Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jaskier hunches over his lute and grits his teeth as he tries to focus on finishing his latest song. His current muse is a new one, and he is keen to do her justice, but the task has proven daunting despite his enthusiasm. It’s Ciri, after all. How the hell is he supposed to sum Ciri up in just one song?

A princess. Not just that, but a princess on the run from – from everyone, or at least that’s how it feels. Claimed by the Law of Surprise, a powerful chaos user, a determined and capable warrior despite her youth… He has recently learned that she is a terrible cook, too, but he has more than enough inspiration to pull on without his working that in.

It’s a big ask, writing a song about Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon. Ordinarily, faced with a seemingly insurmountable task, Jaskier would shove it to the bottom of his to-be-written list and would just move on to something easier as the song percolated in the depths of his mind.

But she had asked him if he’d do this. Ciri had asked.

For as long as Jaskier has known her, Ciri has seemed resigned to the shit hand the universe has dealt her, as though this is what she deserves. As if she could have done anything so monumentally awful to justify the sheer depths of misery she has had to face. He has watched her take the worst of what the world has to offer her square on the chin with barely a complaint, as though this is how it should be. He has rarely heard her ask for anything in return: not for justice, not for a return to her previous life of privilege, not for so much as a day off from Geralt and Yennefer’s brutal training schedule.

And yet… and yet, within the past month, she has asked him to stay with them, and if he thought she was interesting enough for him to write about. If he would consider writing a song about her.

A song? Just one? What Ciri deserves, as far as Jaskier is concerned, is nothing but wonders and joy, and he’ll do whatever he can do bring them to her, even if it means writing an entire fucking repertoire about her. Hell, if he can do just that for Geralt, a man who has repeatedly dismissed the fruits of his labour as if they were nothing more than shit smeared beneath his boot, then he can damn well do it for someone who actually wants him around.

Jaskier had been surprised but flattered when Ciri had all but demanded that he live with them until the heat from her latest attempted kidnapping had died down. She is able to match Geralt’s stubbornness and Yennefer’s steely determination, and has no doubt inherited any amount of ferocity from Queen Calanthe, as she would not accept any of his refusals as an answer. “We put you in danger,” she had said, with her hands clinging to his and her brows drawn into a thunderous scowl that effortlessly overridden his protests. “The least we can do is keep you safe until everyone has forgotten about this.”

Jaskier is sure nothing Ciri does will ever be forgotten, and furthermore that he’s pretty damn adept at getting himself into danger without her trying to take on any guilt about it, but in the end he caved in to her beseeching gaze. She has managed to worm her way deep into his heart. Must be a family trait.

Still, he is more than willing to accept the opportunity to spend more time with her. She has fast become one of his favourite people, and he is glad to linger in her company, at least until her guilt is assuaged enough for her to get sick of him and to stop protesting when he talks about heading back to civilisation.

But Ciri is a package deal. Living here with her, in a ramshackle cottage in the sprawling hills of nowhere at all, also means living with her protectors.

Jaskier is still surprised that they had agreed to it. Oh, anyone with eyes can see that Geralt and Yennefer are both devoted to Ciri, but he had not pegged them as being the kind of people to give in to their ward’s demands, no matter how beseeching she could be; yet when Ciri had asked for Jaskier to live with them both had agreed to it after barely a moment’s thought, despite their shared histories. No doubt they had weighed the prospect of Ciri’s happiness against the unfortunate reality of time spent cooped up in Jaskier’s company and found it just barely balanced in her favour.

The weeks together have passed more smoothly than Jaskier had expected despite the roaring cry of his reservations as Ciri talked him into joining them, but perhaps he should not be surprised after more than a decade of following at Geralt’s heels. He is a rut worn deep into Jaskier’s heart, one he cannot help but fall into over and over again.

Old routines rear their heads. Jaskier tilts towards Geralt like a flower towards light, teases and snaps and prattles at him, and wilts when those yellow eyes turn away from him. But routine can be a balm, too; Jaskier is used to the way his pulse thrums in Geralt’s presence, and to the way his hands long to clutch at him. It is not easy to ignore, precisely, but he has had enough practice at it to consider himself a master by now. Despite his wariness, living with a witcher now has proven to be very similar to living with a witcher all those years ago, albeit one whose world now revolves around the twin suns of Ciri and the cottage’s other inhabitant.

