For my first drabble on my new writing account, please have Yennefer and Geralt gently taking off Jaskier's fancy waistcoat and boots after his first major performance post Rience.
Very much inspired by this post:
unbuttoning anything for someone is… incredibly intimate and cinematographical, oscar worthy to say the least
Rating: T for implied past torture
Very little hurt, lots of fluff and comfort, am I projecting? Why yes, yes I am.
Pairing: Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier, Geralt of Rivia. Can be read as queerplatonic or romantic.
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When they get back to their suite of rooms (and Gods but he never thought he'd say that again), Jaskier can feel the tingle in his fingers rising to a burning sting. It's ironic, but fire ants are the first thing his brain lights on when he wishes to describe the pain.
He had known his assignment would be difficult when Dijkstra had presented him with it. In an uncharacteristic display of care for his 'most ineptly useful spy ever' (to which Jaskier didn't have an answer), Sigismund had looked down at him with his eyes a tiny bit soft...which was, frankly, terrifying.
"Are your hands back to normal, after your meeting with Rience?"
He had frozen, mouth gaping for a second and then working for an answer. Hastily plastered on a smile that he knew didn't reach his eyes. Force of habit.
"Quite fine, Sigismund! In fact, the extra sensitivity has made my playing all the more technically superior!" he'd declared. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen Eilhart flick her feathers dismissively.
The spymaster's raised eyebrow had told him his (no good, shitty, terrible) ruse had been seen right through, rather as he'd expected.
"This assignment requires you to play a noble gathering, exactly as you would have done before this thrice-damned war. No reference to the Lion Cub, just dancing music and ballads. Jaunty or sentimental as the night requires it. You'd be playing for hours. Need to be as close to your old self as possible, no trace of...Sandpiper. I know there's a letter in your pocket from Lady Djarmila Bulsara of Zerrikan, that you've been anxiously avoiding since you got it a week ago. I know it's probably crumpled half to fuck, and I know your travelling companions will have noticed something's up with you. The deadline to reply is soon, hm?"
He'd swallowed. "By the middle of next week."
"She's a possible ally of Redania against the Black Tide, but we need to find out the allegiances in her circle. Any gossip, rumour, hearsay about who's in whose pocket, you would report it back to me as usual. As I recall, despite being the single worst spy I've ever met, you have a lot of experience in being so loyal it hurts. Perfectly placed to charm the opinions out of her partygoers."
His eyes cast down to the floor as he'd avoided Sigismund's gaze, so he hadn't noticed it softening. The owl had tipped her head in her own facsimile of concern.
"Are you fine to take this assignment, Viscount Lettenhove? I need to be sure you can keep up. We don't want any whispers about winces and flinches from the stage. It's needed intel, sure, but there's no point sending you in if you can't physically do it."
He'd bristled, before reminding himself that he wasn't a spitting cat now. Fighting back off the back of his ego had nearly lost him everything in Oxenfurt. Some days, he thought it had.
"I can do it, but what about-"
"Your witch and your Witcher would attend with you, more as a curiosity than anything."
He'd jerked his head up at that, genuinely shocked.
With a forced chuckle in his voice to hide the tremor, he'd shot back, "Sigismund, Sigismund! Anyone would think you wanted me to feel safe! Have you hit your head?"
With a small smile (well, as much as he ever got there), Dijkstra had handed him a locket.
"Write your findings in the usual way, then fold them into here. Once it is closed it cannot be opened except by someone loyal to Redania, so you won't be able to get into it again."
(There was the smirk. Jaskier had found himself smiling despite the reminder of his fucking damned open heart.)
"Once you are back in Oxenfurt for the winter season, give it to Periwinkle. She'll pass it back to us."
"I...rather suspect I won't be in Oxenfurt for the winter this year."
"Kaer Morhen."
He'd nodded, stupidly blushing slightly.
A gruff chuckle, and a "Give it to Tiger's Eye, then." was all he'd gotten before he had found himself portalled out into his own rooms. As he'd vomited his breakfast into the chamberpot, he'd found himself wondering why the fuck he had ever thought this was a good idea.
Back in the sumptuous rooms set aside for them by the Lady Djarmila (who was such a genuinely kind person, he was surprised she hadn't been eaten alive already), he stepped through the door.
Geralt and Yennefer had retired a few minutes earlier as the lady had pressed her hands to his to thank him for his wonderful performance (and tell him exactly what she thought of Nilfgaard). He'd assumed Geralt's batteries were drained, and knew both he and Yennefer would have been able to scry for danger.
It turned out they had come back for a rather different purpose.
In the centre of the rooms, a diaphanous chiffon curtain had been gathered back, in the deep purple of the Zerrikanian high nobility. Beyond it, a pool had been faced with marble, and smelled faintly of frankincense.
Geralt was sitting at the edge of the pool, in soft linen sleeping clothes, trousers rolled up to his knees. A selection of soaps, oils, salts and sponges sat beside him on a nesting tray. Looking up, he gave the faintest smile.
Yennefer floated in from her bedchamber in a long black nightshirt, violet eyes soft as she looked him up and down.
The physical exertion had been kept at bay by his performing experience, and a well-placed pain reduction spell had left him only the merest of aches in his hand. Now? Now he could feel his shoulders bunching around his ears. A tension headache scruffed his nape, locked around his temples like a metalworker's vice. His feet aching from standing on shining marble for five hours or more.
And his hand? His hand, Gods. He gritted his teeth and bit back a whimper as he tried to stretch it. It had tightened into a claw-like shape, muscles spasming as nervous pain shot up his arm like lightning. Stubbornly reaching for the buttons on his new-Old-Jaskier waistcoat, he pitched forward at the sensation. Hot tears prickled at his eyes, and he began to sob.
With frustration? Relief? Fear? Agony? He didn't know. But a strong pair of hands gently guided him to sit on the edge of the daybed, and a small one gently cradled his head close.
When he opened his eyes, Geralt was kneeling at his feet, gently removing his boots and stockings. Yennefer was making quick work of the fiddly pearl buttons on his waistcoat and demure, high-necked overshirt.
They both looked at him with such unbearable fondness that it was a losing battle to stop himself from sobbing all over again.
