Work Text:
see if it's in tune
"Jaskier! Jaskier, wait."
Not so long ago, hearing Yen's voice would've made him run and hide, but things are... different now, in ways he can't entirely explain even to himself. Besides, company isn't easy to come by in this drafty, haunted place, so he turns, leans his shoulder against the wall, and waits for her, unable to completely wipe the smile off his face. It's both sad and oddly funny that, after everything that's happened, Yen is the one person in the keep he's almost sure is glad he's here.
She's a little out of breath. "I wanted- I-" Her face creases in frustration. It's reassuring that she's also unsure of the status quo. (Also possibly a little (or a lot) endearing, but he's firmly choosing not to think about that.) "Fuck."
He'd make a snappy retort, but something about her expression is so earnest and concerned, and so uncertain, that he can't bring himself to needle her. "Yen?" he asks instead, and it comes out even softer and gentler than he intended.
"Damn it, just-" She catches his hands in both of hers, so unexpectedly he doesn't have a second to protest or resist, then there's a sudden sensation of warmth as she chants something in Elder.
Jaskier yelps and tries to pull away - heat on his hands has become a recurring nightmare - but her grip is unforgiving. "What the fuck?" It takes him a second after it dissipates and her grasp gentles to realise. "What the fuck?" he repeats more softly.
He doesn't pull away again, but rubs at his fingers, at where for so long he's felt scar tissue and pain, lack of dexterity, an ache when he's tried to stretch them as if he were playing an instrument. The pain has become so familiar, a perverse background music in his life. He's tried so hard not to think about it, about how even if Rience had left his lute whole and in his hands, he couldn't play it anymore. He thought the spoons would be the pinnacle of his musicianship for the rest of his life.
"Yennefer of Vengerberg," he whispers, "you... I..." He blinks, then drags his gaze away from his miraculously healed hands to look at her.
Unexpectedly, she seems a little nervous. Even more unexpectedly, she leans in, going up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then lets out a soft laugh. She squeezes his fingers, almost affectionate, before letting go; despite himself, Jaskier misses the contact immediately.
He's definitely not crying (except that he is), and his voice doesn't break (it does) as he breathes his thanks.
"It seems the least I could do for my darling husband," she says, voice dry as tinder.
Jaskier huffs a laugh of his own and ineffectually swipes at the tears on his cheeks. "I... actually don't know what to say."
"Well, there's a first."
He chuckles wetly. "You've achieved what Geralt couldn't in two decades," he jokes, then wishes he hadn't. They lock eyes for a moment, and Yennefer gives the tiniest shake of her head; neither of them is ready to talk about him any more than they can't avoid, and Jaskier's grateful she's brushing past his faux pas.
"I..." She frowns a little. "I left the scars." He's never heard her sound so unsure. "I can heal those too, if you like, but- you should have that choice. I wanted to give you something, not take something away."
"Oh." He can't stop worrying at the newly soft skin, the only roughness left now the remains of calluses he long since stopped maintaining. It's strange to be able to look at the marks of the flames on his fingers just as colour and shape, and he suddenly understands why Yennefer still has the scars on her wrists when the rest of her is... well, her.
"That... healing your hands was the first thing I wanted to do when I felt the chaos return," she admits, so small and quiet that Jaskier knows she's telling the truth. Yennefer would never be so diffident about a lie.
"Yennefer, I- thank you."
"I would have done it sooner, but-"
He shrugs. "There were many more serious injuries to be seen to." Even the memory of the carnage turns his stomach; he does his best not to think about it.
She quirks an eyebrow. "Well, that, and I waited until I knew I had the finesse. I wanted to be sure I wouldn't char your hands off at your wrists."
He gulps and shudders. "Thank you very much for that."
"You may well be an irritating, sing-songy twit, but I would not see you lose the one thing you were put on this Continent to do." Her voice has turned sharp again, but he isn't so easily fooled anymore. Not since she rescued him for himself, rather than just to placate Geralt as she might once have done; maybe even since that first baffling, unprecedented hug. The warmth is still there in her eyes, and she can't quite quell the smile softening her mouth. (He's definitely not going to think about the way she remembers his exact words.)
"I will write you such a song," he starts.
"Oh, gods, I knew I would regret this."
He grins, actually grins how he hasn't in what seems like aeons, the feeling so unfamiliar, his cheeks may crack under the strain.
She peers up at him, almost shy, and it's so very un-Yennefer. Even after - well, after everything, he still hasn't quite come to terms with a vulnerable Yennefer, with a Yennefer who isn't on the offensive. In all the years he's known her, he's seen a thousand things on her face, but that vulnerability, that openness, and the trust he won't use it against her... it's new. (And achingly beautiful.) Once again, he simply doesn't have the words. If someone had told him, oh, even a month ago that he would do this, he would have laughed in their face, but nonetheless, he takes half a step closer and tentatively wraps her in a hug.
He still half-expects her to push him away or laugh, or maybe just curse him; he's absolutely not ready for how she holds on tight, curling into his chest. It was shocking the first time she hugged him, but this is, is more. He's not remotely prepared.
The first hug was surprisingly warm, but this is both tender and fierce. The inevitability of it, the way his heart skips, how he presses his face into her hair; she really does smell of gooseberries and lilac. He can't help it, he's weak for preternaturally beautiful people who could snap him like a twig, but won't. (... probably won't.)
"Yenna?" His voice cracks, and he has no idea why he calls her that except that it feels right.
"Yes?" It's a bit muffled against his skin, and he marvels at this wholly unfathomable intimacy.
"Really, I mean it; thank you."
She takes a breath, and he can almost feel her winding up to tell him off in some way; then, just as quickly, she deflates, tips her head up, and smiles - smiles! (he is done for) - and simply says, "You're welcome."
He exercises a quite remarkable degree of self-control and lands the gentle kiss he can't resist on her cheek, tries (and fails) to moderate his own idiotic grin, then tugs her back in close, the better to pretend he isn't just as arse over tit for her as for Geralt. The truly appalling thing is that, now he's letting himself admit he has a problem, he's also seeing that this isn't terribly new, that he's been nursing a reluctant attraction for an uncomfortably long time, that even before she went and rescued him, he was far from immune. After? He was toast.
He may have the most unfortunate taste on the entire fucking Continent.
When she pulls away, it takes everything in him not to protest. She smiles again, that small, shy smile he may never get used to seeing on her face.
"Thank you," he says again, because what else can he say to her?
Her smile widens, but it's still soft and warm. "I'm glad I could help." She reaches for his hand again, and he lets her take it; he couldn't refuse her anything right now. She smooths her fingers over his. "And I meant it, about taking the scars, if you decide you want me to."
He nods. She looks up, and for one long, long moment they just stare at each other, and he wonders if she's seeing into his mind, if she realises she's burrowed her way so deep into his heart. He can't read her expression at all. Then she tugs his hand up and kisses his knuckles, and all he can do is stare open-mouthed in shock as she shoots a surprisingly mischievous grin at him, turns, and strides away.
Her footfalls have faded by the time he manages to shake some sense back into himself and close his mouth and generally stop standing there like a gormless twit. What the fuck was that? Sweet Melitele's thrice blessed tits, he is in no way equipped to deal with a sorceress' nefarious plans to break his brain. He is sincerely, utterly screwed, and should do his best to avoid her for the foreseeable future, just for the sake of his sanity.
... maybe she needs some sort of... moral support in her witchy endeavours? She can't have gone far. He sets his jaw, straightens his back, and heads off after her.
~ fin ~