Archive of Our Own ^beta

     “Would it have killed you to run a comb through your hair?” Yennefer remarks dryly. “Or button your trousers, perhaps?”

     “Eh, I got too hungry before I had the chance,” Jaskier shrugs, stealing a roll from her plate and stuffing it in his mouth. Ridiculous showoff. Yennefer hadn't asked for much, just a quieter evening at the back of the tavern with a decent meal. And then Jaskier had decided to take the seat opposite, looking debauched almost to the point of public indecency with bruises littering his neck.

     “I take it Geralt just left?” she asks.

     “Hmmm,” the bard hums through a bite of bread. “Was in an awful hurry about whatever's in that graveyard too, bastard didn't even let me do anything to him before leaving.”

     “Oh, what a shame,” she sighs sarcastically. “You'll have him back later, play with him all you want then.”

     “No, no, he'll be all Witchered-up and crazy on those elixirs, and you like it rougher than I do.”

     “Do I,” Yennefer smacks Jaskier's hands away from her remaining food. “I think the shaking walls at night beg to differ.”

     “Oi, it's better than the bath. He gets the water everywhere and it's not pleasant to have to mop it all up just after-”

     “There are children around, Jaskier,” she reminds him, mildly amused. While she tends to leave the details of her own nights with Geralt between the two of them, in general the bard cares not if people hear of his partner's prowess, whether it be in passing conversations or immortalized forever in song.

     “Fine,” he grumbles, signalling the barmaid for a pint. “Don't suppose you have a better topic? Not like we have much of a..” he gestures between them, “common ground.”

     It's not any kind of insult so much as a fact. Yennefer's made peace with their arrangement, sharing Geralt's company with Jaskier, and she certainly wouldn't consider her and the bard to be rivals now but the Witcher is really the only central goal they've bothered to find. She doesn't know if she regrets that or not. Jaskier is somewhat endearing at times, she concedes, but mostly when he tries it’s only for Geralt and otherwise he's this odd mix of half-charming, snarky, stubborn and-

     “Hello? Earth to scary sorceress.” Irritating. That's the word. “You're overthinking,” Jaskier takes a sip of ale. “Look, I've just had a wonderful shag, I'm in a good mood, and you need to loosen up. With you brooding in the corner you're practically going to turn into Geralt. Oh, don't look at me like that, you know I'm right.” He sets the mug down. “So, ask me anything. Go on. Whatever you want. 'How do you play the lute?' 'What's your secret to being such an amazing bard?' 'What do you and Geralt do at night with that rope in your bag?' I could give a highly detailed explanation for that one, if you'd like-”

     “Could you stop talking for one second?” Yennefer gets in, exasperated. “I'm trying to think.” But there's no large, looming question that comes to mind, no mysterious facet of the bard she's ever wondered about. Finally she decides on the first superficial thread she can grasp. “Is Jaskier your real name?”

     “That's what you go with?” he sounds surprised. “I didn't think you'd care. And no, it's not.”

     “What is it, then?”

     “Julian Alfred Pankratz.” He lets out a short laugh.

     “Julian,” she repeats. A name of somewhat higher status, and a background that at least explains some of his inflections and word choices, atypical for a wandering singer. “And why go by Jaskier instead?”

     “It's not that I dislike it, there's just less strings attached. No one judges me as much for following a Witcher around if they don't know where I come from.”

     “I take it Geralt isn't aware.”

     “Ha, I doubt Geralt even knew me as Jaskier until Princess Pavetta's betrothal feast. We'd known each other for years at that point, and he still only ever called me 'bard'.” He leans forward, elbows perched on the table. “Do you go by another name, Yennefer of Vengerberg?”

     “No, I've only ever been Yennefer to anyone. Except for Geralt.” And Tissaia, but Piglet is a childish moniker she only received during training. Jaskier isn't close enough for her to share that with him.

