#fic train

Jaskier snorts and watches Eskel watch the dress-form, wary and uncomprehending to a point that is just adorable. 

“That, my dear witcher, is an outfit. Your outfit to be precise. That is to say, the outfit you will wear tonight.” Jaskier puts on his brightest sunlight-smile, hoping it will cover up the awkwardness he can feel tightening his throat. This could have started better. But then again, this could have started so much worse. Eskel could already be out the door what with him just having arrived, swords still strapped to his back, one hand fisted around the plain linen sack he keeps most of his belongings in. 

“Do I look like Geralt to you?” Eskel asks, brow raised which contorts the landscape of scars that cover half his face, stretching them out. Jaskier’s fingers itch to reach out and trace them, they always do whenever Eskel graces him with a visit to his apartment.

It’s about the only place they ever cross paths. With Geralt, Jaskier is bound to stumble into him in the most ridiculous of places and predicaments, as though Destiny wills it so. With Eskel… well. Jaskier learned early on in their acquaintance that finding Eskel anywhere takes effort, so it’s easier to have Eskel find him. The wolf sticks to himself almost all year round, avoids big cities and gets by on mysterious, long-winded contracts that take him to places most of the rest of the world has forgotten about. Jaskier has never once accompanied Eskel on one of his hunts, and that is perhaps why he often feels that a certain distance remains between them, no matter how often Eskel comes around.

And Eskel does, with striking regularity. At least once, whenever Jaskier’s staying in Oxenfurt for longer than a handful of days. He’ll always bring something too; a fine Toussaint vintage for them to share, a hearty piece of salt-crystal cheese for them to put on their bread, some pickled fish straight from the Skellige Isles. It isn’t always edible or drinkable, sometimes it’s useful like a pretty button or a new set of lute strings. There is no rhyme or reason to Eskel’s little gifts, just one thing that threads through them, and it is that every time, they take Jaskier by surprise. Eskel is so very reliable and Jaskier’s brain still hesitates to form expectations. Expectations can get crushed and he has already invested more heart into this relationship than is strictly healthy.

“Jaskier?” Eskel asks into the silence which has speeded by for Jaskier with his mind reminiscing, but which must have dragged excessively for the witcher. To Eskel’s credit, he doesn’t show the slightest twitch of impatience. 

“Of course you don’t,” Jaskier says, shuddering inwardly. Outwardly, his smile freezes over.

You look nothing like Geralt, he doesn’t say though he knows that with taking away the scars and dyeing Geralt’s hair, they would look strikingly similar. There are no pictures of Eskel before, but it didn’t even need Vesemir telling Jaskier this for the bard to notice. They have the same cut of jawline, same set of their shoulders, a similar nose. But that’s artificial and if one looks closely, the similarities start to fall away pretty quickly.

You look much more beautiful than him – sorry Geralt, but it’s true, is what Jaskier also doesn’t say even though his rapidly beating heart keeps commanding him to.

“Then why would I wear this? What for?”

“Oh nothing special, just a wee little occasion, really.”

“Jaskier…”

“A-hem, right. The school-board is throwing a fancy dinner party tonight and I have been invited as a guest. I thought you might want to join me… be my partner if you will.”

Oh, but that feels daring. That feels very daring. 

Eskel cocks his head, golden eyes boring into Jaskier’s. Jaskier feels his cheeks heat and licks his lips. 

“Can’t I go the way I am?” the witcher asks finally. 

“Ah, well,” Jaskier says and swallows. “Well, you see… there’s nothing wrong with the way you are, necessarily, but… it’s, well. They are very important people and I have a certain standing within the university. A reputation to maintain, if you will.”

“You?” Eskel raises a brow. “A reputation to maintain?”

A reputation other than drinking and whoring around, is what Eskel doesn’t say, but it is heavily implied and not even in a condescending manner. Eskel knows Jaskier the flamboyant bard, Jaskier the man with an eye for a good party, Jaskier that will drag any conquest into his bed regardless of whether there’s a witcher crashing in his guest bedroom or not. And even though Eskel’s been visiting him in Oxenfurt, in his rooms at the heart of the academy, Professor Pankratz is a complete stranger to both Eskel and Geralt. They know of him, of course, but they don’t know him.

“Yes, me,” Jaskier says. “A Professor at this university and highly valued member of several poet’s societies and bardic unions.”

“Trust a fucking academic to demand I dress up for him.”

