would not openly gape like a fish to such a degree.

The song bird must have flown from the gilded cage to be of his own design surely! Yennefer's fingers clutch tighter because she won't spill herself across the table to embrace him. "Jaskier, I have only just begun to know you!"

Sleeping under the stars on a bedroll or gallivanting over hill and dale instead of steady lodging at an inn. Or at least that is the picture painted before her inebriated mind. "Please tell me more. You're herald now by your own merit so much so I wasn't even aware you're nobility."

Yennefer looks positively taken by this revelation, eyes wide and smile holding her mouth just agape. Jaskier has not taken leave of all his senses (despite the alcohol), but even he is just a mortal man. In that moment he is struck by how beautiful she is; her delight, her charm, the feeling of her attention and how it shifts with each clever thought, each has him entranced. She is lovely, of course, but that's a given. (It doesn't hurt, but he's quite used to that thought.)

The sky is blue, Witchers are grouchy cunts, and Sorceresses are beautiful.

This interaction, though, the way she clutches his arm in a mock hug, all eager joy, this is so new and so unlike what he has seen before. It's personal and touching and has Jaskier's whole tender heart snared in an instant. Like a rabbit in a trap he finds himself without his feet beneath him, stomach flipped, caught up and stuck.

He wonders, briefly, if this is what Geralt saw in her...but he somehow doubts Geralt ever saw her this way. Geralt is not the sort of fellow to inspire this reaction in people. (Which, oh dear, means that he is special and this whole...moment is his and his alone.)

He manages to just stare, embarrassed, and thankfully the sensitivity of the topic covers the sudden flush that takes his face.

Oh, but then she is complimenting him--and it hits much harder now. It takes some real effort to chuckle and demure--fortunately he has alcohol to help with that. He jauntily lifts his cup and takes a quick drink.

"Well, it helps that my name is not actually Jaskier," he admits with a slight shrug. Herald by his own merit--what a grand compliment. She hadn't ever bothered to look into him--he was just the bard. Ah, that was all he ever wanted in life--

"It's Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove," he announces very quietly with some false pomp before returning to his standard volume. He learned long ago that mentioning his family name or their duchy of origin would get him attention and favors he did not care at all for. Being hired as a bard because someone sought his father's Political Favor was...well it stung in more ways than one.

"Which is far too much for a stage name. But...beyond that, what do you want to know?"

Mercy of mercies, he has suddenly run out of words and the topic has just shifted to himself. How staggering--he will blame the alcohol, later.

Edited (how dare that apostrophe stick in there) 2020-03-18 02:07 (UTC)

The cat-like eyes of Geralt saw many different shades to Yennefer. A few candid, yes. And perhaps being a twisted, flawed creature himself that was the points that got his attentions. Lonely? Yes. Cruel? Sometimes. Terribly misunderstood? Perhaps that was a logic Yennefer applied to herself and no other. For a time it seemed like Geralt was able to truly see her as she was. She loved him for that. For that safe, cherished feeling his presence gave her... why would she call it anything other than love? Was it all really the wish?

The humor existed. Geralt and his brutish ways and means made her laugh. Though entirely falling upon his shoulders to be self-depreciating. That came naturally. And Yen? Sarcasm, clever words to volley. Did he make her feel giddy with laughter as she does now? No.

The mystifying nature of a Witcher did intrigue her, it did not take her by utter surprise the way Jaskier has. All this time in plain sight, and perhaps because he considered his status to be such a trifle and so obvious it was not worth mentioning. That makes this information more precious, more charming and amusing.

Yes, the alcohol was helping. There was that. Her face feels hot and the lanterns hanging from the rafters have halos of light.

This revelation made Yennefer want to reexamine his behavior step by step from the moment Geralt plopped him into a parlor of writhing bodies. The mayor should have counted himself blessed to host a noble countryman. She gave one final fond clutch before threading her fingers together to prop up her chin, her eyes still adjusting as though to see him for the very first time.