     “That's a shame,” Jaskier says. “I'll have to think of a nickname for you.”

     “Why?” She's not sure why he cares.

     “Because I'm bored and we're both fucking the same person, and if Geralt gets to call you something then I do, too. It's probably overdue, honestly.” He stares off thoughtfully. “I’ll come up with a name… if that's all right,” he adds, more hesitant. Interesting. Yen was more of a slip of the tongue from Geralt than anything else, so no one's ever actually put time into deciding what to address her by. Not like this.

     “Very well, Julian,” is her reply.

     He smiles.

*****

     It's some days later, in a different but no less identical-looking town that Geralt's shout of “Dammit, Jaskier!” heralds their arrival before Yennefer sees them limping down the street. Going by the outcry, it probably means that when the bard went along with Geralt on his hunt, got in the way and then got injured by whatever beast they were after. Again.

     “Wargs. Not infected, not poisoned,” Geralt grunts, pushing through the inn doors. “but he'll probably need stitches.” Well, it could be worse.

     “And he is here to say that no shit, Geralt, I need stitches,” Jaskier mutters under his breath. Attempting to cause as small of a scene in broad daylight as possible while splattered with blood, they stagger up the stairs. The bard goes as quickly as he can, though he winces in pain with every jolt.

     Yennefer's learned that on the occasions she doesn't accompany the other two on Geralt's kills, it's best to have healing supplies ready since they tend to return in wildly varying states of health. A needle and thread is already waiting.

     “Do you want me to look at yours?” she asks Geralt.

     “I just have a few cuts,” he says. “Tend to him first, I can handle myself.” Despite his eyes being blacker than pitch from whatever potions he consumed beforehand, there's still concern for his partner reflected in them as Geralt deposits Jaskier on his bed and moves back.

     “It's my shoulder,” the bard tells Yennefer, gingerly removing his shirt. A not-insignificant chunk is ripped out where his right arm meets his torso.

     “I can tell you that you won't be playing the lute for a while.” She gently cleans as much of the blood away as she can, then begins sewing the sides of the wound closed. Jaskier fidgets and writhes with each movement. “You're a horrible patient, Julian. Try to get injured less.”

     “But songs are more compelling when you witness its subject firsthand, so I have to go on hunts. Art is pain, Yenna,” he says airily, but Yennefer pauses. Yenna. That's a first. Geralt is glancing between her and Jaskier, looking like some sort of confused demonic puppy at this interaction.

     “You may think so, but that does nothing to detract from the fact that you're an utter idiot,” she tells the bard instead, continuing as though nothing happened. Yenna.

     She decides she likes it.

     Later, Geralt asks her about it.

     “When has Jaskier called you Yenna?” he says, once they're alone in the room and a bandaged Jaskier has disappeared downstairs. “And since when do you call him Julian?”

     “That's his name, didn't you know?” Yennefer laughs at his bewildered expression. “I think he prefers you call him Jaskier though. And Yenna is just something he thought of.”

     “So am I allowed to call you that now?” Geralt shifts forward, moving to kiss her. She looks him in the eyes, now reverted back to amber. The bard found his own unique nickname for Yennefer, like he said he would. It's no one else's.

     “No.” She fits her mouth to his.

*****

     By decree of Geralt, Jaskier is forbidden from trailing him on any further killing ventures until his shoulder is completely healed. Which means that suddenly, Yennefer has quite a bit more time to spend with the bard. Oh, she accompanies the Witcher when the monster is dangerous enough that he might need backup, and she gets all the time she wants alone with him, but unless she wants to associate with residents in whatever town they're occupying (she doesn't, and for the most part the feeling is mutual) her only companion available in the evenings when Geralt goes off is Jaskier.

     “Care to get drunk?” he offers one night, when she goes to the tavern across the road and finds him seated at a table. “This bloody wound is terrible, I can't play music, and there's a very sadistic mage who won't cast any spells to ease my suffering,” he says pointedly.