“Didn’t I tell you not to trust anyone around here?” Jaskier retorts in what he hopes is a light note, but something has settled in the pit of his stomach at Eskel’s words, even though they were meant in jest. If this was Geralt, there would have been a deeper meaning woven into the words. In this regard too, Eskel is very different from Geralt in the manner in which he deals out his faith. He was wary when they first met at Kaer Morhen, of course; careful. But one night under the tightly-woven tapestry of constellations above the keep together, watching from the battlements while the temperature still allowed it, and Eskel turned from cool indifference to a low simmer of secretive smiles and sidelong glances. Jaskier can’t help but wonder if - for all of Eskel’s straightforwardness - there is still a hidden fuse he’s about to light up like a damn wildfire one day.

“I thought you were the exception,” Eskel grumbles and sighs deeply. Still eyeing the doublet wearily, the wolf witcher begins to pace around it, circling it as though it is a ghoul about to jump him and not his dress for the night. It would have been quite funny too, if it didn’t make Jaskier ponder so much. He doesn’t like pondering, not before an evening of events. He isn’t here to think, which would lead to dissecting, which would lead to inspiration and doubt at the same time. Jaskier has many doubts, especially when the handsomely rugged witcher in front of him is involved and he suspects there’s no glazing over them now, not when big words such as trust have been thrown this carelessly into the room. 

Jaskier stumbled over a loose bit of shale, jarring his ankle. He was barely a quarter of the way down the mountain.

It would hurt less if Geralt had simply taken the limb in both hands and twisted it himself. He could have done - he was certainly strong enough - and then there'd be no ringing dissonance between Jaskier’s turbulent emotions. Jaskier could push aside his love and hate him, fully and ferociously.

There was a crack of thunder loud enough to make his ears ring, and the heavens opened.

He struggled on, the rock dangerously slippery beneath his boots. His ankle twisted beneath his weight again, making him stumble, and he swore, the curse echoing into the still air. He huffed hot breaths through his nose as he righted himself, not giving himself a chance to rest.

His eyes stung with tears, mingling with the torrential rain. It was just - pain. Pain in his leg, pain from the way the wind whipped at his face, blasting his cheeks. Pain in his chest, like a blade, leaving him breathless and winded.

He still wanted Geralt, despite it all.

Geralt had become like a port in a storm, like an island on the horizon. Jaskier sought him out without even knowing he was doing it. Whether he was suffering from a broken heart or a fucking werewolf attack he crawled to Geralt’s side and knew—

Knew he was safe.

Sometimes Geralt wouldn’t be there. Sometimes Jaskier would be forced to wait, hovering in the space left by Geralt’s absence. But despite that plaguing fear that Geralt could just vanish at any moment - that any time he saw him could be the last - he was always there. Eventually.

That urge gnawed at him, even now. It wasn’t even a choice, any more. He’d been by Geralt’s side for so many years that the way he functioned, now, was altered. When he was hurt, he sought out Geralt instinctively, like a bird heading north in the spring.

He wanted Geralt. And that made it hurt all the more, knowing that Geralt was the one who did this to him - the one who sent him away, who screamed at him, who heaped all of his problems at Jaskier’s feet.

If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.

It was not the first time Jaskier had been sent away, but from Geralt’s lips it sounded like a death wish.

He stared out across the ragged landscape. There was nothing to see but miles of trees and rocks and twisting undergrowth. He felt very suddenly alone, his doublet flapping in the wind, a red blemish amongst the grey and green. As if wanting Geralt wasn’t painful enough: he needed him, too. Jaskier didn’t know how he’d manage to get back down alone, especially now he’d managed to injure himself.

If Geralt was here—

He couldn’t think like that, any more. Need him or not, Geralt wasn’t there. Geralt wasn’t coming for him this time.

He could only carry on, keep marching forwards. He couldn’t fight, he couldn’t trek, he could only build a passable fire. He would have to hope that there was nothing more dangerous on the mountainside than the hirikka that Sir Eyck had hacked to pieces.

The rain didn’t show any sign of letting up as he marched onwards, his boots sticking in the quickly thickening mud. He lost track of time, eyes downwards, shoulders heavy with his sodden clothes.

There was a noise behind him. For a single, absurd moment he thought he was rescued - that Geralt had changed his mind, had come back for him. He turned, breathless, and saw—

Yennefer was watching him from the outcrop above. The rain didn’t even touch her.

She looked… tired.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Jaskier was soaked, his clothes sticking to his heaving chest and his hair plastered across his forehead. Of all the people in the world, he thought, bitterly.

