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Jaskier got himself into trouble quite often.
It was just what he did. He fucked whoever he fancied and he flashed his dagger at anyone he pleased, he wrote songs about everyone he met no matter how revealing and told outrageous lies with no compunction. Once he’d escaped his parents’ supervision and graduated from the Academy (with honors, he might add), all bets for his behavior were off. And he liked being charming and unpredictable the most.
Of course, that didn’t mean he never suffered the consequences of his actions. Oh, no, he suffered consequences all the time.
Consequences just never stopped him.
He’d been arrested and jailed, mocked and beaten, kidnapped on a few memorable occasions, drugged and dropped somewhere else on a few more, and more than once (more than a dozen times) been barred from ever returning to certain taverns, inns, and courts. No one could make him behave.
Except maybe Geralt, but even that was conditional.
However, as often as Jaskier got into trouble, it was rather rare that he got into trouble he couldn’t get himself out of.
He’d been lucky that for most of his life, the handful of times he’d gotten into trouble he couldn’t charm or threaten or simply run his way out of, Geralt had been there to save the day.
But right now, Geralt was half the continent away, and Jaskier was alone.
“Quite the braggart, ain’t he?”
A man had Jaskier pinned to a wall with his considerable bulk. He was balding, with watery grey eyes and jowls large enough to give him the appearance of having no neck. His comrades – a skinny, greasy man Jaskier thought he’d seen at the blacksmith’s earlier, and the son of the tavern owner, unremarkable in every way except the scar across his forehead – laughed as if Baldy had said something hilarious.
“Yes, well, when one accomplishes something, it’s quite nice to talk about it,” Jaskier said, not bothering to hide the seething contempt in his tone. “I understand you might be unfamiliar with the feeling.”
Baldy grunted his offence and threw a meaty fist into Jaskier’s gut, knocking the air out of him. He bit back a swear and another insult. Instead, he let his head fall forward, protecting his neck and his face, and tried to shift so he could grab his dagger.
He had no more success this time than he had the last three times he’d tried it. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for never sewing the hidden pocket into this doublet. Having the blade in his boot was of no fucking use to him if he couldn’t reach his godsdamned boots.
Unfortunately, Greasy apparently noticed his attempt this time.
“Hey, what’s in yer boot?”
“Nothing.” Jaskier’s answer was too quick, his voice too high. Dead giveaway, and he knew it. Fuck.
Baldy shoved him more fully against the wall, and Jaskier felt his ribs creak from the pressure. Gods, if he ended up with a broken rib from this, he would hunt these bastards down and break every single one of their fingers.
“What’s in yer boot?” Baldy asked, words a hiss right in Jaskier’s face. His breath reeked of vodka, and Jaskier scowled.
“Nothing,” he answered again. This time he didn’t sound like he was lying. Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things, because even if he was telling the truth, these pricks wouldn’t believe him.
Badly shifted just a little and Greasy came forward without prompting, crouching and bending close to grab at Jaskier’s leg.
His mistake.
The kick broke Greasy’s nose and sent him reeling backwards into the dirt. Baldy moved, turning to look at his friend, and Jaskier managed to duck and drive an elbow into his balls.
He had planned to run.
He forgot about the tavern owner’s son. A rookie mistake, the likes of which he hadn’t made in years.
“Son of a whore!” he shouted when the scarred man grabbed him around the throat and hauled him back. He got a good jab backwards, but Scar just grunted and grabbed his arm, then let go of his throat to grab his other arm, too. He was strong, stronger than he looked, and tall – his chin rested on Jaskier’s head.
Between the tight grasp on his arms and the pressure of the man’s chin on his head – plus the way he took a step back, so Jaskier had no weight on his feet – Jaskier was immobilized.
Baldy had recovered from the hit to his balls by now, but clearly his pride was still wounded. He rushed forward with something like a roar, fists-first.
The first hit landed on Jaskier’s stomach, the second on his sternum. Between them all of the air was driven out of his lungs; he tried to curl forward but couldn’t, and when he tried to bring his legs up, Baldy stepped on his toes.
“Fuck,” Jaskier hissed. He was fucked.
The next few hits were rapid, all centered on his gut. He coughed and groaned and tried to flinch away as best he could, which was none at all. This was hardly the first beating he’d ever taken, but there was no easy way out of this one, and worse, he’d already exhausted one chance for escape. It wasn’t likely they’d give him another.
He couldn’t even remember why these men were angry with him, and somehow, that made it worse.
He lost count of the hits. He was pretty sure at least one of his toes was broken from Baldy’s weight on top of it, and he was certain he’d end up with that broken rib by the time they were done with him.
If they didn’t kill him, that was. The longer Baldy punched him and the louder Scar laughed, the more he was convinced it was a possibility.
What a depressing way to go.