     “You brought this upon yourself, you deal with it.” Yennefer still orders a bottle of wine, though. “My alcohol tolerance is likely higher than yours. Shall we see how long you last?”

     For a human Jaskier is surprisingly good at holding his drink, matching her cup for cup, but any contesting is eventually forgotten as Yennefer's thoughts die down to nothing but a background hum. Besides, the bard is recounting better things to focus on.

     “You're a fucking Viscount?” she exclaims, bursting out probably louder than she should be. But it seems so funny, because, well, it's Jaskier.

     “Viscount de bloody Lettenhove,” Jaskier affirms, his words slurring slightly. “My family was rather disappointed when I left to be a bard.”

     “Wonder what they'd think now, with you travelling all around the Continent for some Witcher arse.”

     “It's not just because of his arse, it's… it's...” He frowns. “I don't know what I was going to say. Probably something meaningful. But he does have a beautiful arse.”

     “Hmmm.” She agrees, but doesn't dignify the statement with a verbal response.

     “Hey, you're one of the most powerful magicians on probably the entire Continent, and you're with Geralt too. What's your reason?”

     “I am not sober enough to answer that right now,” Yennefer declares, draining her cup and slamming it down on the table. “Ask me again later.”

     Jaskier does end up asking again, several days afterwards. They don't become totally inebriated every time Geralt's not around, but they do tend to drink to take the edge off.

     “I travel with Geralt because it's my own choice.” She's had enough wine that her reservations aren't holding her back. “I spent decades, sitting at useless courts advising moronic kings. I was trained at Aretuza, so I was told it would bring me purpose as a sorceress. When that failed, I made a different goal- reversing my infertility. It's the price you pay for Ascending, for becoming a recognized mage,” she explains to a slightly lost Jaskier, though that's a subject she doesn't feel like delving into any further. “Borch told me there was no cure, and though I would still like to bear children one day, I guess I've come to terms with it. Now I'm just doing something for me, because I want to.” She stops to pour another drink. “I know Geralt's wish ensures that we keep meeting each other. I spent years being furious about it, fighting it, hating it. But I think being on the road makes me… happy, I suppose, whatever the cause may be. Why should I deny myself that? After chasing things I've failed to reach all my life, I deserve to slow down and have this for once, and that's my own decision. Not the work of a djinn.”

     Her words seem sure of themselves, but really, she's still figuring it out. The conclusion Yennefer's reached for the logic behind her life as it stands tends to evolve, so what she's telling Jaskier is only one version but it's the truth as she perceives it now, as best she can. He's silent for a moment, and she can almost see the gears in his head churning.

     “If you write some tragic ballad from this I will curse you.”

     “Not even a poem?”

     “Absolutely not.”

     Their conversations aren't always so heavy, though Yennefer does end up sharing more personal things with Jaskier, specifically about her training. Catching lightning in a bottle. The cavern of eels. How Tissaia brought her to Aretuza from that horrid farm. She still doesn't mention her painful transformation, who she was before and why she chose it, but these are still subjects that she doesn't think she's broached in depth with anyone else. Somehow, in some way, Jaskier manages to put her more at ease when they're discussing this. Or perhaps it's the alcohol that does, but he's a good listener and more than willing to talk when she's not up for it.

     “He said I was kicked in the balls as a child to get that lord off my tail. Geralt saved my life with that, but really,” he gestures wildly, “could he think of no better excuse than telling people I was a eunuch?”

     The bard has many tales of Geralt and his past experiences, but Jaskier confides more solemn matters in Yennefer, too. He tells her what happened on the mountaintop, what Geralt said to him after she left. Once he's done she's prepared to go find the Witcher, in whatever part of the surrounding forests he's stalking through, and punch him in the face.

     “He apologized, and we made up or we wouldn't be here now,” Jaskier says. “Believe me, he was a sorry sight. I don't think I'll ever see him beg again.”

     “No, you have. Unfortunately I've heard it. Yennefer smirks. “Does about a week ago, at that inn near Novigrad ring any bells?” His eyes widen.

     “Fuck.”

     “I believe that's what you were doing, yes.”

     And then there's the nights that are like the first time, when they're messy and wild and causing a ruckus so much they almost get thrown out of a tavern and one time they actually do. Right in front of Geralt.

     “Do I want to know what you two are laughing about?” he asks, picking both of them up.

     “No, you really don't,” Yennefer can barely catch enough breath to get the words out. Geralt gives her a fairly unimpressed and slightly shocked look, since it's rare that he ever sees her in this state. He takes her hand and steadies her all the same, though, without asking further questions, so she doesn't have to explain how they got thrown out for laughing too loud at a joke Jaskier made about Geralt's cock.

*****

     When Yennefer catches him stealing her makeup, Jaskier calls it borrowing.

     “What exactly are you doing?” At least he's being relatively organized as he rummages through her containers.

     “Looking for eyeliner. You do have some, don't you?”

     “Of course. What could you possibly need that for?” She watches as he finds his prize, holding up the black pencil and looking to the mirror.

     “It makes me look good. Well, better than I already look, at any rate.” He begins to apply the eyeliner with a steady hand, and it's clear this isn't his first time using it. “Thanks to you, I realize I now have reliable access to cosmetics and I can live at a higher standard again.”

     “I'm not your beauty boutique,” Yennefer warns. “If you use all of it, I will kill you.”

     “No, I don't think you would.” Jaskier is teasingly dismissive.

     “Try me.” He laughs off the threat, and unfortunately she thinks he's probably right. If she were to turn angry at Jaskier for something as trivial as this then he wouldn't have dared to touch her possessions in the first place.

     “Any thoughts?” He turns around, task finished. Jaskier certainly does look striking, she has to admit. The eyeliner accentuates the blue in his irises, draws it out to contrast with his doublet.

     “You look decent,” is all she chooses to comment. He slumps into an exaggerated pout.

     “I was hoping for somewhat higher praise. Geralt went wild last time I did this.”

     “I'm not Geralt.” Jaskier still raises an eyebrow, unrelenting. “Fine. You look more handsome than any statue of the old gods, and all the young ladies and lords across the Continent will swoon when you grace them with your presence.”

     “All right, now I know you're not being sincere.”

     “You asked for praise. You didn't say I had to mean it.”

     “Yenna.”

     “Julian.” She rolls her eyes. “It's a good look, Jaskier, and I mean that,” she grants. “There you go, are you happy now?” He grins, twisting back around to his reflection, and she gets the feeling that she's lost some sort of game but she doesn't know what.

     Geralt's incredibly enthusiastic reaction to Jaskier, along with the heavy sound of the bed creaking that night affirms what the bard said about him, as well as ensures that Yennefer gets rather less sleep than she'd hoped. But come morning, when she arises to see Jaskier putting on her makeup again without asking, she says nothing.

     And a week after, when she sees him sporting black nail polish that was obviously from her supply, Yennefer wipes it off and shows him how to do it properly. Dammit, if he's going to take from her high-quality inventory then he has to learn that one coat isn't enough for the polish to stay on for long, he'll have to redo it and go through more in the long run. At least when he finally does use up all of something he has the decency to replace it.

     Melitele, she's starting to go soft.

*****

     Yennefer tries to savor all the time she has with Geralt these days, but it's surprisingly difficult to do that when even just in normal, private conversation the door is shoved open at unpredictable times.

     “What color are your eyes, Yenna?” Of fucking course it's Jaskier.

     “What?” Can't he see that the door was closed for a reason?

     “I mean, I know they're violet, I can see that, but I need something more specific. Hmmm. Lavender's not quite right,” the bard steps closer, studying her intensely. “Amethyst? Yeah, amethyst. I can work with that.” He scribbles down something in his notebook.

     “Jask, can you… can you please leave us alone?” Geralt pleads, not unkindly.

     “Ah, right. Sure,” he seems a little too innocent. “Okay.” Jaskier saunters back toward the door like he has all the time in the world. Just before he closes it, he gives Yennefer a quick wink. Oh, he knows.

     “What was that about?” Geralt asks, staring at the door.

     “I don't know,” Yennefer tilts his jaw, pulling him into a forceful kiss. “and I don't care.”

     She confronts Jaskier later, when he's sitting on his bed, strumming his lute. “What's your excuse?”

     “I needed to know how to describe your eyes,” he explains, unperturbed. “It was really quite pressing, and I couldn't wait.”

     “And what do you need this information for?”

     “I'm writing a song.” Of course he is. Since Jaskier's shoulder healed and he regained full use of his writing hand he's been at it non-stop, jotting down verses and tunes to make up for all the time he lost. “Don't worry, anything you've told me in confidence shall be excluded. Huge loss of story potential, there, but I respect your wishes.”

     “Why are you writing about me?” Yennefer asks slowly. The last and only one of his compositions she was mentioned in was Her Sweet Kiss, which didn't exactly paint her in the most favorable light. Jaskier blinks at her like the answer is obvious.

     “We've all been travelling together for over several months, and I haven't sung anything about you. It's not exactly fair, is it?”

     “I- suppose not.” She hadn't really thought of it this way. Geralt is, and has always been Jaskier's muse, along with the string of however many tragic relationships the bard has been through. Yennefer was always out of the picture, and at this point she'd just accepted it. “… thank you, Jaskier.”

     “No need to thank me,” the bard waves it away. “I just figured it was time.”

     He doesn't mention it again for some days, until she hears a new song for the first time in a tavern, the closing ballad to Jaskier's set. 'The Sorceress', it's called, the tale of a farmer's daughter with a hidden heart of gold who rose up to become a powerful mage. She honed her skills in the halls of kings, then stood bravely against Nilfgaard when the Continent needed her most. She is as sharp and hardened as a diamond from the trials she's faced, Jaskier sings, but she shines just as brightly as one, too.

     There's no line dedicated to Geralt, nothing of Jaskier himself. The focus is entirely on her. It's a fanciful, glorified retelling, cut down to the most dramatic parts and embellished with the skills of good writing, but Jaskier wrote a song for Yennefer, for her. For Yenna. He painted her as the hero she never saw herself as, though one that believes in, it seems, despite their differences in the past.

     The bard was never as bad as I made him out to be, she thinks, once it ends. He cares.

     Then she turns her focus to the crowd, who rain coins at Jaskier's feet and ask for him to start the song over.

****

     Eventually, the Path leads to Yennefer, Geralt and Jaskier coming to a fork in the road. To the west lies Oxenfurt, a place the bard has been and dearly wants to revisit, while Geralt has heard of a swamp a little further away with a drowner infestation he'd like to collect the reward for.

     “I can take a little detour and rejoin you in few days,” Jaskier offers. “I shouldn't be too long.”

     “'Shouldn't',” Geralt says dryly. “If there's any sort of poetry reading or singing competition, you'll never leave and I'll be the one to find you instead.”

     “If you'd like to meet me in Oxenfurt instead, I think we could arrange that.” The Witcher shrugs.

     “Fine, I'll kill the drowners and see you there. Yen, where do you want to go?” Hacking at monsters in a cold bog doesn't seem incredibly appealing. Besides, a larger town like Oxenfurt will have better markets to peruse.

     “I can travel with Jaskier,” she decides. Geralt doesn't seem hurt at her decision, merely surprised.

     “And I can leave both of you for several days, alone, and you won't drive each other mad?”