She peered around, scanning for something. And then Jaskier remembered her final conversation with Geralt, too. She was likely trying to avoid him.

“He’s not here,” he shouted, his words muffled by the storm. “If you’ve come to curse him.”

He half-wished she had come to curse Geralt. Jaskier couldn’t do anything with this pain - only sit with it, bundle it against his chest and absorb it. But Yen was stronger, more powerful - and more likely to lash out. She didn’t reply, just frowned down at him.

Jaskier hoped that would be that - she’d realise he was alone and leave, fuck off through one of her portals and leave him be. But she didn’t. She picked her way towards him, a faint purple bubble of shimmering magic hovering above her, keeping her dry. As she drew closer, he could feel that familiar hot prickle behind his eyes, a strumming between his ears.

“Keep out of my fucking head, witch,” he snapped.

She blanched, blinking, like she’d found something in his mind she wasn’t expecting.

“He left you.” It wasn't a question.

That wasn’t quite right. “He told me to leave.”

She took another step forward. Even in the grey of the storm, her eyes were bright and deadly looking.

“You love him.” She said it in the offhand, passing way she might comment on the weather.

Jaskier could feel anger flare in his chest - but it was brief, burning itself out too quickly, leaving behind only ash.

“I told you to stay out of my head.”

“I don’t need to read your mind to see that,” she said. “He told you to leave?”

“He did.”

“And you did as you were told.” There was that tone he’d grown so used to hearing from Yen, like she was talking to a petulant child, or an ill-behaved animal. But then - somehow - her expression softened. “Of course you did.”

Jaskier didn’t have time for this. She wasn’t mocking him, but he didn’t want her pity either. He turned his back and began to trudge away, swearing again as his ankle wobbled beneath him.

She easily matched his pace, walking beside him as he limped along.

“What happened?”

“It’s just a sprain,” he huffed, “it’s fine.”

But she was on him in a moment, bending down, her hand hovering above his ankle. His skin tingled.

“It’s broken,” she said, finally. “Badly.” She stood. “How long have you been walking on this?”

He shrugged. An hour? Two? She regarded him with those violet eyes - as if weighing him up - and then her face was set in a steely expression he struggled to read. Without saying anything else, she raised her palms, and for a terrible moment he thought she was going to curse him - but there was a sudden closeness in the air, a rush of wind, and with a little implosive noise the empty space next to him burst into a portal.

“I—”

She grabbed his arm and manoeuvred him through the whirling circle, his ears popping.

They were spat out in Caingorn, and after allowing Jaskier a moment to compose himself - including vomiting into a shrub while she politely looked away - Yen guided him to the local healer. When she left two hours later through another portal, he didn’t miss her absence, but they parted with a tenuous sort of understanding - nothing so intimate as friendship, perhaps, but the recognition of mutual pain.

He lay in the tiny bed in the attic of the healer’s cottage, ankle splinted, head fuzzy with painkillers. Just before sunset, the healer slid a couple of fire-warmed stones beneath the sheet beside him.

The man shrugged and pushed past him into the living room, draping himself over the couch like he owned the place. Like Lambert even knew the dude’s name in the first place. Bastard, ever the traitor, trotted up to the couch and laid herself comfortably on the man’s lap.

Intruder (Lambert decided his name would be Intruder until further notice) pulled up an unfairly perfect eyebrow at him. “Shouldn’t you be leaving?” he mused and Lambert tried his very best not to notice how melodic his voice was.

Instead of showing how flustered the lack of control over his own thoughts made him, he resorted to the emotion he was able to express the easiest: anger.

“Well I can’t leave as long as I have a stranger in my apartment, can I?” 

Intruder laughed. A rich, deep laugh that made something flutter in Lambert’s stomach. “We’re not strangers anymore. We’ve met like five times already.”

Lambert gaped at Intruder, mouth opening and closing like a fish, blood rising red-hot to his cheeks. “Well- I- you.” He gritted his teeth as Intruder only grinned at him. “I don’t even know your name!”

His phone started vibrating in his pocket and he didn’t have to pull it out to know it was his boss calling to ask where he was, and to tell him to get his ass to work pronto or he would be fired. Still, he didn’t pick up.

He had more important matters to attend to.

“Get the fuck out of my apartment.” His voice was surprisingly level compared to the rage he felt boiling inside of him. “Get out. This is my home and you have no right to be here, to eat my food, to wash my dishes, to pet my fucking cat, no matter how many copies of my key you manage to make.”