"My dear Viscount de Lettenhove," that's delivered without a stumble though she bites her lip before laughing. "Julian Alfred." Jaskier all this time was a Julian. "How was it that you decided to be Jaskier? Or--perhaps the question is that what became of de Lettenhove because Jaskier had been your truest self the whole time?" Are they too far gone into drink for this? Is this too personal? Yennefer's attention was rapt upon him. Naturally the tavern is none too interesting in his lowly way as it was.

Jaskier suddenly felt a bit bereft, what with his arm freed. He took a sip of his drink to prevent himself from pouting about it and then plucked up a piece of bread from the plate between them. It tasted wonderful--enough that he couldn't seem to frown around it when she started using his title--she couldn't possibly mean to do that always, could she?

Oh.

No, she didn't.

He'd never been overly fond of his name, it was exceedingly standard...but, then, he'd never had it handed back to him by someone as charming as her. It made his heart leap, just a twinge, and the question that followed pulled a chuckle out of him.

"Well, as my father once kindly pointed out to me: 'Who in their right mind would let a street minstrel become a Viscount?'" Jaskier explained and tore off another piece of bread. He did not immediately pop this one in his mouth, but gestured with it a bit, instead.

"I presume the opposite logic is true," Jaskier added lightly, "and I realized rather early on that I could not have the name Pankratz de Lettenhove and be anything other than Viscount Julian Alfred the Third."

Gesticulating made this story lighter, less tragic, and he was entirely about that. He had no desire to detail how his family reacted (or reacts) to his current profession, to explain why he has not used his title or the moneys of his estate to aid him on the road, or why he goes to great pains to exist as a nomad. She didn't need to pity him--he might actually take offense at that, or worse, she might go a bit somber and take that smile away from him. He couldn't have with that, not over something as ridiculous as a name he'd given up twenty years hence.

Oh, he had done that hadn't he? He'd introduced himself as Julian all of once when he traveled with Geralt...and he doubted the man had heard him when he did.

Gods' he'd known that man for more than twenty years and he'd never learned his full name. Had never even asked. It took Yennefer, what, an hour or so of conversation and drink to get it from him? (Not that it was a secret, not at all...just, wow.)

He shakes the thought off and smiles at the lovely woman across from him.

"So, rather than contend with things like legacy and title and being announced for roughly an hour each time I take the floor, I became what you see before you: Jaskier, bard of singular renown, tour de force, and wandering poet extraordinaire."

"The third!?" Scandalized utterly and completely now. Yennefer's hands pressed over her lips and she lightly shakes her head. "That wouldn't do at all. No." With no teasing her hands flutter away to hold her tin cup. "I mean to say that you're so very you. Singular. A unique person that should not have the name of others, no. no." Hopefully this made sense to him. If not, well, ask Yennefer when she's more sober. She drinks and has a thoughtful hum into her cup.

There was no pity shining in her eyes. Just adoration. He didn't want to have his life determined by birth. Going out into the world to get what he wanted of it on his own terms? What a way to Yennefer's good graces. How alike they are! All this time and they have similar expectations for themselves and what they can be in this world.

She props herself up some on the table to lean closer. Oh to hell with it, Yennefer grabbed her cup and moved to sit closer at his side. Her breath was coated in the dark, frosty cherry notes of liquor. "The lords and ladies so often are unbearable. I can see why you would prefer to travel. There's more to life, to the world than court. Summer, winter...whatever season. I like my comforts, as I'm sure you must too. Though I would perish without thrill." Her own agenda to find a means to restore her fertility is not in this clause. It has taken her to so many places she would not have been before. No regrets. Experiences bring disappointment, though there have been unexpected rewards. One is sitting with her this very moment, handsome face fixed on her.

Oh dear. When did Jaskier become outright handsome? Yennefer snorts at herself.

"To Jaskier!" Her cup is held aloft to touch to his own. "May the years be long, the verses plentiful, the maidens a-flutter, the gentry enamored, the coin heavy and---and so on." She had run out of things because she laughs and smiles too much.

Yennefer was animated, eager and emotional and conversational in a way that he never would have believed even the day before this one. She complimented him freely, encouraged his individuality, even stared at him with such--what was that? He couldn't look away from her, not as she spoke or gestured with her cup, not as she got up and moved to drape herself into the seat next to him.

