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Yennefer doesn’t know what to do.
Well. This in and of itself is not that big of a deal. Despite her attempts at looking like a competent and capable witcher, Yennefer knows that, deep down, she’s always been that tiny child sitting in an abandoned pig-sty, wondering when her mother and father (not-father, she learned later) would come back. She’d try to conquer that feeling… but witchers aren’t supposed to have feelings, aren’t they.
… Yeah, that's a load of crock-shit if she’s ever heard any. Honestly, it’s just an excuse so that Tissaia, bless her black heart, didn’t have to deal with the emotions of frightened children, which then became a solid business strategy. After all, if people assume she doesn’t have emotions, no one will try to emotionally blackmail her now, will they?
Not that that works.
Maybe it would be easier if Yennefer didn’t have emotions. Then she wouldn’t have to deal with the fluttering of her stomach whenever she saw Merigold smile. She wouldn’t feel the tug in her bones pulling her closer to the bard’s presence, wouldn’t care about the hunger that roars inside whenever she and Merigold lock eyes.
It’s love, of course.
...Oh what? Did you think that just because she refuses to say anything about it, she doesn't know what it is? She’s repressed, not stupid for fuck’s sake! She’s been in love before- never ended well, of course, not that she’s going to think about that now but. Bottom line is, she knows she’s in love.
She just doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
Love for her has never had the chance to grow into something domestic. With Istredd, they’d both been hyper aware of the fact that they were witcher children- oh they’d dreamed of walking the Path together, but dreams like that had their cracks. Theirs stemmed from their different desires- Istredd wanted to take care of his Keep, eventually, while Yennefer wanted to see the world forever. And then Stregobor dropped the fact that she was part-elf… and she’d had to go through the Trials twice.
She could never forgive Istredd after that.
Geralt was different in that regard. The mage had liked traveling with her- the world nourished him in a way court had never been able to. No surprise that, given that he was a druid, but still- the sight of his fiery hair shining in the sun and his eyes widening in wonder is something Yennefer still keeps close to her heart.
All was not happy with Geralt though. It- gods, they were complicated. They pushed and pulled at each other, snapping like wolves when the other got too close to soft spots. And then the djinn had happened and-
...Yennefer’s not forgiven him for that.
With both Istredd and Geralt, there’d been moments that she could’ve called soft, could’ve called sweet, but could never call routine. She could never imagine helping them through a bout of diarrhea, or waking up to them washing her laundry in a stream. She could never imagine scrubbing grease out of a cooking pan with them, or listening to them laugh and choke on a piece of fish.
She’d almost had a heart attack when that happened to Triss.
Merigold. Not- not Triss.
Anyways.
So she’s in love, but where does she even start with this? Because for all the domesticity, her love for the bard is not something that will keep to itself, not something that will do as it’s told or sit still. No matter how much Yennefer may try, she still yearns for her infuriatingly kind friend, and fuck but it aches like a motherfucker.
This is the shit love songs are made of? Fuck that.
“Yennefer!” She looks up to see Merigold standing over her, eyes wide in… shock? Is that it? What’s she even shocked for though? She’s fairly certain she’s not tugging the selkiemore head behind- a vague memory of dropping onto the alderman’s desk backs up that assumption. So what could even-
“You’re hurt!”
Ah. That would do it.
Suddenly, all the pain she’s been holding back crashes into her. She moans, the world starting to sway and swim in waves that make nausea churn in her gut. The gash in her side starts stabbing her like fire and salt, and her bones crackle unsettlingly in her chest.
“Fuck,” she spits out, lips and tongue bitter with selkiemore guts. “I-”
“Don’t talk,” the bard says. She leans down and slowly pulls Yennefer to her feet. If it wasn’t for her strong grip, Yennefer would already be back on the floor, bleeding out in front of the tavern in the dying sun’s rays. As it is, she sways in Triss- no, can’t call her Triss- Merigold’s grip and tries not to vomit.
“You should have gone back to the inn,” Merigold scolds, slowly walking the two of them back down a road Yennefer vaguely recognizes. “Or the healer!”
“Told you’d I’d meet you here,” Yennefer says- slurs, more likely.
Looks like Merigold understood that though because she puffs up in outrage. “Only if you could meet me here, Yennefer! Seriously, did you even bandage your wound?”
No, she thinks. She couldn’t- the selkiemore had splashed dirty sea water all over her supplies. Better to let a wound bleed out than to rub mud and fish guts in it.
Merigold clucks- tetchy, huh? Ah well, Yennefer will have to make it up to her. Maybe once they get to the room, she can tell her what happened with the selkiemore? Add some of the grisly details too- the bard pretends not to enjoy them, but she definitely likes morbidity. And then maybe when they’re in the next town over, she’ll slip some thread into her bags- it’s a practical gift, and Merigold would like the brighter colors for embroidery if she ever wants to do so anyways.
What colors should she get her, Yennefer thinks as Triss takes her up the stairs. Yellow’s a good bet- the bard’s seemed to gravitate towards the color in the past couple of years. Orange too- like her floral namesake- would look good on the bard, bring out the warmth in her cheeks when she walks in the sun.
Neither color seems regal enough. Briefly, Yennefer considers blue, but blue’s never been a good color for her- reminds her too much of Istredd’s, and later, Geralt’s, eyes, pathetic as it sounds. Green, then? It would suit the bard’s surprisingly green thumb- she’s quite adept at growing and gathering herbs.
Still neither seems right. Blue and green are still too common- they’re the colors of the Path on good days, which should bode well, but if Yennefer wanted to see them, she’d turn to the skies or the trees, not Triss.
Purple then, she thinks deliriously. Triss set her down, she thinks, on their bed- their bed! Theirs! Both of theirs!- and is now rummaging away for… something. Bandages maybe?
Wait, purple. Puuuuuurple. Purple. Why was she thinking about purple?
Then Triss pulls out a needle and oh of course! Purple thread for Triss!
Actually, does Triss know Yennefer’s eyes used to be purple? That seems like something her little bard should know. It would make her happy to know more about Yennefer- she’s said so herself! Maybe she’ll like that Yennefer’s giving her thread the color of what her eyes used to be.
“Triss,” she says. “Triss. Tr iiiiiiss.”
“One moment, Yenna,” Triss says. And oh, that’s not fair! Why is Triss not looking at her, dammit! How can she give Triss her eyes if Triss doesn’t look at her?
Triss looks up then, laughing with wide eyes. “Yenna!” she exclaims, voice like a bell, pretty pretty pretty. “G-giving me your eyes? What’s all that about?”
Huh, she said that out loud, didn’t she?
“Yes, you did.”
Huh. Damn, she’s pissed off her rocker then.
Triss laughs again. “Yenna,” she says goodnaturedly, cutting a strip of bandage. “I just think you lost too much blood. You’re not drunk.”
That makes sense. “You’re smart,” Yennefer manages to say- or at least, she thinks she says. Hard to tell with the way Triss ducks her head- her hair’s pulled back in a bun, so Yennefer can see the way her oddly cute ears turn pink.
“Enough silliness, witcher,” Triss says, attempting to be stern. She’s quite endearing when she plays at strictness- it’s that endearingness- is that a word? Fuck it, it is now- that makes Yennefer bend to her whims. Or at least, want to bend to her whims. She has to hold back sometimes- can’t be a big scary witcher without any self control now, can she?
“Yenna.”
Yennefer jerks, eyes blinking rapidly as she tries to focus on the bard in front of her. “Yeah?”
“Can you pull up your shirt for me?”
“Why Triss,” Yennefer says, trying to smirk even as her heart pounds. “Buy me dinner first at least.”
“I-” Triss splutters, cheeks turning a pretty, pretty red. “Not like that! I need to get to your wound.”
“Aw,” Yennefer drawls teasingly, but pulls up her shirt all the same. “Am I not pretty enough for you?”
The red on Triss’ cheeks intensifies, but she looks Yennefer in the eye- almost defiantly, even. “No,” she whispers, eyes dark and shining in the candlelight. “You’re beautiful.”
That- ok. It’s not like she’s never heard that before. Some people still see woman before witcher, and they’ll call her beautiful without understanding the truth of her. Before calling her bitch once she doesn’t throw them a bone of course.
There were only ever a few people who’d called her beautiful knowing all of her. Istredd, Geralt, and now…
“Triss,” she says, her tongue too big for her mouth. “Triss I-”
Wait.
She snaps her mouth shut, utterly mortified. What the fuck was she about to say? Was she really about to confess to Triss- no, Merigold? All because the bard complimented her?
The blood loss is affecting her more than she thought possible.
“Yenna?”
“...Just get on with it,” Yennefer says finally, ignoring the way the bard’s face falls. If she feels a twinge in her heart, well, she just chalks that up to indigestion.
Never mind that she’s not eaten anything recently, nor that witchers don’t get indigestion in the first place.
Save for the sounds of the bustling inn lobby floating up from below them, the room is silent as the bard cleans Yennefer’s wound. The sun has set by now, and the bard’s skilled hands cut and wrap bandages by the light of the flickering candles- somehow, Yennefer hadn’t noticed just when Merigold had gone around lighting them.
Stupid. Witchers should always be on guard, no matter if the other person in the room is pretty.
Especially if the other person in the room is pretty.
“There.” Yennefer jolts back to the present as Merigold pats her thigh (!) gently. “All done Yenna, you can rest now.”
Rest. Good, she can rest and just… forget about it all. And then wake up and pretend she never did anything in the first place.
…What a fucking pathetic thought that is.
“Triss,” she says, no- demands. She’d yank her by the shoulders too, but Triss gives Yennefer her attention immediately, and Yennefer can’t help but preen at that.
“Yenna?” Triss asks, brows furrowed. “What is it?”
Yennefer looks at her, intent, and takes her hand as gently and steadily as she can. “When I wake up tomorrow,” she says slowly. “Ask me about my eyes.”
Triss blinks, looking thoroughly confused. Her own brown eyes dart between Yennefer’s face and their hands, and for some reason she blushes, flustered. “Y-your eyes?”
“My eyes,” Yennefer nods, emphatic. “It’s very important. Don’t forget.”
“I…” Triss trails off, searching Yennefer’s face. Yennefer squirms- she doesn’t really like it when people look at her so intently, but she doesn’t quite mind it when it’s Triss. Still, she has an image to keep- can’t let pretty women keep staring at her, now can she?
“Ok,” Triss says finally, and Yennefer feels herself smile, relieved.
“Good,” she says, lying down and shutting her eyes. “Good night Merigold. Don’t forget what I told you.”
She drops off before she can hear Triss’ answer.