Black spots are starting to dance in his vision when Baldy finally seems to tire of hitting him.
“Del,” he says, a certain kind of brutal glee in his voice, “you want a turn?”
Ah. Greasy has had time to deal with his nose by now, apparently, because he suddenly appears in Jaskier’s spotty vision, grinning sadistically. Baldy steps back, and Greasy – Del, evidently, not that Jaskier gives a fuck – steps forward, and oh, Jaskier’s toes are definitely broken. Fuck.
“What is this?”
That’s a new voice.
Jaskier tries to turn his head but finds he can’t, Scar’s chin still holding him immobile. He goes to say something – what, he’s not sure, not like that’s ever stopped him – but Baldy slaps him across the face.
“Shut up, bard,” he hisses. “This ain’t none of yer business, Witcher.”
Witcher. Jaskier perks up a little; he didn’t recognize the voice, but that hardly matters.
“You’re right,” the Witcher replies calmly. “It isn’t.”
“That’s right,” Greasy sneers. “Yer not welcome here, mutant, so go on your way.”
“No,” the Witcher says, still just as calm. Suddenly, there’s a violent blast of energy; Aard sends Baldy and Greasy flying, and knocks Jaskier and Scar to the side, into the wall at Scar’s back. The impact makes him let go of Jaskier’s arms, and Jaskier stumbles forward, falling to his hands and knees and puking.
Oh, that looks like blood. Not good.
“Mutant son of a whore!” Scar is shouting, and Jaskier turns to see him struggling to his feet.
“No you don’t,” Jaskier mutters, taking the dagger out of his boot and staggering to his own feet. He steps between Scar and the Witcher.
“Go on,” Jaskier says. “Your friend may have beaten me bloody, but I am absolutely still capable of taking your eyes.”
“Fucking bard,” Baldy spits, back on his feet as well. He advances forward, headed for Jaskier, but another blast of Aard knocks him back. Unconscious and concussed this time, from the splay of his limbs. Serves him right.
“I would listen to the bard, were I you,” the Witcher says, ostensibly directed at Scar.
For a tense moment, Jaskier thinks he won’t listen to him, that he’ll actually have to try and fight the man, but finally, Scar spits at his feet and turns around. He grabs Greasy and together they drag Baldy around the corner.
Jaskier turns around, staggers, and has to lean against the nearest wall. When he looks up, the Witcher is shrouded in shadow, only the inhuman yellow of his eyes reflecting, cat-like, in the dim light from the lamps just overhead. An imposing sight, but not one that makes Jaskier feel anything except relief.
“Thank you,” Jaskier says. He coughs. “I’m Jaskier, or Dandelion, a – ”
“Bard, professor, infamous thorn in the side,” the Witcher finishes for him. He steps closer and pushes his hood off, revealing a wrinkled face, skin pale but weathered with age, and grey hair. “Vesemir.”
Jaskier swears that name is familiar. He can’t place it, but clearly, this Witcher knows who he is. Which means he knows Geralt, or possibly Jaskier’s fame precedes him.
He opens his mouth to ask but is interrupted by a cough. More blood. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I think I need a healer.”
“Yes, you do,” Vesemir agrees. “Come, I know of one nearby.”
“I, uh.” Jaskier hesitates, tests his footing, and finds it lacking. Before he can finish the thought, though, Vesemir offers an arm.
“Thank you,” Jaskier repeats, and uses the Witcher’s arm for balance.
The walk out of the alley is slow, as Jaskier clings to Vesemir’s arm and stumbles along. Vesemir doesn’t say anything, nor does he try to help Jaskier any further. He just walks, slowly, and keeps his arm steady for Jaskier to hold.
It’s quite nice, actually, to be treated like he’s capable. Even though he’s not, right now – or, not as capable as he usually is – Vesemir simply offers him the help he does need and nothing more. Even Geralt is known to baby him, given the chance. Eskel, too, the few times he’s had a chance, and even Lambert struggles with letting Jaskier handle himself, despite having spent a decent amount of time on the other side of Jaskier’s dagger.
There’s a horse standing just outside the alley, and Jaskier knows immediately it must be Vesemir’s. Firstly, it’s clearly a working horse, strong and tall; secondly, it’s clearly ground tied, standing perfectly calm in the middle of a road; and thirdly, it merely huffs in mild interest when Vesemir and Jaskier approach it.
Horses aren’t as afraid of Witchers as some animals are, but Jaskier’s seen plenty of them buck all the same.
“Here,” Vesemir turns and offers his other arm, lower. To help him onto the horse, he assumes.
“I’m pretty sure my toes are broken,” Jaskier says – he is actually rather surprised he’s been able to walk this far, though that may be the shock. “Or I would, but – ”
Vesemir’s stance changes. “If I may?” he asks, and his hands hover near Jaskier’s waist.