She moved with the ease and grace of a considerable amount of alcohol. It was charming that she could get drunk, that she would--with him, even. His smile became a wide grin as she leaned against him, as she decried the royal seasons and agreed with his choices on such a base level--how had they gone this long without knowing?

She lifts a cup to him and, for that moment, he can feel himself getting a bit misty. He blinks fast and chuckles as he lifts his own cup to touch it to hers. The tin resounds cheaply between the two but it doesn't matter--it sounds better than the finest crystal ever could.

What praises--how sweet she spoke--it goes right to his heart and his infatuation blushes with it, swells, and he is so very enamored with her now. Gods' he had already been half in love--and now--now he would have to write another song about her.

But she is very close, then, and he has had an ill-advised amount of liquor. He doesn't think about how terrible the idea is when he leans in, or about how both of them would be betrayed by this--he only thinks that he feels so much and his heart is so full, he must share it with her. He wants her to feel this as well and tries to speak it--this thing without words--the only way he knows how.

He is a fucking idiot, at heart.

His lips ghost over hers, the shape of his smile fitted nicely to her own delight and the shape of her laughter. It is a chaste thing, full of adoration and appreciation, and he has no desire to deepen it. He kisses her with a breath of wonder to him and leans his forehead forward to glance against her own.

Gods' help him, her hair is so soft.

"You are utterly beyond compare, my dear," he says, very softly, gladly, into the space between them. Were he not so soused, he would be terrified--for so many reasons--but he can only feel happy, now.

A toast to him meant to drink deeply. Her cup was almost empty again. The tavern was truly growing on her now. Warm, and a dim clatter of activity around them. Still the most brilliant and important detail was her company. Why did he have such a schoolboy blush about him? She can't ever be the only person to give him compliments. With a more clear head she would perhaps have been more reserved in her expression.

The seasons have been very kind to Jaskier. His face is dusted with color from the sun, never ruddy. No lost teeth, no scars. A smile present on his face as much as fair weather in the south. Observing him more closely, Yennefer is now experiencing what many have before. A charming, friendly man that is quick with wit as well as affection.

What else does one call when lips touch. Yennefer can't be too sure when she has invited an embrace, a true one this time. His nimble fingers were in her hair and he tastes and smells of cherries. A simple press and still close enough that she can feel his breath on her lips. Yen indulged in a nuzzle and cups his cheek.

"Only one Yennefer of Vengerberg and only one Jaskier, hmm?" Her turn to press a kiss to his lips, softer and tilting her face just so. Chaste in a way she didn't mean but it felt so lovely when he did it. Usually Yennefer dives into the deepest depth.

The barmaid was going to have to spend her tears over the washtub with the dishes. She chose this time to come around and ask if the bard would require anything. "Oh and the people was wondering if they could get some songs."

Jaskier starts a bit, turning his soppy smile to the woman behind him, and blinks in open confusion at her entreaty. The people...songs? Oh--OH! His expression goes crestfallen and he looks back at Yennefer, desperate and confused. He has to break away from this to sing.

He has the countenance of a kicked puppy.

"Do you mind?" He murmurs into the space between them--the barmaid is terribly uncomfortable at his back, fidgeting and trying not to look directly at them. Were he sober, he would not blame her for her discomfort. "I won't be but a moment."

It is a promise and an earnest one, told with his whole heart--he wears it on his sleeve, along with his newfound regard. His hand still has not left her soft hair, his thumb slides carefully, gently, tentatively across the swell of her cheek.

Oh. Ohhh. Her lips pressed together and she takes in the barmaid. They are at a tavern. The establishment was still crowded. Not near so rowdy though they were noting that the bard was going to play any time now. That was why he was there, wasn't it? Not that any had asked Jaskier. One of those actions that come with the territory right?

Yennefer sighs and tries not to pout too. "Sing for me," because she had only learned of the second song he was known for. Jaskier had a whole set. And now she could listen with ears tuned to hear what infliction his education brought to his lyrics and poetry.

