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“What are you doing?”
In the haunting quiet, the unceramonious racket the Bard is making in the kitchen rings throughout Kaer Morhen like fallen stones in a cave. Ciri wonders whether he’s too inconsiderate or too dimwitted to notice.
He’s made a complete mess of the kitchen as well: flour dusts every available surface including himself, while various bowls and jars lay scattered on the heavy wooden table.
“Cooking-“ He’s surveying the table like a nervy squirrel who’s misplaced it’s winter stache of nuts. “hotcakes- obviously.” It isn't obvious at all. He picks up a spoon then seems to think better of it, puts it down, then picks it up again.
“Why?” She is admittedly overcome with hunger and exhaustion both, even after sleeping for hours, but she doesn’t know how anyone could eat at a time like this.
Jaskier scoops a bit of lumpy batter onto the spoon and shakes it. The gelatinous substance wiggles and splatters into an iron pan, and Jaskier recoils as oil begins to jump up at him. “Because, dear princess, that’s what you do, when people have been through a great tragedy, you cook for them in some sort of desperate hope that it will alleviate their- ah fuck- er- fork.” Jaskier trips over the swear as though he thinks Ciri is too young and innocent to hear it- she is niether, as he attempts to edge the spoon underneath the cake and flip it.
Ciri knows something of great tragedy, and no measure of good food has ever made a modecum of a difference.
Still, it’s not as though she has any better ideas.
“Can I help?” That puts pause to the Bard’s endless flouncing and he gives her a tight, twitchy smile. “Sure, princess. You can open that jar right there, heat it in a saucepan.” Jaskier nods to a small jam jar. She has no idea where he would have gotten that from, hopefully it isn’t from Yennifer’s lab, they hardly needed more curses around here.
Ciri doesn’t have much experience in a kitchen, but she doubts Jaskier does either, he was an earl or something, right? She hadn’t exactly been listening on the way up the mountain, hardly even aware of her own footsteps.
Still, they make quick work of it. Ciri heats up the jam with water to make a thick syrup while Jaskier builds a stack of hotcakes. When the batter runs out he serves her a cake with the syrup.
“It’d be better with cream of course, but that’s a bit more of a luxury than we can expect of our dear witchers I’m afraid.” He says as though to lower her expectations further. He needn’t worry though, the misshapen burnt cake hardly makes for high hopes.
She’s eaten worse things. Far worse. Still, it’s a far cry from the cakes from Cintra. Lumpy and dense like a scone, with bits of gooey spots where the batter didn’t cook through.
“Well, don’t leave me in suspense my dear lady, how is it?” He looks rather excited, if not slightly fearful.
Ciri wipes her mouth on her sleeve, “Did you have much experience with this recipe?”
“Well not exactly.”
”It shows.”
Jaskier’s face warps into one of great shock and offense.
“Oh you- you think you’re funny don’t you?” He scowls, looking not unlike a petulant dog. “Geralt’s really is rubbing off on you.” He scoffs, but is overtaken by a grin as Ciri bursts into laughter.
It warms her.
“Its... A far cry better than anything else around here.” True, for the record. Whether it’s the remote location or Witcher sensibilites, the food in Kaer Morhen is… edible, nothing more. “You bet your damn bottom it is.” Jaskier says, but when he bites his own his face moves through a series of descerning frowns, settling on a slight scowl as he shrugs.
“Shall we get the others?”
”Best to let them sleep, they’ll wander through eventually.” Jaskier starts in on washing up the mess he’s tracked across the kitchen.
He’s a strange bard. Or perhaps bards are just strange by their nature. Still, he has an odd presence in the keep. Too loud, too soft, too human for this place. Even worse than she was. Ciri is still trying to descern where he fits into the story. Geralt had not mentioned him once (not that Geralt mentioned much) until showing up with the Bard in tow as though he were Geralt’s most trusted friend.
