Chapter Text
Julian Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove and renowned performer, did not stumble down the mountain atop which his so-called best friend had dumped him. Oh no. He sauntered graciously down of his own accord, bravely beating back all manners of foul beasts, and singing sweet melodies as he did so. Or at least, that’s the tale Jaskier chose to tell all inquiring minds.
In reality Jaskier had stubbed his toe less than a few meters into his journey downwards, and proceeded to tumble rapidly down the path until finally entangling himself in a bush of thorns. He lay there for several minutes contemplating all the wrong turns his life had taken in the lead up to that very moment. This early act of slapstick set the tone for the rest of Jaskier’s trek down the mountain, where injuries were only briefly interrupted by the occasional woeful melody and a deep desire to run back up the mountain and give Geralt a piece of his mind (or perhaps his fist).
When he finally reached the base of the mountain, Jaskier had no fewer than 8 separate cuts and scrapes, the gravest being a large gash across his open palm where a rock had cut into it, and roughly a thousand songs and poems about what a deplorable person Geralt truly was.
***
Jaskier strummed his lute with vicious ferocity as he moved from the bridge into the final chorus of the song. The tavern he was playing was modest, but tightly packed with adoring eyes and wide smiles which followed him like a spotlight as he moved about the stage, swishing his coat like a peacock opening its feathers. He looked out into the sea of eager listeners, and spent with emotion let the final notes fade back into his throat, nearly trembling with the weight of the lyrics.
“Burn, burn, burn, burn…”
The crowd erupted with cheers and applause.
Jaskier stood still for an instant, eyes glazed over and brow furrowed. A particularly shrill scream broke through his mind, causing Jaskier to blink away the mental fog and assume his position for a bow.
“Thank you, thank you! You have been a beautiful audience! Please feel free to buy me a drink or simply provide me with your lovely company,” Jaskier directed his last statement with a wink towards a group of women near the front who swooned at the eye contact alone.
The next few minutes blended into a blur of handshakes, congratulatory pats on the back, and requests for autographs while Jaskier packed up his lute, and slowly made his way towards the bar. Prying his way to an open seat he scanned the bar for service, landing on a barmaid already making her way towards him. She was heavy set and dark skinned, with coils of black hair twisted back from her delicate face to reveal mischievous amber eyes and plush lips.
“A pint please,” Jaskier ordered with a flash of a smile.
The barmaid turned to pour Jaskier his drink, and placed the mug before him. He set down his coin.
“It’s on the house,” the barmaid said, smiling softly and putting her hand over Jaskier’s, motioning for him to put away his money.
“Is service always this good here?” Jaskier asked, leaning forward.
She mimicked his movement, her boat necked blouse dipping to reveal the swell of her breasts. “Only when the performer deserves it” she purred.
Jaskier urged his eyes back towards her face, but the motion was dragged out. “I heard the people of Ellander were blessed with great taste, I’m glad to see the rumors are true.”
He moved his hand from under the barmaid's and reached for his pint, raising the mug towards her in a salute and taking a swig. She took a few steps backwards with a playful smile, then turned back to the roaring sea of drunk revellers. Jaskier pocketed the money once more and made a note to come back to her after the crowd died down.
It wasn’t exactly a secret that Jaskier was free and open with his affections, after all a poet must know how to love every facet of life. The fact that his nightly tyrades often led to free room and board for the night, well, that was just the cherry on top.
As he sipped his ale Jaskier considered his performance. Burn Butcher Burn had quickly become his most requested melody, taking the continent by storm and him with it. At first he felt strained while singing it, uncomfortable in his own skin, but after endless taverns and nights on the road, the open wound Geralt had left resembled more a faded scar. It matched the one across his palm.
The crowd was still buzzing with energy and whispers of Jaskier’s fantastic performance, and he watched nervous fans steel themselves to go speak with him. He’d never deny being an attention seeker, and with all eyes on him he knew that the beer wasn’t the only thing making him feel flushed and lightheaded.
“That was quite the performance,” spoke a voice from behind him.
Jaskier turned, a smile ready for whatever fan had come up to pay him a compliment.
His flushed cheeks and easy smile disappeared.