     “I make no promises,” Yennefer says, face expressionless but in jest. The bard… well, they bicker, but she would almost venture to say that they were friends. Almost. Not that Geralt's caught on to that yet. He sighs.

     “Jask?”

     “We'll be fine,” Jaskier assures him. “Don't think so lowly of me, I'm a mature adult.”

     “Don't be so sure of that.” Geralt turns to Yennefer. “You're certain about doing this?”

     “He said he's a mature adult. I will hold him to his word.” The bard pretends to ignore the threatening look sent his way. “Be safe, all right?” She leans over and kisses Geralt, running her hand through his hair, savoring the moment.

     After Jaskier has said his goodbyes, they part ways, Roach carrying Geralt north while Yennefer and Jaskier lead their horses off to Oxenfurt. It's not a long ride, so by dusk they've dismounted and found an inn to stay at close to the town center.

     When they step up to the doors of the establishment, a clearly drunk man in wrinkled clothes staggers out, holding a bottle. He catches sight of Yennefer's striking eyes, holding her gaze with hostility.

     “Sorceress bitch,” the man spits. She keeps going, taking no outward notice. This intoxicated lowlife isn't worth her reaction. “Hey! I was talking to you, you little cu-”

     Jaskier's fist collides with the man's face, knocking him flat to the ground. He starts forward, looking ready to punch him again, but Yennefer reaches on instinct and her fingers wrap around the bard's wrist.

     “Come on,” she says, tugging gently. “Hitting him won't change his opinion.”

     “I swear, most people around here aren't like that.” Jaskier picks up his fallen satchel. “I just wanted to teach him a lesson.”

     “Well, thank you. It does mean a lot.” Yennefer never expected him to jump to her defense with such speed. “But I think we can go now.”

     The innkeeper thankfully seems to have no inherent bias toward magicians, though he does give the two of them a strange look when Yennefer asks for one room with two beds. It's only when she looks down and realizes she's still holding hands with Jaskier that she understands why the request seems strange. He thinks they're a couple.

     She drops her hand to her side, and in hindsight Yennefer probably imagined it but she sees Jaskier's face fall, ever so slightly.

     Once they've settled into their room, Jaskier goes downstairs to play for the evening patrons. The innkeeper eagerly gives him permission to perform, and within minutes the bard has got his watchers clapping and laughing with a rendition of 'The Fishmonger's Daughter'.

     Yennefer observes from the corner. She doesn't feel any need to draw attention to herself, feeling content to simply watch Jaskier at his art. When she hears the familiar opening chords of 'Toss A Coin To Your Witcher', she even mouths the lyrics along with everyone else, and she knows Jaskier can see her.

     “All right, everyone,” the bard announces nearly an hour later. “I'm sorry to say goodnight, but I'm afraid I've got just one tune left.” The audience groans. “But don't worry!” Jaskier says brightly. “I promise I'll make it worth your time. This one's a fairly new song, maybe you've heard it, maybe you haven't. But it's called The Sorceress, and it goes like this.”

     Throughout the ballad, everyone else thinks he's staring soulfully off into the distance, but Yennefer knows he's looking directly at her, addressing the song and all it means directly to its subject. She smiles, a rare, genuine one that she never reveals in public, and from his seat by the fireplace he winks back.

*****

     “Yenna, this way, they have jewelry,” Jaskier calls. He darts across the market to yet another stall, pulling Yennefer along. She's not quite sure how that happened, if she's being honest. They had to get through a tight knot of people, and he grasped her hand like she did last night so they wouldn't get separated and then... neither of them bothered to let go. But she goes with Jaskier willingly, letting him lead until they're standing before an assortment of detailed accessories.

     “Oh, look at this,” the bard picks up a ring, carved into the face of a snarling wolf. “Do you think Geralt would like it?”

     “I think he'd like anything you gave him, but it is nice.” Jaskier begins talking with one of the merchants behind the table about price, and another piece catches Yennefer's eye. A bracelet, the metal twisted delicately into a vine-like structure that curls around in a loop, while the clasp is a silver buttercup. It reminds her of Jaskier, the flower a reference to his name. Whilst he's preoccupied, Yennefer counts out her coins, finds that she has enough and quickly makes a purchase with the other stall owner when Jaskier isn't looking. He's been incredibly kind to her, even writing that song, and this is at least a small form of repayment.

     Once Jaskier has decided upon and bought a couple things from the stall, including the ring for Geralt, he continues down the busy street from vendor to vendor in no particular order. Neither of them get anything more of note, though Yennefer acquires some herbs for medicinal purposes and Jaskier new strings for his lute. The bard knows Oxenfurt like the back of his hand, and shows Yennefer a practical hole-in-the-wall of a bakery that ends up selling one of the best pastries she thinks she's ever had. In return, she buys Jaskier a new notebook for his songs, a beautiful one with a gilded cover that they pass in the window of a bookshop.

     The day slides by impossibly quickly with Jaskier, Yennefer finds. Geralt seems to view shopping as a mandatory chore for supplies, always heading in a straight line for whatever he needs and never more than that. With the bard, she can take more time to meander, appreciate where they are, and now more easily acknowledge that she really, truly does enjoy Jaskier's company.

     They don't return to their room until the sun has started to set, and Yennefer stops Jaskier on the street corner just before the inn. From here, they can see the colors dusk has painted in the sky over the rooftops.

     “I got you something, from the jewelers.” she reveals the bracelet, placing it in Jaskier's hands for him to examine. “It shouldn't get in the way of your lute playing.”

     “This is beautiful, Yenna,” he says softly, holding it up to admire the detail in the flower. “Will you help me put it on?” Carefully, she fastens the dainty thing around his left wrist.

     “I actually found a gift for you as well,” Jaskier reaches into his bag. “I know you like that obsidian star you have, so I didn't choose a necklace but I hope it's all right that I picked a ring.”

     “You really didn't have to get anything for me, after all you've done… oh.” The bard sets it in her palm. On the ring's smooth surface is an intricate engraving of a small bird of prey, wings spread as if about to take flight. A kestrel.

     “After all I've done? Nonsense.” Is Jaskier blushing? That's not possible. “Besides, I saw this and it made me think of you. The kestrel is beautiful and fierce and it does whatever it wants. It's free.”

     “I...” She's shocked by how incredibly thoughtful he is. How are words failing her, at this moment when she needs them? “Thank you, Julian.” Yennefer's said 'thank you' to Jaskier so many times now. It's not enough anymore, but she has no idea how else to express what she's feeling. So rather than dwelling on that, she takes Jaskier's hand, lacing their fingers together, and side by side they walk back to the inn.

*****

     “Do it again! Do it again!” The gaggle of children claps their hands, laughing. Yennefer casts another spell under her breath, and the flames in the fireplace sort themselves into more images: a cat, a robin, a laughing face. It's a small trick and she shouldn't be using her power for something as trivial as this, but when the first little girl came up to her, asking if she could do magic, Yennefer couldn't resist creating a minor display of it. Then she caught the attention of the others.

     “Don't touch the fire! It may look pretty but it can still burn you,” she warns. The children's guardians are somewhere in the room and she'd prefer to leave a responsible impression with them.

     Then she hears a voice crooning, “So you're the Witcher's bard.” Fuck. Yennefer waves her hand, and the embers die down to an ordinary state.

     “I'm sorry,” she tells the children, “but I've got to go. Run back to your parents, go on.” She pushes herself up from her cross-legged position and scans the room for Jaskier. Whenever someone refers to him as 'the Witcher's bard', it doesn't always bode well. Sure enough, he's sitting in a chair on the other side of the inn, along with a woman who's practically draping herself over him.

     “The Witcher isn't here,” Jaskier says tightly, keeping his hands at his sides.