Well, it’s deeply undignified, but since when has Jaskier actually cared about dignity? “You may,” he says, and braces as much as he can. It hurts, but Vesemir’s grip, though strong, isn’t rough or too tight. The Witcher lifts him to the height of the saddle and Jaskier swings his leg over, biting back a groan at the pain of moving his body. He settles easily into the saddle, though.
“I’ll walk,” Vesemir says, and normally Jaskier would protest, but there’s a certain command to Vesemir’s voice that stops him. He wonders how old Vesemir is – he looks like he’s about sixty, maybe seventy, which means he’s definitely over a century old. Maybe more. “The healer isn’t far, but likely too far for you to walk on your own.”
Jaskier goes to answer and ends up coughing up more blood. He figures that’s probably a concession of the point and keeps quiet. Vesemir, for his part, is about as talkative as the rest of the Witchers Jaskier has met in his life – which is to say he’s not talkative at all. The only sound is the settling in of night around them and the horse’s steps on the stone as they make their way.
It really isn’t long at all before Jaskier sees a house with light still in the windows. There’s a sign outside, and Jaskier can’t read it at this distance, but it’s got the symbol for a healer on it, painted red to be obvious. When they get closer, he realizes the sign has the name of a few healers on it, meaning this is more of a practice than a home.
Vesemir helps him off the horse and doesn’t mention it when Jaskier can’t hold back a shout of pain. He also supports most of Jaskier’s weight as they go inside.
There’s only one person in the sort of lobby-slash-foyer they enter. An elf, actually, and Jaskier is a little shocked to see him without his ears covered. Even this far north, it can be dangerous.
“Filaurel,” Vesemir greets.
“What did you do to him?” Filaurel asks, and Jaskier is about to protest, but he catches the slight smile on the elf’s face. Ah, it’s teasing. Vesemir must know more than just of the man, then. “Here, sit.”
He gestures to a plush chair nearby, and Vesemir helps Jaskier into it. He groans when he’s finally settled, entire body starting to ache, pain radiating up his legs and through his gut.
“What happened?” This time the question is clearly directed at Jaskier.
“Had a disagreement with some locals,” Jaskier offers. It’s vague, but apparently it’s enough for Filaurel, because he just nods. “My toes are broken.”
“He’s probably got internal bleeding,” Vesemir adds, and Jaskier nods when Filaurel looks at him.
“Probably,” he agrees.
“Well,” Filaurel nods and stands. “You’ll need a bed, then, and a bit more than the usual healing we do around here. Vesemir, if you would?” He gestures toward Jaskier.
Jaskier groans. “I don’t think I can get up again,” he mutters. It’s true; the shock is starting to wear off and he can feel the pain now, too much of it, all over.
“I can carry you,” Vesemir says, and Jaskier huffs.
“Of course you can,” he grumbles. “Alright, whatever, do what you must.”
He just catches Vesemir rolling his eyes before the Witcher is scooping him up like a child, and he grunts when the movement hurts, even though he expected it. Vesemir gives him a slightly sympathetic look, but nothing more, and Jaskier is grateful.
The next morning, Jaskier still feels a lot like he got beaten half to death in an alley, but his toes aren’t broken anymore and he’s not coughing up blood, so it’s fine. Mostly.
Filaurel rolls his eyes and gives him some kind of potion for pain before shooing him out. “Try to avoid more disagreements with the locals,” he instructs, and Jaskier rolls his eyes but agrees. He’s not keen on a repeat of last night.
He’s surprised when he runs into Vesemir again almost right outside the healer’s house. The Witcher is frowning.
“Vesemir,” Jaskier greets. “What troubles you?”
Vesemir blinks at him, as if he didn’t expect to see Jaskier before him. He probably didn’t. He’d stayed long enough to know that Jaskier was going to live last night and then been on his way.
“Nothing of your concern, bard,” he finally answers. “Just business.”
Jaskier snorts. “You’ll find I often make Witcher’s business my concern,” he says, and the fact that he should probably know who Vesemir is tickles at his mind again. He ignores it for now. “It’s the alderman, isn’t it? Doesn’t want to pay you for something.”
Vesemir blinks at him, seeming taken aback. He doesn’t answer, though Jaskier hardly needs him to. “You should go, bard,” the Witcher says, finally. “Wouldn’t want to run into the men from last night again.”
Jaskier pulls his dagger out of his boot and throws it in the air, just to catch it by the handle as it comes back down, all without looking. Vesemir doesn’t look impressed, per se, but he’s not unimpressed. Jaskier will take it.
“They wouldn’t get so far this time,” he says. “And I’ll be going soon enough. After I speak to the alderman, of course.”
“Jaskier – ” Vesemir calls, that tone of command from last night in his voice, but Jaskier is already gone.