The barmaid also sighs though it is not the sweet, airy noise. Could be a held back sob. Who knows. Barmaids after all. Yennefer ignored her before and she will again as she leaned up enough to kiss Jaskier's cheek.

Ah, that? That he could do.

Jaskier's face lights up with honest and full-fledged joy and he lets his hand fall from her hair to the lute on the table. He snatches it up and spins out of his seat with a flourish--clearly a move to impress her. The barmaid frowns at him but gestures to the far wall and he offers her a bow and his thanks as he saunters away and into the empty space left for minstrels like him.

Well, for minstrels.

There weren't any others like him.

He starts his set with a jig, something energetic and bright that plays to the flush on his cheeks and the smile he cannot tramp down. It is a crass and bawdy song but his fingers are classically trained and the flourishes, the vibrato are filled with musicality beyond the simple tune. He winks and dances and sashays through tables and it's clear he loves everything about this--he loves the crowd, the eyes, the awkward smiles and open delight. He flits to and fro and pours his heart into his singing.

Jaskier falls into a rhythm, a familiar set of songs. He sings about the Fishmonger's Daughter, about Drunken Sailors in the Early Hours, about The Surf in Cidaris, the Streets of Oxenfurt at Night, and falls into an old classic without realizing he's done it. Toss a Coin resounds through the room and, once he hits the chorus, some of his delight fades--he masks it well, especially in the face of the wonder and singing of the crowd, but it lingers. Someone requests the song he sang for her, Her Sweet Kiss--the barmaid, he thinks, and she looks a bit combative when she does.

Jaskier smiles at her but already he can feel his delight waning. Still, he puts on a good show, it is what he does, and as it is a slow ballad, he can end his set with ease as the song finishes. It is meant to be sung for a crowd, that much is clear when he starts, and his voice breaks on that same line, on the lines that hurt, and the crowd--they go a bit strange, honestly.

He's never gotten this reaction before so, when he smiles sadly and bows, his addled brain cannot quite understand the looks that are aimed at him. They look...piteous? Annoyed? It's very unusual. Sympathetic sadness, misty eyes, those he is used to, but this--they almost look reproachful? Had he offended the barmaid, was she very beloved?

He cannot find her as he looks over the crowd.

"And I thank you, good people of Temeria! May your evening be kind and your drinks deep!"

His flourish does not earn applause and he feels eyes on him as he returns to his seat. They linger a moment and then, one by one, drift away from Yennefer and he. He is deeply discomfited and he casts a questioning gaze at the sorceress. Had he done a bad job of it? Was he a slurring drunken mess? He hadn't thought so but--this was...confusing.

He doesn't notice the looks that linger on Yennefer, nor the animosity that has built around them. His world is too narrow for that, right now. At the very least, he had warned her what most people thought that song was about.

The attention of a room of people transforms Jaskier, it's like he has gained more energy. The skill of his fingers and sense of time and measure for as much as he has drunk is incredible. Though Yennefer knows he has been performing for the better part of twenty years. Maybe he was so accomplished that he could sing in his sleep.

Listening to the people around him raise their voices in song it was plain to see that he was renowned and loved. The bawdy songs were popular, from the grizzle faced miners to the youthful bachelors all. The crone that was playing gwent and giving fortunes croaked out the chorus of Toss a Coin. Yennefer had heard it before. The surreality was stifling a moment and she let herself nibble at Jaskier's plate, not even bothering to lend her voice to the din. At least not for that particular tune. Jaskier was under no obligation to sing such a tune even though he penned it, the public wanted what they wanted. He was as much wounded and uplifted as she.

And to pull the evening full circle once more she hears Her Sweet Kiss. Murmurs and thoughts zing in the air. Oh, the bard is going to be the next victim. That is the decree. Though how can he when the song was there before Yennefer and this---whatever it was. She smiled sweetly at him as he worked the room all the same, pretending to be deaf to all but what comes from the lute and his lips.

"Well done," both of her hands reached out to him. The disapproval mounting will not come of anything if he is in her grasp.