She’d heard the songs before, of course. Tunes about the White Wolf paraded in the streets of Cintra. She hadn’t realized they were about Geralt then. Still, the Bard had seemingly popped out of nowhere, knowing too much about her, and Geralt, and even Yennifer. And after everything, everything that had been lost and destroyed, he was still here, inexplicably it seemed, standing tall as if he had never been shaken. As though his biggest care in the world was the quality of his hotcakes.
“I’m sorry I put you in danger. I put everyone in danger-”
“Stop that!” He says quickly, harsher than she expects. “Now you really sound like Geralt. Listen to me Ciri, what happened here was not your fault. Don’t spend a minute thinking so. Besides, this is all-“ he waves his hands around ”-occupational hazard.”
“I didn’t realize being a bard was dangerous.”
“Oh yes, deeply so. You’ve got to worry about… broken lute strings snapping at your fingers and then there's the belligerant crowds and the honery royals and the damaged vocal cords, if you’re foolish that is. Practly as risky as monster hunting, really, worse actually- Geralt’s got it easy, it’s a cake walk comparred to the politics of courts and crowds.” He grins wickedly and Ciri finds it infectious.
“Is that why you stopped traveling with him? Bored of the saftey and luxury of the path?”
He smilles still, less wide, “Something like that…”
“Well.” Ciri decides, “I should quite like it if you walked the path with us again.”
“We’ll see, I have… other responsibilities, as much as I would like to dedicate all my time to helping you babysit Geralt.” Jaskier snorts, amused by his own joke apparently. “You should get some rest, princess. I know from experience how tiresome possession can be.” He says far too breezily. “Ah, tale for another time.”
Ciri helps him cover up the food so that it might keep warm.
…
Geralt finds Jaskier in the same vacant room he had commandeered the first time Geralt had brought him to Kaer Morhen, resting atop the bed. He's still as a statue, eyes closed with shallow breath. Geralt would think he was sleeping if not for the way one eye immediately pops open and stares at him.
“Can I help you?” Jaskier’s lip quirks as though Geralt has done something amusing.
Geralt leans against the doorframe. “I- you alright?”
Jaskier opens both eyes now. “Are you worrying about me? That’s positively adorable. And yes, I’m fine, Yen buffed all the scrapes and bruises away, handy one, she is. Never thought I’d be pleased at her casting spells on me, suppose it’s true what they say about never really valueing something till it’s lost.” His words float through the air as if they don’t hold a much more mauldin sentiment, as if he wasn’t in mortal danger a few hours ago. Geralt is more than familiar with the way Jaskier brushes off and skirts around the horrors of life as though they are but minor inconveniences (the actual of which he treats as haunting tragedies).
But that doesn't make him like it.
”Jaskier.” Geralt attempts to catch his gaze despite the Bard’s efforts to look vaguely in any direction that isn’t Geralt. ”I’m sorry, I never should have put you in danger a-“
”Oh please not this again.” Jaskier sighs dramatically, as if Geralt is the petulant one. “Need I remind you that I have never followed you without complete awareness of the upmost danger that you attract. Really Geralt, you’re practically a magnet for monsters and all kinds of malicious entities. And this was a far cry from my first encounter with a evil body snatching witch.”
“That doesn’t mean- I always seem to put you in harm's way.”
“Oh enough with the theatrics. I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of putting myself in harm's way all on my own.” His voice is chirpish, the way it gets when he’s trying to force a joke. Geralt has been seeing through the act for twenty years, and still, Jaskier refuses to abandon it.
But it only reminds Geralt of that barren jail cell where he’d found the Bard.
“Well I’m still sorry, about everything…”
Jaskier sits up abruptly, rocking onto his elbows. “That’s three apologies in three minutes, that’s terribly concerning, please tell me you haven’t been possessed too, I think I’ve reached my limit of daily excersisms.” He glares at Geralt. He’s the most infuriating person Geralt has ever met. Geralt considers giving up on the entire attempt at an apology. “What? If you wanted me to take this conversation seriously you wouldn’t just stand their looming in the doorway. It’s very unsettling you know. Like an overgrown…cat.”
“Cat?”
“Mhmm. You’re incredibly catlike, has anyone ever told you that?”
“Jaskier.”
“If you try to apologize to me one more time I-“
Geralt pushes off the doorframe. “Ciri and I have to leave.”
That finally shatters the airy facade, Jaskier’s face falls. “Ah. I see.”
Geralt regrets it immedeatly. Yes, that had been what he’d come here to tell him, but he suddenly wishes it wasn’t. “It’s not safe for her to stay here, for her or the others.” He says, sitting on the edge of Jaskier’s bed.
“No, I’d guess not. I suppose you’ll need to go into hiding now won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Just the two of you?”
“Ciri needs training, to learn how to use her magic and-“
“Yen.”
“Yes.” Geralt forces himself not to look away at the stoney look that flashes across his bard’s face, jaw tight, brows bunched, it’s just a flicker, but Geralt recognizes it all the same.
“Right. That’s- that’s good. She'll be helpful at keeping Ciri safe, that’s… good.” He huffs out a smile, eyes drawn away, losing focus somewhere past Geralt’s shoulder.
“Jaskier-“
Jaskier sniffs and forces a smile out, “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Right, good, excellent.” The guilt that has been living in the pit of Geralt’s stomach for… years, if hes being honest, starts to burn.
“Jask-“
“Oh will you stop giving me that look!”
“What look?”
”That one. Like you’re some sort of kicked puppy, it looks totally unnatural on you, doesn’t go with your whole-“ Jaskier waves his hand about “-thing. You’ll cut it out at once, I can’t bear it.”
“I don’t know how long we’ll be- it could be a very long time. It wouldn’t be fair to ask you-“
“Then don’t. Don’t ask.” All the artificial posturing falls away for a moment as his voice turns low and vulnerable.
And then the performance is back.
“Because if you did I’d have to tell you that I simply far too busy. I’ve got things to do, crowds to charm, people rely on me, the world doesn’t just simply stop turning because you’ve got some sort of emergency to drag me into. I can’t just spend all my days following some blasted witcher around the continent-“
“-Jask”
“That’s what I’d have to tell you, and then I’d inevitably end up following you anyway. So, best to just let things lie.”
“I really am s-“
Jaskier springs up into a fully seated position. “I swear if you apologize one more time I’m going to force Yennifer to check you for hexes. It’s unnatural, sickening, honselty, if I wanted something cloying I would drink more of that wretched wine. Besides, what you should really be saying is ’thank you, Jaskier. Thank you for continuiously putting up with my never ending stream of magical nonsense and monster guts. Thank you, Jaskier, for risking your life to bring me a stupid enchanted stone and saving my stupid child suprise from my stupid magical lover.‘”
“Yen isn’t-“
Jaskier doesn’t stop. “’Thank you, Jaskier, for putting up with my being a shit friend and an unwavering grump and forgiveing me even when I don’t deserve it.'"
“Thank you, Jaskier.” Geralt says, because he doesn’t think Jask will ever stop talking otherwise. Because he means it.
Jaskier scoffs. “Oh please Geralt, don’t be so sentimental, no thanks necessary. Ahhah! There it is, that look of astonishment and annoyance that I did miss so terribly. I shall think of it often while you’re off on your little family bonding trip.”
They're much closer now. Jaskier had inched further in his outbusrt. At such proximity it's impossible to ignore the way Jaskier's smile doesn't settle into his face. “Its- it would be no life for a bard. No inns to sing in, or crowds to please, you’d hate it.”
“I’m sure I’d find a way to entertain.”
“It won’t be a tale you can bark about.”
“You don’t have to talk me out of it Geralt, I already said I’m not coming.” He's doing Geralt a kindness. Or at least he must think he is. Geralt isn't so sure it is.
“I –right.” Geralt didn’t plan for this, he expected Jaskier not to take no for an answer.
“Its alright, Geralt.” Geralt studies the lines around his eyes, the hint of grey growing in with his stubble. In the months they’ve been apart Jaskier seems to have aged in years. Or perhaps Geralt had simply never noticed the Bard aging at his side. Forever the same infuriating kid who latched on to him in Posada.
He’d always begrudged the bard for refusing to grow up.
“Hmm. good.”
“Well, I suppose if there’s a chance I’ll never see you again.” There’s not much distance to travel, Jaskier only has to let his head fall slightly to press his lips far too gently to Geralt’s.
It’s not the first kiss they’ve shared. Simmering things after days and weeks of Jaskier pushing every one of Geralt’s buttons as if he didn’t know exactly what sort of edge he was pushing Geralt towards, or fleeting drunken moments amidst a rousing crowd, sloppy and sorid, all part of the performance. Geralt disapproved of course, but never put a stop to it.
A kiss can have a thousand meanings, the Bard said that once, likely to talk his way out of whatever heart he'd bandited away with at the time. And this kiss isn’t passionate or firey, it’s not filled with years of unrequited pining or the unbridled snap of desire that could no longer be heald back. The meaning is clear. This kiss, is a goodbye.
“Be safe, dear Witcher.” Jaskier rests his head against Geralt’s.
“I mean it, don’t fucking die. I’ve grown rather bored of singing of tragedy.”
...
Jaskier thinks too loudly.
It was one of the first assessments Yennifer ever made of him and she’s yet to be proven otherwise. Thoughts just pour out of him like water through leaky bucket.
So she has no need to look up when he comes lurking into her laboratory.
“Bard. Rather thought you’d wait more than a day before exploiting my magic.” She slides a small vile over to him. “It’ll last a few months, longer if you use it sparingly.”
“Hasn’t anyone told you it’s terribly rude to go muddling through someone else’s thoughts, witch?”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t shout them.” Jaskier glowers at her as he hops up onto the table as if she hadn’t been in the middle of working, she doesn’t miss the way he pockets the vial of sleeping potion away in his doublet.
“Geralt told me you’re leaving with them.” Jealousy isn’t a new emotion on him, he often reeks of it, but its at a simmer now.
“Yes, it’s the least I can do after...”
“Trying to sacrifice his only child to an evil witch and inadvertently getting half of his family killed?” She knows better than to expect any sort of mercy from him, not that she deserves it.
“I’m not sure he’s ever going to forgive me.”
“He will.” At least his unearned and unwavering confidence was good for soemthing.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. He will, because he granted might take many many months of groveling, but he will.”
“I can grovel.”
“Good, if the last few days have demonstrated anything, that girl needs the best training she can get.”
“Careful Pankratz, that almost sounded like a compliment.”
“You must be hearing things, witch, I would never do such a thing.” Jaskier scoffs then grins like a very proud of themselves child.
“No, of course not.”
“And I certainly would never miss you while you’re off… paying your dues or whatnot.”
“If you’re so jealous you could always come with us.“ Yennifer would welcome it, which is suprising, for her. But Jaskier always had a way of tempering whatever tensions existed between her and Geralt, even if it was by providing them a common target of mutual annoyance.
“Absurd, I can’t imagine a worse fate then spending long months groveling to Geralt. Being in his good graces is intolerable enough.”
Leaky bucket.
“Mhmm, you’re really not coming?”
“You’re suprised?”
“It’s just a new look for you.” She understands.There’s still a war on, and Jaskier has somehow found himself in the middle of it. He’s needed elsewhere. But she didn’t expect him to go so easily.
“Getting left behind? Pretty sure that’s my calling card.”
“No one is leaving you behind.”
Jaskier shrugs. “I can’t go. There’s a whole war outside of Geralt and Ciri, I have responsibilities, I can’t just drop everything to follow him across the continent anymore. Besides, I’d just slow you down, Ciri will be safer if you and Geralt aren’t worrying about me.”
“You think I’d worry about you?”
”Ah I stand corrected, I forgot you were a wicked witch.”
“How could you ever forget?”
“Probably the whole “oh Jaskier! I’ve lost my magic- damsel routine.”
“Ah- right. Did I ever thank you for that?”
“Yes. But it wouldn’t hurt to hear it again.”
“Thank you.”
“Ah! Music to my ears, really. You know that’s why I do it, the endless thanks and gratitude.”
“Real saint you are.” Jaskier nods in solemn agreement.
”I almost wish you were coming. I could do with your help softening him.”
Jaskier’s laugh is like a snarl. “No thank you, I’d rather not be your messanger bird.”
“But you’re so good at it, songbird.”
Jaskier sticks his tongue out at her.
“You’ll do just fine without me, just do that thing he likes with the to-yow!” Jaskier poorly dodges the bit of rosemary Yennifer throws at him.
He hisses, “Evil witch.”
“You’ll live.”
“Oh well I certainly hope so. Can you imagine? Death by leaf? How mortifying.”
“Jaskier?”
He perks up, like they hadn't already been in the middle of a conversation. “hmm?”
“Get out of my workshop.”
….
Jaskier follows them down the mountain.
He’s not particularly happy about it, they leave hours before dawn in the dark and the cold and the rain. And yes, Jaskier has grown somewhat accustomed to grueling early mornings and long treks in poor conditions. And yes, he had previously been in prison prior to Gerald saving his sorry arse. So it’s not like he can’t stomach a bit of an unpleasant early morning.
Still, he complains about it loudly, if only to ensure the others don’t lose track of him in the dark. (Which Geralt can see clearly in, though that’s hardly relevant.)
He could have stayed at Kaer Morhen, as Geralt so kindly reminds him to rebuke his complaining. Hell, even Vesemir extended the invitation to him amidst the quiet goodbyes. And Jaskier has to admit, a few weeks spent alone with Kaer Morhen’s hot springs and a keep full of witchers is the exact kind of relaxing vacation Jaskier needs- no, deserves, honestly, at this point. Even without Geralt.
Perhaps especially without Geralt.
But those fantasies would have to wait. It was like all that shit he told Yen: he had responsibilities now, people who relied on him, people who most certainly would have his head if he went any longer without answering their queries. And besides, the witchers are in mourning, it wouldn’t be right for him to intrude, and it would honestly probably be more of a drag than a vacation.
At least that’s what Jaskier tells himself as he tromps through the miserable cold.
They travel as a band all the way to Leyda, where the road forks. The little witcher is rather sad to see him go, which Jaskier finds rather endearing, he had worried that Princess Cirilla had taken a rather strong apathy towards him, which he supposes serves him right for missing her formative years, very important for development of the daughter-surrogate father's best friend bond.
The big witcher just looks at him with those stupid sorry eyes of his. Geralt keeps his word and doesn’t ask Jaskier to come with, but it’s written all over his face anyway. And although Jaskier is fond of his face when it grows soft like that, he has no need for any more apologies. So he grins far too widely and claps Geralt on the shoulder with a “don’t die”, a very brotherly goodbye, if he does say so himself.
Yennefer becomes uncharacteristically sentimental, though perhaps it's just the realization that she’s going to be stuck alone with a very pissed off Geralt for the foreseeable future, and pulls him into a tight embrace. It’s only half as strange as the first one.
“Stay out of trouble, Pankratz.”
“Unlikely.”
Yen just sighs, as though she could have ever expected any other answer.
And then Jaskier leaves, follows the path until it turns to a heavy trafficked town’s road, and Ciri, Geralt, and Yennefer follow the path into the forest, away from where anyone should hope to find them.