     “Well, better luck for me, then,” the woman's dress is cut extremely low, evidently showing off. “What he doesn't know won't hurt him, hmm? Just one night?” She seems blatantly unaware of the fact that Jaskier seems deeply uncomfortable with her actions. Either that or she doesn't care, which is worse, and something in Yennefer constricts as she moves closer.

     The Jaskier of the past, the one Yennefer knew when she first met Geralt, would likely have been all over this girl. But Jaskier and Geralt have been in a relationship for years now, and with the exception of Yennefer, they haven't been sidetracked by anyone else. The bard probably would've already rebuffed this woman's advances and walked away if not for the fact that she cornered him. She's very pretty by human standards. As much as Jaskier tries to avert his eyes she keeps shoving her chest nearly in his face.

     God, Yennefer despises it. She doesn't ever want to see Jaskier pinned like this, doesn't want to see trapped expression on his face again. That woman needs to get away from her bard, now-

     No, that's not right. Jaskier isn't hers. Geralt is the middle ground in this. They're… friends?

     The bard's gaze seeks her out, stares at her. But it's not a 'help me' look so much as an 'I'm sorry' look, as though Geralt was the one who found him like this.

     Jaskier found Yennefer a name. He listened to her stories, wrote her a song, retaliated when she was insulted. Bought her a fucking ring, the one she's wearing now. And she painted his nails, got drunk and made jokes, gave him silver jewelry. Yennefer opened herself up to him over nights' worth of no one else being there. She's not hesitant to smile, not hesitant to laugh, not hesitant to be herself with his presence.

     Well, it seems Yennefer's more invested in this bard than she ever thought she'd be. And Jaskier, apparently, has in fact been hers for a long time. She was just too blind to see it before.

     Guess she'd better do something about it now.

     “Jaskier,” Yennefer steps forward so the other woman notices her for the first time.“Is someone here giving you trouble?”

     “Yenna. Erm,” the bard seems at a loss for words. “Maybe.” The woman's mouth falls open in outrage. Yennefer glares at her, icily enough that the woman gets off of Jaskier and takes a step back in fear.

     “Maybe you should check to see if someone's girlfriend is around before you try offering anything,” she hisses, hauling Jaskier to his feet and taking his hand. When did she become this protective?

     “Girlfriend? I thought the Witcher was the only one to worry about,” the woman scoffs.

“Well clearly, you thought wrong.” But her features remain unconvinced. Yennefer meets Jaskier's eyes, ringed with her makeup. She asks a silent question, searching for an answer. Somewhere in there, she finds a yes.

     So Yennefer does the only thing left to do: she pulls Jaskier in by the back of his neck and kisses him.

     One of the bard's hands reaches up to cup her jaw, the other remains linked with hers. That other woman is long gone now, but Yennefer can't bring herself to break away. It's only until both of them are out of air that they stop, foreheads pressed together while they catch their breath.

     “That was all right?” Yennefer asks, barely a whisper. He nods.

     “That was amazing.” Jaskier inhales deeply. “Thank you. But if you don't mind, I think we should get out of here entirely.” He motions to the stairs.

     Once they're in their room with the door locked, safe and away from others, Jaskier kisses her again. It's soft and slow and lazy, and Yennefer feels like they have all the time in the world as she pushes him backwards onto the bed, crawling on top. They stay like that for forever, just kissing, and once they're spent and out of energy they just lie together after. Reveling in the silence, Jaskier's arms around her waist while she traces patterns across his shoulder. He feels entirely different from Geralt, but he also feels right in the same way that Geralt does. They're two kinds of comfort, two kinds of intensity. Yennefer thinks she loves them both equally.

     “Do you think we should tell Geralt about this?” Jaskier murmurs into her skin. She considers, for a while, a much more entertaining thought occurring to her before she leans in and kisses the bard once.

     “No,” Yennefer smiles. “Let's see how long we can keep him guessing.”