Her praise brings a smile back to his face and, through the gradually fading haze of alcohol, make him glad. He slings his lute over the chair and takes her hand as he sits once more.

"My thanks, I do hope I lived up to the hype," he tells her and his wry smile underscores the fact that he was his best hypeman. No one talked him up quite as extensively or constantly as Jaskier, himself. He still wondered at the negativity, at the distaste in the air, but he tried not to let it sneak into his mind, to claw at him as he might've otherwise allowed.

"If not, may I offer you another drink?"

Her own expression stayed cheery and buoyant. The finale was wrenching in an unexpected way to the room around them. Yennefer muses to herself that now Jaskier has a small experience of her kiss now. Her palm presses to his.

"You are a treasure." He has to know that by now. Giving him kind words through out the night has made him practically glow. "Thank you for singing again." Leave it to her to treat it as though it were a private concert. No one else matters here anyway.

More? Yennefer tilts her head in thought. "I would love for more but I think it would be best enjoyed in private. Do you have a room for the night?" If not she does. At a fine place streets over at the Golden Fawn. "I could share." As friends do.

She is right, her praises have brought joy to him and they renew the smile that has fallen over the course of his set. His delight is honest as he holds her hand--its warm and smaller than he thought it ought to be. It was strange, she was actually quite a delicate woman, fine fingered and slender armed. The air of confidence she projects is so great, it disguises her size.

"Could you?" he asks and he cannot keep the smile from his question. He stands, just as dramatically as he sat, hand still in her's and offers his elbow.

"Then let us away and continue in private," Jaskier decides, beaming.

Jaskier's fingers are muscled, thin and nimble. Just what would expect of a musician. The small callouses are not near so offensive. Yennefer imagines that he indulges in a cream or salve. That is what any sensible man would do. Unless you're Geralt and you opt for gloves and don't do a thing about a wound until it is bleeding. Two songs out of it inspired by that wretch. Jaskier can do better. He will do better.

She squeezes his hand and stands after him. "It would be my pleasure to host you." He provided food, music and entertainment. Though this give and take has been so easy, so effortless. That can't be because of drinking.

Seeing that the bard is departing, he is getting a purse out of this. Meager. The barmaid was apparently well liked. Oops. Yennefer takes Jaskier's arm and tilts her head to his shoulder. She can take the purse since the other hand she is not holding will be for the lute.

The night is far less oppressive than the tavern had been--the weight of glowering and unfriendly eyes is needling. He had forgotten, honestly, and that was a strange thing. He had traveled with Geralt for so long that, once, he had been entirely used to that sort of reaction. Now it bothered him--or it had.

His lute is slung over his shoulder and, in his spare hand the remainder of their cherry brandy. Yennefer has his small purse but he would have just as soon left it--he had been paid by the King already and sets in taverns were no longer his bread and butter.

They stroll out into the spring breeze, the sweet smell of flowers and fresh grass and snowmelt greet them. It is a wonderful night with a clear sky and cool air and he is tempted to take her other hand and spin her about, to dance in it idly as they walk. The swinging of his arms says as much, but he refrains. The peace between them is nice, comfortable, and he relishes that as much as movement.

He is humming by the time they reach her lodgings, a nonsense song that is half worked out and cheerful. It will be sweet when it has words, but it doesn't and so it is a wordless accompaniment for a fine night filled with fine company and a new, dear friend.

How wonderful to have a new friend--he doesn't even realize as he squeezes her hand and draws her closer, to bump his hip against her and settle her against his side. She is warm and her gown is smooth and delicate and whispers around her legs and his as they meander.

Ungrateful, the whole of them. Yennefer usually has a sharp word. This night she has seen what a change they can do to her company. No, they don't need her opinion. She has already given a glowing review of the night's entertainment. That is the very last word.

The cherry elixir sloshes in the glass and there is a music to their gait. Jaskier humming, the lute now and then thumping to his back. Yennefer smiles and lets her skirts swish. The Golden Fawn is very close. They pass the mercantile and a few other taverns and inns. They are still loud and bustling. This must be a result of the festival crowd.