The pout Intruder gave him was surprisingly effective, almost making Lambert regret his words. His phone buzzed in his pocket again, and he knew that if he didn’t pick up right now, he would lose his job. And if he lost his job, he would lose the house. And if that happened, well, it wouldn’t matter who broke into the place anymore.

He sighed and picked up.

Three minutes and the expected tirade later, he slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“I have to go,” he grumbled, trying his best not to sound apologetic. “Please fucking leave.”

“Aiden.”

He blinked at the man, trying to process how the word fit into anything he had just said. “What?”

“My name. Aiden. Now we aren’t strangers anymore.”

He sighed. “If you think that’s gonna make me let you stay, you’re sorely mistaken, buddy. Besides, you don’t even know my name.”

“You’re Lambert.”

“Okay, maybe you do know my name. Still. Get the fuck out. Go to your own home.”

“No.”

He sighed the  most tired, weary sigh he could manage and threw his hands in the air in defeat. Fuck it, this wasn’t a fight he was gonna win. It hadn’t been the past four times and it wouldn’t be now.

“Fine! Just don’t give Bastard any wet food today, she doesn't deserve it.” 

The grin Intruder- Aiden gave him told him that Bastard would very much be getting wet food. Lambert gave up and headed out the door.

---

He wasn’t fired from his job, but he was assured that if he was late again, he definitely would be. He supposed he could count not being laid off as a win for the day and decided to just get to work and let it distract him from Aiden and the fact that the man was likely still in Lambert’s apartment.

He cut wood, restocked the shelves, advised customers on which power drill would best suit their needs and let the general atmosphere of the Home Depot wash over him and calm him down. 

But no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about him; about his honey eyes, his rich laugh, his hands as they stroked through Bastard’s fur, his lips when they parted around an easy smile and how soft they looked. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining Aiden as he pulled open Lambert’s shelves, ate his food, washed his dishes, sat on his couch- spent time surrounded by Lambert’s things and leaving his imprint on them with every move he made.

Like he was carving himself a space into Lambert’s life.

Fifty minutes before the store closed, Lambert realized he was hoping Aiden would still be there when he got home.

It was a stupid thought- one that almost made Lambert curl up into a corner in shame. What the fuck was he even thinking?

What would he do if Aiden was still there? What if he was surprised with a home-cooked meal for once? What if he got to spend the evening with someone instead of sitting on the couch with his takeaway in a silent apartment? What if he got to talk to Aiden, got the chance to get to know him, what hobbies he had, what movies he liked, what made him decide to break into Lambert’s house every week?

What if Aiden didn’t leave after that, either? What if Lambert offered him the terribly uncomfortable couch and they both decided that it would be better to share the bed instead-

He shook himself out of the thoughts, cursing his own mind for even going in that direction, for the trust he had for the man who kept breaking into his apartment. 

No. It’d be better if Aiden was gone when Lambert got home. It’d be better if they never saw each other ever again and Lambert could forget all about the weird few weeks when an unreasonably attractive man kept showing up in his living room (or, like this morning, in his bedroom).

Yes. That’d be for the best. 

And he wasn’t disappointed with that conclusion at all. 

On his way back from work, he stopped by the Chinese takeaway around the corner from the Home Depot.

“Evening, Miss Yawen,” he greeted her, same as every evening.

“Lambert, back again?” she answered, once again the same as every evening. “The usual?”

And, for the first time in weeks, he found himself hesitating. Found himself wondering if his usual order would be enough.

Enough for two people.

“Actually, can I get two of my usuals?” he found himself asking before he could change his mind.

Miss Yawen got that twinkle in her eye that she always got when she realized she might be able to get her hands on some new gossip. 

“Oh?” she asked innocently. “Why double? Do you have a guest over?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, not sure what to say. Maybe he did have a guest, maybe he didn’t. 

“Mind your own business,” he said instead.

She laughed at him as she handed his order and took the money he passed  to her. “Ah, Lambert, friendly as always. See you tomorrow, then.”

Still stirring the now emerald green and bubbling liquid - shouldn’t this turn out orange-red? - Jaskier fishes a piece of parchment out of the pocket of his breeches. Whilst it is true that Jaskier has watched Geralt brew potions over the time they spent together, and knows at least some of their effects, he could not do it by heart. No, he copied the recipe out of Geralt’s journal while the witcher was out cold and prays to all the gods he knows that he also picked out the right ingredients. 