Really, Vesemir probably saved his life last night. The least he can do is get the Witcher his due payment.
The alderman’s house is easy to find, seeing as it’s the largest house in town. A maid lets him in without any fuss, and he finds himself staring the man down within minutes.
He’s fat, balding, and stinks of cheap wine. All in all, completely average for an alderman, in Jaskier’s experience.
“What do you want, bard?” His voice isn’t any more pleasant than his appearance is. “I’m sure you have a decent reason for interrupting my lunch.”
“I do,” Jaskier agrees. His dagger is still in his hand, though he’s not flaunting it, not yet. “There’s a Witcher you owe payment.”
The alderman snorts. He apparently thinks that ends the discussion, as he digs back into his lunch, but Jaskier is hardly going to be deterred.
He perches on the edge of the table and starts to flip the dagger, tilted away from the alderman but still visible. “If you’ll give me his due, I’ll be on my way.”
“I owe the mutant nothing,” the alderman spits. He slams his hand down on the table.
He expects Jaskier to flinch. Jaskier has seen this same tactic over and over, always from men who have let their miniscule amount power go to their heads.
Jaskier, obviously, doesn’t flinch. Instead, he turns his patented, sweet smile on the alderman and does his own slamming; his dagger sinks a full inch into the table, bare inches away from the alderman’s knuckles. “What was it you needed killed?”
“Plumard,” the alderman says, and though his tone hasn’t changed, Jaskier can hear the barest tremor in it. He grins, wide and with too many teeth.
“And what was your agreed price, hm?”
“Seventy-five crowns.”
Jaskier snorts. He yanks his dagger out of the table and twirls it around his knuckles. “Seventy-five crowns,” he repeats. “For a monster known to run in packs and swarm its victims.”
“Yes.” The tremor is worse, now.
“Well,” Jaskier stops twirling his knife and goes back to holding it, the blade pointedly in the direction of the alderman. “If you had merely paid the Witcher, as agreed, then you could have gotten away with that.” Because apparently Geralt wasn’t the only Witcher that agreed to mere pennies for his contracts. “However, since you decided to be stingy, now I’m here.”
Jaskier stands and rounds the table, then perches on the edge again, a few inches from the alderman’s elbow. The man flinches visibly. “So now, instead of being seventy-five crowns poorer, you’re going to be one hundred and fifty crowns poorer.”
The alderman bristles. “And what makes you think I’d agree to that, bard?”
Jaskier laughs, and in one easy movement, has his dagger pressed to the man’s throat. Tight enough that if he yells, he risks bleeding. “Because I’ve never had anyone turn my offers down before.”
“I could have you killed,” the alderman hisses, though his eyes are wide and wet. Jaskier just laughs again.
“Your men would have to catch me first,” he retorts. “Now, a hundred and fifty crowns, and I’ll be on my way without spilling your blood. You won’t see me ever again, either, because after the night I had in your quaint little town, I’d rather see it burn than come back.”
The alderman swallows, and Jaskier allows the movement to press his blade a little deeper into his soft flesh. Still no blood – he knew exactly how far he could go before it welled up around the edge – but close. So very close.
“Fine,” the alderman grits out. “Let me move.”
“Of course.” Jaskier pulls the blade back, but doesn’t put it away, casually flipping it between his hands as he watches the man get up and cross the room to a lockbox. He returns with a small bag of money, and hands it stiffly over. Jaskier weighs the bag in his palm for a moment – it’ll be about right, if not exact. Probably a little over, judging by the weight alone.
“Good!” Jaskier flips his dagger once more and then holds it back at his side. He stands and gives the alderman a dramatic bow. “So glad we could come to an agreement, my dear man. Have a wonderful lunch.”
The alderman frowns. “Don’t come back,” he says. “Like you said.”
“Exactly the plan,” Jaskier nods. “Send anyone after me and I won’t hesitate to kill them.”
The alderman gulps and sits heavily in his chair. Jaskier just smirks, and with another bow, leaves the room.
Vesemir is still where Jaskier left him, still looking annoyed, and that doesn’t improve when he sees Jaskier coming toward him.
“Bard,” he says, clearly ready to launch into some kind of lecture.
Jaskier just grins and holds out the bag of coin. “Your payment, Witcher.”
Vesemir’s jaw snaps shut and he takes the bag, seemingly an automatic movement. “What did you do?”
“What I always do,” Jaskier answers cryptically. “Now, I’ve been asked to get the fuck out of town, and I’m inclined to do as I’m told for once, so,” he bows with a flourish of his hand, “I’ll be going. Safe travels on the Path, Vesemir, and maybe we’ll see one another again.”
He bounces off, and just barely catches Vesemir’s quiet, “What the fuck,” behind him.
He’s grinning the entire time he rides out of town.