Yen already has her key and they slip up the stairs. The room is a room you'd expect a sorceress to occupy. A canopy bed, a wardrobe, a vanity, a writing desk and a chaise. Why the chaise? She hadn't figured it out though now would be a good tie to use it. His closeness has been encouraged the whole of their walk. A bump gets a small chuckle. "A coin for your thoughts." It's her turn to now guide them to sit on a plush chaise. "Or is it another song, Jaskier?" There is so much room available, she sits up against him.

The room is comfortable and he is comfortable--the warmth of the alcohol, the languid weight of his limbs after exertion, the smell of lilac and gooseberry, of linen and lemon that the room carries in it. She sits with him and he shuffles his lute aside, propping it idly against the chaise, glad to have her near--but her questions ring in his ears and all his thoughts of song are disrupted.

He keeps his smile, though it falters, and looks at her. Her hand in his is warm and soft and she is a warm weight on his side. The chair is comfortable and so unlike--this is--this inn is too nice, he thinks at once, and is startled by the thought. He relishes fine things, he has stayed in rooms the equal of this! He has no need to be frugal with his coin, to rent a room so narrow that one must shuffle past the other, that cannot fit a single tub or wash basin, where the bed is straw and smells of damp...and one must share space on the narrow mattress or risk being trampled on the floor.

There is so much space here.

Jaskier feels suddenly adrift in it.

He finds his eyes growing hot and is surprised by the sensation; his smile falters again and this time--this time he does not smoothly recover it. He laughs as he ducks his head and lifts the bottle of cherry brandy to rest it atop his knee. He makes a show of studying it as the weight of tears gather on his lashes. How swift a turn this is?

A coin for his thoughts.

Oh, but it is not her fault--he knows that. None of it is or was.

His next chuckle lacks his artful facade and he hates himself for that. It is pathetic and thin and not at all worthy of the evening he had planned. To sit and indulge and revel in Yennefer and their newfound camaraderie--in the closeness he so desperately desired from her, singular and special as she is.

Is he lying to himself?

A thread of paranoid doubt curls dark and painful in his gut. Does he only want to be near her because she is the same distance to Geralt as he is? Because being with her is some shadow of being with him? He--he doesn't think so--but the alcohol makes thinking hard and suddenly he is afraid. He is terrified he will harm her and he knows how cruel that cut would be, were she doing it to him--

He lets out a breath as his mind races.

"I--" he starts and it's a bit thick. "I don't know why I sang that. Habit, really. Stupid, base, habit."

Yennefer cannot place when she had been gaining strength and a sort of sustenance from his smiles. They've been together for hours now. No quest. No Witcher. And in the time it is a new, warm and restoring wave to have that expression aimed her way. Like someone has lit a fire in the coldest places of her self or the first brighter days after winter. Watching that expression change to anything less has her clutch at him, waiting for an answer.

She could pull it from him. Though she had promised earlier not to read his thoughts. To go back on such a thing, even for momentary satisfaction would be a complete violation of trust. Jaskier has trusted her with his full name, his secrets and scandals. Yennefer cannot repay that with impatience. The longer he's quiet the more it rustles up misgivings. No enchantment keeps him here, he is here by invitation and free will. He could leave if somehow offended. Everyone leaves.

Lightly she clears her throat and reaches to tilt his face to her own.

"Your songs are popular, you sing them because people want to hear them." The blue of his eyes is intensified with the threat tears they're almost crystalline. Her fingers stay on his face. "It hurts you to sing it." That's not a question. Hearing it, hearing a room of people join was also an event Yennefer had no way of preparing for. She should have known. Still, perhaps it was being so comfortable, so safe and close to Jaskier she imagined there wouldn't be any injury.

Months have pasted. It will be close to a year soon won't it? Wounds take time to heal. And their clumsy Witcher is known for being fierce and effective. At least this isn't deadly. Yennefer presses her body closer to Jaskier's she has half a mind to climb into his lap if it weren't for the bottle. For now.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

SO DRAMATIC YENNEFER. That's what you and Geralt have in common. You're both emo drama queens.

emo childrens y-yes

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject