Caffienated Tree

It’s meant to be a very somber night, made bearable by white gull and company. And it usually was, truly, but—

But then Jaskier came along, and, well…he would like it be known that this was in no way, shape, or form his fault. If he’d known what was going to happen, he would have begged off being included in the ritual, said something about being unusually tired and just gone to bed. But now it was, unfortunately, a little too late for that.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier took a long sip of the mulled wine he’d been offered in place of the witcher beverage, wondering how this had gone so horribly wrong so quickly. He hadn’t even done anything this time! At least, not right now. It wasn’t his fault that when Vesemir asked if anyone had seen a—

“Ain’t no way your pretty boy bard saw a Siren and lived to tell the tale, Geralt.” Lambert rolled his eyes with a sneer that made Jaskier want to bristle. “I don’t care if it doesn’t smell like a lie, he probably just saw a bit of driftwood and seaweed and he was running away before he could be eaten.”

The witcher laughed meanly, and Jaskier didn’t bother to hold back his scowl this time, marching over to see the drawing in the book.

“I did too! It looked just like this! It—oh.” Jaskier frowned down at the drawing, realizing it was a bit different from the Siren he’d seen.

“See? It’s okay, little bard, not everyone’s cut out to hunt monsters.”

Jaskier pushed the sword-callused hand off his shoulder, tilting his head as he looked at the drawing again. “I mean, it looked quite a bit like that, though. But the drawing says the tail was green, and the one I saw had a deep purple tail, almost black. Oh, and she had these extra fins where a human’s thighs would be, along with this sort of crown of—”

Jaskier looked up, about to motion with his hands the strange fins that fanned out around the siren’s head, only to realize that the other witchers were now all staring at him, eyes wide, mouths practically gaping.

“…what? I didn’t—is that not a siren? I just—woah! Geralt, what—”

Jaskier floundered as he was pulled roughly into the other man’s chest, a low rumble vibrating through Jaskier from where Geralt was holding onto him for dear life. Melitele help him, the witcher was acting like Jaskier had just tried to walk off a cliff or something, what on earth—

“You—you saw a Siren Queen? How did you—” Vesemir shook his head, a look of what Jaskier was now realizing was awe flickering across his face. “No one’s ever gotten close enough to—to see the details, and record them, not for…” the older witcher shook his head, and Jaskier felt his stomach twist a bit, realizing he might have—well, to put it frankly—

“What happened?” Eskel asked softly, amber eyes searching.

Jaskier bit his lip, shifting minutely from where he was practically seated in Geralt’s lap, the arms wrapped around him still as tight as a rope and not likely to loosen any time soon it seemed.

The bard sighed. “I…well, in my defense, I didn’t know she was dangerous. I was playing my lute, you see, and then I just—she was just there! Honest!” Jaskier gestured emphatically, knowing he probably wasn’t doing the story justice, but still a little panicked at how close he’d apparently come to death.

“And she just—” Jaskier shrugged helplessly, as well as he could at least while still in the pseudo-hug. “She wanted to listen, I think? And so I showed her some songs, and she seemed to like the mournful romance ones, so I played her a few more of those, and then she left.”

The others blinked at him, and for a second, Jaskier thought that would be it. It was true, really. The beautiful Siren had left after he’d sung for her, and he’d gone off to the little cottage he’d found for the night as well.

It was just, well—

“Jaskier.”

He froze, unfortunately recognizing the tone that Geralt was using. It felt like he was practically burning under the unseen force of his bright gold eyes digging into the top of Jaskier’s head.

“What? She left! What more do you want me to say? Would you like me to articulate how large of a splash she made as she dove back into the sea, the way the sunlight caught on her raven tresses—”

“Jaskier.”

The bard pursed his lips.

“…so maybe I went back the next day—”

“You—”

“Of all the—”

“Why—”

“Jaskier—”

“Oh, don’t you ‘Jaskier’ me!” He hissed, turning sharply up and out to look Geralt in the eyes. “I had no clue she was this—this monster to end all monsters, because you never tell me anything unless I pry it painfully, bit by bit, out of your practically nailed-shut-jaw!”

Jaskier yanked one arm free from the man’s grip, pushing his finger forcefully into side of the witcher’s face.

“And excuse me for seeking out the company of a willing audience! How dare someone like my music, appreciate my skill for more than the coin it brings to our purse. So yes, I came back the next day, and the next, and the next, until she told me she had to move on, some sort of—seasonal migration, or what have you!”

Jaskier huffed, losing steam now that Geralt seemed to feel a bit guilty. Still, he couldn’t help adding, “she actually gave me this ring, as a thank you—” he pulled out the simple gold band on his chain. “Because unlike some people, Shelly—”

“Shelly?!”

“—thought my playing and singing was beautiful, and not like filling-less pie.”

Geralt actually flinched at that, looking more remorseful even than that one time he’d accidentally elbowed Roach while grabbing something from his bag. The witcher let out another rumble, something softer this time, and Jaskier turned resolutely away. He was not going to fall for those down-turned lips, or that rough hand pressing insistently on his cheek, or those big, round, puppy eyes—

“I’m sorry, Jask. I’ll be…I’ll talk, more. And it’s…I didn’t mean it. Truly.”

Jaskier squinted for a moment, letting him stew in his guilt, before rolling his eyes with a small smile.

“I’ll be holding you to that, you know. Winter has barely started, and I’ve got this brand new journal I’ve been itching to fill—”

“Okay, hold on. That’s it?”

Jaskier blinked, turning back to Lambert.

“What do you mean?”

“You just—she just—there was no fight?!”

Jaskier frowned.

“No, of course not. I mean, did you see her teeth? Her claws? There was no way I’d have won against her.” Jaskier laughed, the very idea of going against Shelly amusing to him. It would have been like fighting a sword or something, impossible and just plain foolish!

“And she actually gave you the ring?”

Jaskier nodded at Eskel, smile growing a little wider. “I think she saw my other ones—” he said, waggling his fingers. “But it was a bit too big for me, and—”

Jaskier paused, realizing just then that if Shelly was the—the monster, that the other witchers thought her, then the ring on his chain—the one he’d been wearing for years, right over his heart, it was—

“Easy, Jask.” Geralt rubbed his back, which helped soothe some of the sudden nausea, the wine settling uncomfortably in his stomach.

“Geralt, I—”

“You didn’t know. And it…maybe she just found it.” Geralt suggested lightly. “I’m sure there’s lots of sunken treasure at the bottom of the sea, from shipwrecks and such.”

Jaskier nodded shakily, appreciating the sentiment even if he didn’t need a witcher’s nose to tell Geralt didn’t believe in his own words. Still, it helped him calm down a bit, and he found himself melting back into the strong hold, feeling strangely chilled all of a sudden despite his warm clothes and the roaring fire.

The other witchers were kind enough not to comment, which Jaskier was immensely grateful for. He forced himself to relax as Vesemir turned the page, glad the topic was at least shelved for the night.

“Fae.”

Jaskier was about to laugh, when he noticed that, no, the other witchers weren’t playing a joke on him.

Unfortunately, it seemed as though Eskel had caught his change in expression, if his widened eyes were anything to go by. Jaskier tried to signal to the man to keep his mouth shut, to forget about it, but that just seemed to bring Lambert into the loop. The man swore loudly, and Jaskier sighed, letting his head thump back onto Geralt’s chest.

“They were nice! Again, all they wanted was a bit of music! Their fingers were just too tiny to play, and they looked so sad!” Jaskier protested, remembering how their large, black eyes had seemed to fill with tears. “Plus, they even enchanted my lute for me as payment!”

Geralt squeezed his upper arm once.

“…Jaskier, when you say—”

“Oh, come off it, Geralt! You know what I mean.”

The witcher remained silent behind him, and Jaskier realized, abruptly, the man did not, in fact, know what Jaskier meant.

“Geralt, how do you think it is that my lute isn’t scuffed and scraped and warped to high heaven, what with all the roughing it we do? Not to mention that it just seems to magically reappear every time I lose it to some—some marsh, or bandit, or what have you!”

Jaskier didn’t even need to look at Geralt to know he was stupefied. The sharp grin Lambert had on his face was evidence enough that Geralt had somehow never noticed the magical properties of the bard’s instrument.

“I—whatever. That was truly one performance, honest! I don’t think the townsfolk liked that I performed for them much, something about the fae playing tricks on them I think, so I only spent the one night there. Didn’t want to overstay my welcome, you know how it is.” Jaskier said. He thought back, wondering now if the tricks might have been a little more…harsh, than he’d initially assumed.

He winced.

Okay, so maybe he’d accidentally been fraternizing with the enemy. Gosh, no wonder the crowd at the tavern that night had been so quiet—

Jaskier blinked, the sound of Vesemir turning the page bringing him out of his thoughts.

“Leshen.”

Again, a chorus of groans filled the room. The other witchers glanced at him a moment, and Jaskier shook his head in answer to their silent question.

Lambert nodded, for once looking serious. “It’s a good thing, bard. Fairly sure your singing wouldn’t do much good against one of those. It takes at least two or three witchers to bring a Leshen down, and that’s if you have the right tools.”

Jaskier nodded again, slower this time.

“I don’t…at the risk of sounding foolish, what exactly is a Leshen?”

Vesemir turned the book to face him, and Jaskier winced.

“Oh, yeah, no, those look absolutely terrifying.”

“Oh, so that’s where you draw the line, little bard?” Lambert drawled, seemingly amused. “Needle-like teeth and the ability to make you dance to death doesn’t do it, but the skull is where those self-preservation instincts of yours finally kick in?”

If Jaskier had his arms free, he would have been crossing them. As it was, he just jutted out his chin, saying, “I said they look terrifying, little Lamb. But honestly, give it a flower crown and it just ambles on away.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

Geralt keened.

Jaskier sighed.

He really should have just called it an early night. Something told him this conversation was going to have consequences that lasted long after the wine and White Gull were gone.

He yanked an arm free of the grip that had gotten impossibly tighter, trying not to jar the head that was now tucked on top of his own as he reached for the bottle.

Jason propping himself up on his forearms against on Bruce's back to study something Bruce is showing him on the BatComputer.

Dick was used to climbing all over Bruce, standing on his shoulders, swinging off his arms etc and even though he's grown, he's still bouncing off of Bruce constantly. He will throw himself at Bruce to be caught anytime he can.

Duke will set up camp with his back against Bruce whether he's sat, laying down or standing, Duke just leans against him like he's a wall.

Steph loves to mess up Bruce's hair when he's sat. She will ranting about something or talking to him while he's working, combing his hair to stand up while he's frowning at paperwork or his iPad.

Cass likes to hold Bruce's hand. It doesn't matter what he's doing or where they are, Cass just holds onto Bruce's hand, even if he's having a conversation. Anytime somebody asks whether she's alright, Bruce just nods and says she just likes to hold his hand and she's fine.

Tim constantly collapses next to Bruce, head on his lap, legs over his legs, shoulder to his, tucked up into a tight ball just under Bruce's ribs.