The White Gull was easy, the drowner brain he could identify by its smell, but the Celandine? Let’s just say that Jaskier’s botany lessons were usually spent adrift in daydreams. To Jaskier, most flowers look the same, that is to say: pretty. He just went for the prettier of the two yellow blossoms in Geralt’s pack and that was that. 

Jaskier keeps stirring, left, then right, and once the potion is done, he takes it off the fire to cool for some time. As it does so, he plucks a lazy tune on his lute, watches his witcher drift in and out of consciousness until Jaskier deems it safe to transfer the Swallow into one of Geralt’s empty potion vials. 

“Alright now,” Jaskier coos when that’s done, and props Geralt’s head up on his lap. Geralt eyes the vial of milky pale, somewhat yellowish liquid. Jaskier couldn’t say how or why it turned out this way.

“What’s this?” Geralt groans.

“Why Swallow, of course.”

“Don’t look like it.”

“Oh, but it is,” Jaskier goes on, hoping he sounds convincing. This’ll be fine, right? It has to be. Right. “I don’t know what you’re seeing, but I’m seeing crystal clear, dark orange liquid. Smells quite tangy, like seaweed and mud.”

The reference to the drowner brain seems ro relax the witcher, offering some degree of reassurance. Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief. If he weren’t so desperate, if this wasn’t his last resort to get Geralt to heal up, he wouldn’t risk it, of course. But they’re in the middle of nowhere. They left Roach in town, and Jaskier cannot carry Geralt there, nor leave him alone for predators to feast on. 

“Swallow,” Geralt murmurs, lids already fluttering shut again. He is pale, his skin clammy with sweat, and Jaskier’s heart aches. After a long exhale, Geralt’s eyes open wide and bright, finding Jaskier’s. He offers a small smile and says with astounding clarity: “I trust you.” 

Jaskier’s breath catches and his fingers come to rest against Geralt’s cheek for a moment before he helps him lift his head and drink the potion in one long gulp.

First, nothing happens. Both hold their breath. 

Slowly, Geralt’s skin regains its natural taint, knits back together. 

Oh, thank-

“Oh, you’ll be lovely.  I think the world of you, Eskel, and I know you won’t let me down.  I’ll leave you alone so you can freshen up and get dressed, but do let me know if you need any help with the outfit, alright?  I know it is a bit more than you’re used to,” Jaskier grins at him, and Eskel remembers why he’s here.

He grumbles to himself as the bard steps out of the room, leaving him and the new clothing alone.  Geralt likes to mock his fondness for him, but how can one not be overly fond when Jaskier can light up a room with a wink or a smile?  Weaker men than him have surely fallen for Jaskier.  Eskel isn’t sure how anyone can look at the man’s honest eyes or the graceful curve of his grin and not fall completely head over heels for him.

And so here he is, fighting to freshen up with nothing but a basin of cold water and a cloth that is softer than anything that’s touched his skin in years.  Eskel frowns down at the water before running the cool cloth over his face again.  He might not have much to offer, but he can at least put on the damn outfit and do his best to not fuck up the entire dinner.  He’s faced down more beasts than he can count, and one room full of stuffy academics shouldn’t put him this much on edge.

Once he’s cleaned up a bit, Eskel eyes the dress-from warily.  He has no idea how Jaskier got his measurements, but based on all the fashionable outfits he puts together, he must know his way around things.  Sighing, Eskel strips the mannequin and starts dressing himself.  The pants fit like a glove, and he has to wander over to the mirror in the corner and see how they look.  He knows that he has a burly build, but the pants make him seem less threatening somehow?  They are form-fitting and cut perfectly to his body.

Once he realizes the pants aren’t horrible, he pulls the shirt over his head, shivering at how soft and delicate it seems.  He doesn’t think he’s ever had a shirt that feels this gentle against his skin.  The doublet looks more unassuming once he has it on.  The deep burgundy suits him, and the gold highlights are pleasant and not overwhelming.  Clearly Jaskier had the clothing catered to his tastes, and he smiles softly as he tugs at the edge of his sleeve.

Jaskier knew he would feel out of place in anything gaudier than this, and he worked it so that Eskel is comfortable without sticking out too much.   In hindsight, his armor would look very out of place at a high-class dinner.  There’s nothing to do for his hair, so he just runs his fingers through it and hopes for the best.  With one last look in the mirror, he decides that it’s time to face his task for the night.