Yennefer obviously hadn’t aged a day since Jaskier last saw her. Her black gown was just as elegant as always, with structured leather pleats trimed with emerald lace and braided cord, and her dark hair and eyes were elegantly made up. Her presence loomed over Jaskier in an all too familiar way.
“Witch!”
“Bard,” Yennefer retorted, moving in closer, causing Jaskier to nearly topple off the side of his seat as he stood up.
“No no no, you stay away from me! I am not letting you magic my soul out through my cock you blood sucking she-demon!”
This made Yennefer’s eyes crinkle with a hint of a smile, presumably because Jaskier’s suffering was her greatest pleasure, right after kicking puppies and devouring babies.
“Relax,” Yennefer said coolly, stealing a sip from a goblet Jaskier could’ve sworn wasn’t there a second before. “I want nothing to do with your cock.” She raised a manicured eyebrow at his trousers, before returning to her drink.
Knowing Yennefer wanted nothing to do with his ‘personal effects’ did nothing to ease Jaskier’s mind.
“Well good! Now if you’ll excuse me I have a crowd of adoring fans to attend to. Try not to kill anyone near me, I'm squeamish about blood." Jaskier turned to leave, mug of ale in hand.
"Geralt has a way of getting under your skin, doesn't he?"
Jaskier halted mid stride.
"I liked the song. It's a little dramatic, but then again you wrote it."
At this Jaskier turned around, attempting to school his features into a neutral expression.
"I have no idea what you’re talking about."
"Oh come off it bard." Yennefer's eyebrows were knit and her top lip curled into a snarl. “We both know your butcher has white hair and yellow eyes,” she said with the tone of someone remarking about dog shit on their shoes. “Anyway you don’t need to act around me, I’m not here to watch you perform.”
At this Jaskier stepped in closer to the mage, all attempts of acting unaffected replaced by the stewing rage of being accosted by the same woman who once threatened to take his life.
“So what are you here for Yennefer?” Jaskier hissed, “because so far as I remember it everything involving you leads to destruction. So tell me now, what is it that you want from me and we can speed up the process of you ruining my life.”
“I thought we could catch up like old friends.” Yennefer’s smile was coy, like a cat playing with its food. She sat on the nearest barstool and gestured for Jaskier to do the same. He did not.
“We are not friends. In fact I might even place you above Valdo Marx on the list of people I wish would disappear from the face of the continent.”
“Close acquaintances then. I haven’t seen you since Geralt sent you running down the mountain.”
Yennefer’s tone was pleasant as if she were unaware of Jaskier’s anger. This, Jaskier was sure, was perfectly engineered to further enrage him.
“He did not ‘send me running’. I left because I wanted to,” Jaskier gritted out as he considered making a break into the nearest passing crowd.
“He’s quite the charmer isn’t he? Sending off the only two people who ever gave a shit about him,” she continued, resentment dripping from every word.
“Well your banishment is temporary. I’m sure your magical djinn wish will bring you lovebirds right back together.” Jaskier was only half bitter. For as much as he had loved Geralt, the idea of being eternally bonded to him was a fate Jaskier would not wish upon anyone, even if said person was an evil power hungry witch.
“I haven’t seen him since that day,” she said nonchalantly.
Jaskier furrowed his brows. He had assumed her and Geralt’s fight was a temporary hiccup in what was inevitably going to end in passionate hate sex, the same way he thought Geralt might come back to apologize to him. Evidently he was wrong on both counts.
“Neither have I, though I suppose I’m easier to avoid; Geralt was never much of a partier and I don’t intend to spend my precious time up to my elbows in kikimora blood. I’m surprised you two haven’t run into each other though. Maybe Geralt’s anger issues were enough to break even the bonds of fate,” he mused, his gaze softer now.
“Truth be told, I'm relieved,” she shrugged.
“You’re telling me,” Jaskier said, “he stunk to high heaves and dressed like an undertaker. I’d say even you could do much better.”
Yennefer cracked a small smile at that, and Jaskier felt strangely proud to have been the cause of it.
“You made a good team though,” she replied, “like a less entertaining Punch and Judy.”
“Which one am I?” he asked, though he was quite sure he knew the answer.
Yennefer raised an eyebrow and wordlessly sipped her wine.
“Well, regardless, I’ve moved to greener pastures,” Jaskier gestured to the tavern.
“So it seems. Maybe I should be swooning in your presence.”
“It’s not a requirement, but it is highly encouraged.” His arms were open wide, ready to accept her praise, prompting Yennefer to scoff at him.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t just go after him,” she said, “You don’t have to worry about fate, about wishes, you could’ve just stayed. He would’ve come to his senses eventually.”
Jaskier took a moment to sip his ale.
“I may be love’s fool, Yennefer, but even I have my limits,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “Plus I’m incredibly handsome and a great conversationalist. I should not waste what the gods have so graciously gifted me on someone who doesn’t appreciate my company.”
“Well it looks like someone is dying to ‘appreciate your company’,” the mage nodded to the other end of the bar where the dark haired barmaid was staring at Jaskier. She quickly looked away having been caught in the act. “I think she might be jealous that I’m monopolizing you, bard. Maybe it’s time I take my leave, I’m not particularly interested in your gifts .”
Yennefer stood, but Jaskier reached out to lightly grab her shoulder, surprising himself.
“No, stay,” he said, sounding far more genuine than he expected. “You said you wanted to catch up as friends so let’s do what friends do.”
“And what’s that?”
“Get into one of those dingy booths and drink until we can no longer remember why we hate each other in the first place,” Jaskier suggested.
“I thought we weren’t friends, bard”
“Close acquaintances then.”
***
The booth they had chosen was as far back and out of sight as the tavern could offer. Jaskier was used to making a fool of himself in a drunken fit of song and dance, but he wasn’t quite sure Yennefer wanted the same kind of attention. In fact, he wasn’t sure if she could get drunk at all or if her magic somehow made her immune. He wondered if she could cure the hangover he was sure to have the next morning, but asking Yennefer for a favour seemed out of the question. Either way, none of it mattered at the moment, as they polished off their second bottle of wine and ordered a third.
“You? A professor?” Yennefer asked bewildered.
“And why’s that so hard to believe?” Jaskier replied, playing at being hurt; he knew he didn’t seem like the teacher type.
“No offense bard, but in the years I’ve known you nothing suggested you know your head from your ass.”
“In the years you’ve known me I’d been hiking across the continent with a human fortress, trying to avoid getting killed by whatever monster he was hunting each week. I wouldn’t say that was exactly my forte.”
“Then what is?” Yennefer asked.
“Poetry my dear witch! Beautiful words and beautiful music to accompany my beautiful voice,” he responded with a flourish of his empty hand as he moved to sip his wine with the other.
“Well you do excel in talking,” Yennefer deadpanned, though the insult didn’t have the same bite it might've only hours ago. Without Geralt to fight over, it seemed to Jaskier that Yennefer was much more dry witted than outright mean spirited.
A short red haired barmaid dropped off their third bottle of wine, and Jaskier thanked her and threw in a wink for good measure. If things didn’t work out with the first one, maybe she would be interested. Yennefer rolled her eyes at the display.
“I suppose I wasn’t exactly in my element either when we first met,” Yennefer mused, moving their conversation back into gear.
“I’m not sure about that. You seemed rather comfortable orchestrating a town wide orgy from inside the mayor’s house,” Jaskier said as he refilled Yennefer’s goblet before moving to his own.
“You never saw me in court,” she replied with a certain twinkle in her eye, like just the thought of it made her pulse run faster. “I had kings and queens eating out the palm of my hand. Men and women begging for my council. It was the only thing Aretuza taught me well; how to manipulate an audience.”
“Turns out we’re both performers after all.” Jakier was suddenly intrigued by the idea of seeing Yennefer work the court with the same deftness with which he worked a stage. “It's a shame you stopped attending court long before I started making my own appearances in high society, we could’ve been quite the couple,” he smirked.
“A couple? Don’t flatter yourself, bard. I could’ve had someone much more powerful and better looking.”
Yennefer took a long sip from her goblet and for a brief second Jaskier found himself utterly hypnotised by the way her throat moved, her neck and shoulders bare and smooth. He quickly darted his eyes back to her face.
“The last thing you need is more power, Yennefer. Imagine, the continent’s greatest sorceress escorted by its greatest poet. Between my charms and your…” Jaskier motioned vaguely to all of Yennefer, “horrifying allure, we could’ve made quite the team.”
“Like a less entertaining Punch and Judy?” Yennefer asked, looking bemused at the bard’s ill-advised sales pitch.
“More or less.”
“I think you’re greatly overestimating your usefulness to me, bard.”
“Well, you’ve never seen me in court,” Jaskier grinned.
His thoughts were beginning to float through his brain like a lazy river, and though he wasn’t quite swaying yet, his body did feel loose and warm. Across from him Yennefer’s posture was less rigid, and a melodic ringing sung out from her fingertips as she danced them across the rim of her glass.
“Do you ever think of going back?” Jaskier asked.
“To court?” Yennfer scoffed. “Never. One lifetime puppeteering idiots for The Brotherhood is enough.” Yennefer swirled her goblet lightly. “Perhaps I’ll get into teaching, I hear Oxenfurt is in need of a new poetry professor.” Yennefer’s smile was sharp and daring.
“Oh yeah, what happened to the last one?” Jaskier played along.
“He went around the continent shagging and singing and got himself killed by a witch.”
“The poor bastard, how’d he go?”
“With a stupid smile on his face clutching a half empty bottle of wine,” Yennefer described the scene before her.
“Well at least he died happy.” Jaskier raised his goblet in a toast and Yennefer obliged by clinking her glass to his. They both drained the last of their wine.
A comfortable silence set in between them and lingered while Jaskiers thoughts slowly made their way out from their moat of wine. “You know, you never did tell me why you’re actually here,” he said lazily.
Yennefer slowly came back to the moment, focusing her eyes back on Jaskier. “I told you, I wanted to talk as if we were friends.”
“Come on Yennefer, we’ve known each other for over a decade now. I highly doubt the one thing missing in your life is my friendship,” he joked.
“I was curious, I suppose,” she said while studying Jaskier. “You and Geralt spent so much time together I wondered what he could have possibly seen in you.”
“Wow, ending the night on an insult,” Jaskier said with the cadence of someone who’d been expecting this moment all along. He straightened up with quite some effort and squared his shoulders as best as he could, “well come on then, tell me all my flaws before you vamoose yourself through a portal.” He was definitely slurring a little by this point.
Yennefer’s gaze was penetrating and Jaskier felt like a specimen on a table, only minutes away from being dissected with his heart still beating and lungs still breathing. He swallowed sharply, and Yennfer’s eyes tracked the motion before looking away.
"Mages can’t get drunk,” she stated, boredly gazing out into the tavern.
Jaskiers mind came to a screeching halt and then began doing somersaults in earnest. “What?”
“Not unless we want to, though I don’t see why I would.”
Again Jaskier grappled with his mind for a response. “What?”
Finally Yennefer turned back with a wicked smile. “If you don’t want your thoughts read, bard, then don’t think them so loudly.”
The gears in Jaskier’s brain finally clicked back into place as realization set in. “So what, you’ve just been watching me dribble wine on myself all night for your entertainment?” he scowled.
“It beat the singing,” Yennefer stood gracefully, and smoothed over her dress.
“Oh, you hell sent crone, and here I thought we were bonding!” Jaskier frantically grabbed at his face checking for horns or a snout “I bet you cursed me while I was going on about what a lovely couple we’d make!”
Yennefer reached down and cradled Jaskier’s face to look up at her, stroking over his cheekbone. “I haven’t, but I can if you want me to.” Jaskier felt a faint buzzing feeling wash over him and he leaned ever so slightly into her touch, before snapping back to reality.
“What have you done?” Jaskier said, eyes wide, moving deeper into the booth away from Yennefer’s hand.
“Come now bard, you know I could’ve killed you already if I wanted to.”
“From what I recall, you did want to!”
“People change, Jaskier,” Yennefer said with a smile Jaskier had only ever seen on lonely old men at pubs. With a swirl of her hand Yennefer conjured a portal. "Your bed and breakfast might be closing," she raised her eyebrow towards the bar, “you better hop to it.”
Jaskier looked over to where the dark haired barmaid was flirting with a different patron. When he turned back all that was left was the faint scent of lilac and gooseberries.
***
Jaskier awoke the next morning with an atrocious case of bedhead, a couple hickies along his inner thighs, and no trace of a hangover.