“Oh!” Jaskier chirps when he walks out of the guest room, “You look absolutely stunning!  I see Frederick worked his magic for me once again.   Everyone will be charmed by you, I’m sure.”

Eskel wants to say something, he really does, but his tongue is stuck in his mouth, thick and useless.  Jaskier looks utterly divine.  The doublet is a deep blue, almost navy, and it makes his eyes pop even brighter than they normally do.  The sleeves are trimmed with butter yellow ribbon, criss-crossing to tie at the cuffs.  His chemise is a soft off-white with embroidered yellow flowers - buttercups Eskel thinks - along the collar.  It’s buttoned up more than Jaskier normally does, but there is still a hint of chest hair peeking out at the base of his neck.

Eskel spots what else is laying against his neck and gasps before he can stop himself from reacting.

“Is that?” Eskel asks, amazed that Jaskier kept such a small thing, much less put it to use.

“The piece of sea glass you brought me back from the rocky shores of Skellige?” Jaskier asks coyly, smiling brightly at him.  “It is.  I have a friend who makes jewelry and I had her craft the necklace for me.   Does it suit me?”

“Everything suits you,” Eskel mumbles before he can help it.  He can feel his cheeks flushing and rushes to save face, “I mean, you have a certain look about you.  Nice things suit you.   The...the necklace is very nice.  Lovely even.  You look good tonight.”

Sometimes he hates how words trouble him so much.  He can appreciate poetry, will spend hours pouring over whatever books he finds along the path, but he can never make the flowery words fit what comes out when he speaks.   The truth is, Jaskier looks gorgeous, almost ethereal standing in front of him, and it’s all too much.

He offers a grin in place of words, hoping Jaskier can see what he’s feeling.  The bard smiles back and brings his fingers up to the necklace laying against his collar.  It’s a simple thing, but somehow beautiful.  Eskel remembers finding the chuck of cobalt blue sea glass hidden between the stones on a beach in Skellige.  The blue stood out from the gray landscape, and he’d quickly wiped the siren blood from his hands and bent down to retrieve it.  The bit of glass had shone brightly in the sun, but it looks even better hanging around Jaskier’s neck.  There are thin bands of silver wrapped around the edges to hold it together and a dainty silver chain to pull the whole piece together.

Sometimes Eskel thinks he knows where he stands with Jaskier, but there are times like tonight that set him back to wondering.  It can’t be good for him to hang so many hopes on small interactions like this, but he’d accepted the fact that he’s completely gone for the man ages ago.  Eskel has never been like this with anyone else, has never gone out of his way to find little trinkets and gifts that reminded him of someone.  But he can’t help thinking of Jaskier’s warm smile or his honeyed voice while he is walking the path alone.

There have been times when these thoughts were the only thing that kept him going;  moments where he’d been covered in blood - more his own than not - and he well and truly thought that was where his tale would end.  But the image of Jaskier and his lovely face would hit him hard, and he would find the strength to pull himself together and finish a fight or drag himself to civilization.  It’s dangerous to let someone have such an influence on himself, but Eskel stopped caring years ago.

Jaskier is such a gorgeous soul, and witchers don’t get to have nice things like him.  So Eskel pushes his feelings down and does his best to make due with the strange friendship they’ve carved out for themselves.  He’s more than happy to continue to share wine and food and song with the man, just so long as he gets to spend time with him.

“You flatter me,” Jaskier says softly, just a hint of pink on the apples of his cheeks.  It’s a good look on him, and Eskel wonders how deep the blush would go, given the right circumstances.  But that’s not in the cards for them, so he just shakes those thoughts out of his head and does his best to ignore the way his heart aches.

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” Eskel replies, chuckling as Jaskier swats at his arm.  “But never mind that.  Did I put myself together alright?  Wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation.”

“I believe it’s safe in your hands,” Jaskier answers quickly, reaching out to brush his shoulders and flatten out the collar of the doublet.  “You look positively radiant, even though your normal attire suits you just as well.  Thank you for catering to me tonight.  I know you could have told me to fuck off, and I really appreciate you doing this for me.”

“Not much I wouldn’t do for you,” Eskel says quickly, and Jaskier’s smile widens.

“Don’t tell me that, dear heart.  I’ll take advantage of you,” he whispers, and Eskel has to look away before he does something stupid.  It seems to break whatever moment they’re sharing, and Jaskier clears his throat before offering his arm.  “Anyway, shall we get going then?  We’re right on time to be fashionably late.”