Living with Yennefer is… strange. Part of Jaskier, some small, bitter aspect that never quite forgives and always thinks the worst of people, insists that she has not changed; that she remains the same beautiful but insane witch who held a knife to his flesh in the hopes of taking control of a djinn, and then spent every second of their shared company following that tossing vicious barbs his way while effortlessly claiming Geralt’s heart. That part of him watches her endlessly, whispering that she cares for nothing except that which will serve her own ends.

And yet he sees the way she works tirelessly to help Ciri master herself. Sees the way she lights up when Ciri triumphs, and also the way she holds her reassuringly when Ciri is disappointed with her progress. Sees the way her eyes brighten at the sight of Geralt, and the way she reaches out to both him and Ciri with welcoming hands and warm embraces.

Oh, she is still sharp, and prickly; her words are often barbed, and her patience short. But Jaskier sees the way she works to soften this, to turn her lips toward affection when previously they might have all but eviscerated whoever she pleased.

Even with Jaskier, she is different. The two of them have never been close; even when saving each other’s lives they had functioned as reluctant allies, both astonished by the lengths they were apparently willing to go to in order to help each other out. When Ciri invited him into their living arrangements he had expected Yennefer to protest, or to make him feel unwelcome; when he gave in to the invitation she had merely given him a slow smile, a warning to make sure to pick up after himself, and had assigned him cooking duties three times a week.

He had expected arguments, bitching, irritation on both of their parts, and has been surprised by the lack of it. Of course she still insults him – or they still insult each other, really, because he cannot regard himself as innocent in their verbal sniping, but this too feels different. What had previously felt like a determination to tear him apart with vicious mockery now feels softer, her tone more fond than irritable, as though she is indulging herself in a favourite hobby rather than genuinely trying to get a rise from him; as though she is glad to have him around to insult. His own jabs merely garner sharp laughter, or indulgent smiles, as if he is a puppy who has learned an amusing trick.

He's not sure what to make of her. But he never has been, has he?

Yennefer and Geralt take turns in training Ciri. When Yennefer is in charge, trying to help her to understand and to reliably corral the wild chaos that surges within Ciri, Geralt usually spends his time hunting, or chopping firewood, or doing repair work on the cottage. Jaskier is more or less left to his own amusement while there is daylight to be used, give or take those times when Geralt deems him to be of use; he spent yesterday reluctantly holding fence posts in place as Geralt hammered them into the damp earth. It had drizzled relentlessly, the misty air soaking into their hair and clothes, and Geralt had endured endless complaining from Jaskier with his usual indifferent silence, but afterwards had allowed Jaskier to use the bathtub first. When he had emerged, scrubbed pink and finally feeling life trickling back into numb fingers, Geralt was nowhere to be seen, but a hot cup of tea was left waiting in his bedroom for him. Jaskier supposes he has had worse days, all in all.

Conversely, whenever Geralt is training Ciri, Yennefer usually spends her time inside the cottage alongside Jaskier. She reads and writes what seem to Jaskier to be all but incomprehensible pages of parchment; whenever he steals a sly peek over her shoulder he sees endless paragraphs of writing in effortlessly beautiful calligraphy, but in a language or a code he cannot parse. Important sorceress stuff, no doubt.

Jaskier had expected her to balk at his company as he works on parchments of his own, but Yennefer has borne his presence with good grace. Some of his feverish muttering over melodies or lyrics has prompted threats of disembowelment, but there is amusement in the turn of her lips. He has tempered himself as best he can when required, and in return threatened to upend his wine onto one of her parchments when her own grumbling over her work interrupted him. She had merely rolled her eyes. His guts remained internal. He’s counting it as a success.

Today is a Geralt training day. He and Ciri are outside, swinging swords around and doing their best to push each other over, or something. He usually leaves them to it without a second thought. It does, however, mean that he has Yennefer’s company while he works on his song about Ciri. He has abandoned multiple drafts of this song in the name of getting it just right for her, but he feels as if he is finally progressing after forcing his gaze to narrow from the enormity of Ciri’s entire existence to one mere moment; a song dramatizing Ciri’s desperate escape during Nilfgaard’s attack on Cintra is slowly forming on the pages of his notebook, amid many frustrated scribbles and blotted scratches of ink.

Jaskier feels good about his efforts, for the most part. By now he knows all too well that there is not one particular way that is guaranteed to work when it comes to writing, and that he must follow the whims of each song, whether they are as simple as jotting down lyrics over a glass of wine or trying desperately to commit details to memory while backing away from the gnashing teeth of some monster that realised he would make an easier target than Geralt. He had once incorporated the thuds of a rock troll’s decapitated head into the percussion of a song; it had sounded surprisingly jazzy when it landed inches away from him. While he has to acknowledge that sometimes such pressure can be a good catalyst for a quality song, for the sake of his health and what little remains of his sanity he much prefers to have a more comfortable working environment.

His current circumstances are much less dire than those he has previously faced: he is warm and dry, his belly is full, he is neither drunk nor suffering under the weight of a hangover, and he is ensconced in the closest he comes to comfort these days.

Yet this particular writing session is proving more annoying than he would care to admit, and all because his fucking hair won’t stop falling into his face.

It shouldn’t bother him. It is only hair, after all! Jaskier has endured actual torture before now, and while he hasn’t got as far as ‘coping’ with that, he has learned to ignore the lurking presence of those memories by cramming them as far as possible into the dark recesses of his mind. If he can push past the worst Rience could do to him and come out the other side mostly functioning, mostly together, then surely he should be able to ignore a few damn strands of hair falling into his face?

And yet every single time his hair tumbles from behind his ears and starts to lightly tickle his cheek then Jaskier cannot help but unhand his lute with a whine and fruitlessly try to shove it back into place.

It is nothing. Truly the most minor of irritations. He should be able to push past it with no trouble at all, to concentrate on crafting another complex-yet-catchy song with which to wow the crowds and, crucially, to bring a smile to Ciri’s face. Yet here he is, his writing attempts repeatedly stymied by nothing more than a troublesome hairstyle. It is maddening. Is he really so sensitive as to be brought down by his own hair?

Wasn’t there a tale about a – a queen, or a princess or something, trying to sleep on a pile of mattresses and being unable to because somebody had… what was it? Put a kidney bean under one? A lentil? Some kind of legume, anyway. He cannot remember why this was being foisted upon whatever unlucky sleep-deprived minor royal the story had featured, but as a viscount who also apparently goes to pieces under the most minor of inconveniences, he really feels for them.

Jaskier closes his eyes and lets out a weak groan as he realises two things: that his concentration has drifted onto barely remembered fairytales, and that yet again his hair is flapping distractingly in his face.

He is startled from his forlorn reverie by the other person in what functions as the cottage’s kitchen-slash-dining room-slash-lounge. “Now that was a particularly pathetic noise.”

Jaskier turns his head to give Yennefer a baleful look. She is seated in the most comfortable chair in the cottage, positioned by the hearth to soak up the heat of the fire, and the flames flicker in the violet of her eyes when they glance over to him. A book rests on her lap, thick and impressive, and her legs are crossed idly at the knee, and though she is dressed simply with her hair falling naturally over her shoulders, she gives off the impression of an empress in repose.

Jaskier irritably pushes his hair out of his face. “What?”

“Your pitiful little groan.” She arches an eyebrow and looks him over with dry curiosity, as though for a moment he is marginally more interesting than her book. “You sound distressed.”

“Oh.” He stretches in his own rickety chair, pushing it back with his heels as his muscles suddenly protest at being hunched over for too long. He wonders how much time has passed since he tried to start writing, and just how much of that he has lost to fiddling fruitlessly with his hair. “No, I’m fine. Or I will be, if I can make myself focus on this bloody song.”

He assumes the conversation will end at this point; expects her to lose interest, and turn back to whatever dry words some otherwise forgotten mage penned about chaos three hundred years ago. Instead, Yennefer surprises him by asking, “And which of Geralt’s adventures are you over-exaggerating today?”

Jaskier turns to face her, surprised by the question, and almost lose his balance as he over-extends his stretch. There is a long moment where he teeters on two legs of the chair, caught between landing safely and falling back, before she waves a finger and the chair thuds solidly back onto four legs. He gives her a wide-eyed look as his heart thrums, startled into a flurry by his fight with gravity. “Did you – er, was that you…? With the…?” He waves a finger in an aimless circle.

“What eloquence.” Yennefer rolls her eyes. “I simply cannot understand why you’re struggling to write.”

“Ha ha.” Jaskier pulls a face and turns back to his work, but can’t stop himself from snidely adding, “I’m not writing about him, actually, if you must know.”

“Truly astonishing.”

“And my struggles have nothing whatsoever to do with any lack of eloquence, actually, thanks. I’ve managed quite well up to now, haven’t I?”

She makes a noise, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but before he can get worked up about this slight she abruptly asks, “So what is the cause of these struggles?”

“Why do you care?” he asks, glancing sharply back at her and not bothering to temper the bluntness of his words. It’s not like Yennefer to indulge in idle conversation. Not with anyone, sure, but especially not with him. She must be after something.

She pauses for a moment as her eyes rove over him, sharp and assessing, but when she eventually speaks her voice is deliberately light. “Perhaps I could do with some entertainment.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Oh, I see. Time to laugh at the bard, is it?”

“Isn’t that what you’re for?” She smiles, a sweet parting of her lips, but her eyes gleam. “That’s your job, isn’t it? And I’ve always assumed you must be very good at it. Isn’t that why you draw the biggest crowds of any of the bards?”

“Hey, I get the biggest crowds because I’m miles better than anyone else!” he protests. “Honestly, anyone with good taste would be able to tell that I’ve got more raw talent in my little finger than the rest of them have added together!”

“I did say you get the biggest crowds,” she says, her voice dripping with honey.

He bares his teeth at her in a parody of a smile. It morphs into a scowl when his hair yet again slips out from behind his ears and lands in his face. He brushes irritably at it with his hands, snarling under his breath.

When he turns back to her, ready to wax lyrical about his own brilliance now that his hair is pacified for however long it deigns to remain in place, her expression has changed to something more thoughtful. He blinks in surprise when she abruptly asks, “Is that what’s bothering you?”

“What?”

“Your hair.” She runs a hand over her own cheek in a pointed gesture, mimicking the way his hair had fallen into his face. “Is it getting in your way?”

“Oh. You noticed…? Well, yes, as it happens.”

“Really?” Her lips part in a teasing grin. “The intrepid bard Jaskier, who followed at the heels of a witcher for a decade or so, surviving beasts and ghosts and monsters each more deadly than the last, is finally undone by his own ridiculous hair?”

“Oh, give over, witch,” he scowls through a rising haze of embarrassment. She’s not saying anything he hasn’t already thought, of course, but there is something extra humiliating about her being the one to voice it. “Yes, all right? I can’t focus on my own bloody song because my stupid bloody hair keeps getting in my face every three bloody minutes! Is this entertaining enough for you?”

“There’s that eloquence again.”

“Okay, all right, you can just bugger off and -”

“- If it’s so annoying, do something about it,” Yennefer says, and damn it, her tone remains placid as she refuses to rise to his snapping. She arches an eyebrow and adds, “Unless you want to keep being distracted?”

“I want to be done with this damn song, for fuck’s sake!”

As his yell bellows through the room she produces a supremely unimpressed look that makes his survival instincts kick in. He sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out as a slow, shaky whoosh, trying to set his frustration loose into the air with it; whether she’s deliberately needling him or not, he knows damn well that Yennefer is not the problem, and getting worked up at her won’t help him. He doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life as a frog, or something.

However, after a few long, slow breaths, another chunk of hair swings merrily forward to tickle his cheek, and his exhale emerges as a frustrated groan. Yennefer lets out a sharp laugh. Jaskier swings beseeching eyes onto her, by now willing to abandon the shrivelled remains of his pride and beg. “Look, come on, you’ve got long hair. Have you got a – a clip, or something? A hairband? Anything I can use to keep it out of my face?”

“I don’t need any accessories to control my hair.” Yennefer raises a hand and performs an elegant little twirl of her fingers, and in response her hair rises into the air and curls itself into an elaborate braid, swirling easily around her head to illustrate her point.

Jaskier lets out a fascinated noise. He knows for a fact that she’s been through hell in terms of regaining her magic, having witnessed the depths of her struggle himself, and despite all of that she still makes using chaos look effortless. He cannot help but be impressed. “Right. Well. Yes. Well done.” He nods as his eyes dart hopefully over her perfectly coiffed hair. “So can you do that for me, or…?”

“That depends.” She gives him a serious look, though he sees amusement dancing in her eyes. “Chaos requires balance, or it won’t work. What are you willing to give up to make it happen?”

“Well, like what?” He wrinkles his nose at the thought of further deprivation as his eyes dart between her hair and her face. “I’ve already chosen to slum it in a rundown cottage in a boggy field in the middle of nowhere, hiding from society. What did you give up?”

Her hair slinks out of its braid, sliding easily back down to rest on her shoulders in perfect waves. He watches rapt, almost hypnotised by the movement, then looks back to her face and blinks in surprise; she gives him a smile, but the amusement has faded from her gaze, replaced with something flat. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” she murmurs, in a deliberately light voice, and something heavy lands in his stomach with a dull thud.

He swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and casts desperately around for a way to change the subject, terrified of these uncharted depths into which he has unknowingly waded.

To his surprise, Yennefer breaks the silence first, examining his hair with an unimpressed twist of her lips that he finds more believable than the smile it replaced. “Why is your hair even this long in the first place?”

He shrugs, fighting the sudden urge to primp his hair and feeling self-conscious in a way he has not for quite some time. Yennefer has seen him in far worse states than this, after all. “Oh, I don’t know. It started when I was doing, y’know,” he lowers his voice and waggles his eyebrows and adopts a conspiratorial whisper, “Sandpiper stuff.”

She rolls her eyes. “Mm?”

“Well, I got it into my head that I needed to keep a relatively low profile, to make sure I was going unnoticed during all of that. So I tried to keep trips out and about to a minimum.”

“Brothels only?” she asks sweetly, and it surprises a laugh from him.

“Something like that. I spent a lot more time sneaking around after midnight than I had done before. Or, at least, more sneaking than I had previously done without getting a happy ending in return.” She pulls an unimpressed face, but he keeps on talking, by now getting into his story. It’s not as though he’s really been able to talk about those days with anyone else, after all. “So I’d get into bed past dawn, sleep the day away because it’s exhausting, right, sneaking people out of the city and worrying about getting a knife in my throat if we got caught, yeah? And then it’d be time to do another gig, because I have to be seen to be performing for the whole thing to work, and the cycle started again.”

“That sounds tiring. Even without old enemies rearing their heads,” she adds with a knowing look.

He laughs softly in return. “Yeah. Busy times. You remember, I know. Anyway, the days just got away from me. I didn’t have a lot of time for personal care. And definitely no time for barbers. I wouldn’t trust the average barber as far as I can throw them,” he says, punctuating his point with a weak little throwing motion.

“Barbers?” Her eyebrows rise sceptically but she’s smiling despite herself, a reluctant curl right at the corner of her mouth that sends an unexpected rush of warmth through his chest. “Had a bad experience, have you?”

“Oh, come on, Yennefer, think about it! They deal with almost everyone in town, they’re practically paid to study people’s faces, and they’re less trustworthy than bartenders. Bartenders just want their inns to run smoothly so they keep raking in the coin, they don’t give a shit who you are. You’re always safe with a bartender. When people are looking for you, it’s always barbers they turn to. Barbers will sell you out in a heartbeat.”

“You, as in, the general populace?” she asks, arching an eyebrow. “Or you as in you, Jaskier?”

“Well, all right, maybe those occasions were also a bit personal.” He sniffs haughtily. “I will admit to having some philosophical disagreements with a couple of barbers regarding the price and quality of their services in the past.”

“Oh, I see. You’re cheap.”

“I am not cheap! Do I look cheap?” Jaskier looks down at himself and sees his shirt, muddied and flapping open due to a missing button, and stained with wine he spilled down himself and can’t seem to wash out, and his affront melts away as he sighs. He truly loves spending time with Ciri, he really does, but gods, he misses the comforts of living in a city.

Yennefer laughs. Her eyes are sparkling as she looks him over, apparently arriving at the same conclusion regarding his cheapness. “All right. So you stayed away from barbers, for both philosophical and vigilante reasons. What about now?”

He shrugs again. “Well, now it’s just easier to let it grow, I suppose. And I thought maybe it looks, y’know, kind of… dashing? Don’t you think?” He gives in to the urge to primp his hair, fruitlessly looking around the room for a mirror and trying instead to see his reflection in the window, ducking and moving in his chair to get the light right as he restlessly fiddles with it.

Her mouth opens, and then she pauses for a moment. “Was that rhetorical, or do you actually want my opinion?”

“No, sure, go on,” he murmurs, distracted by his own appearance.

“It doesn’t suit you.” Her voice is flat, brooking no room for argument, but he turns towards her anyway with his hands drooping away from his hair and a wide-eyed expression of indignation plastered on his face.

“You what?”

“It’s not dashing. It’s lank. It just drapes over your head like a wet curtain.” Yennefer meets his eyes easily, despite her bruising words landing like cannonballs on his ego. “It doesn’t suit you, bard. You need a haircut.”

“Well.” He blinks back at her, tries to force a smile, and then sighs and slumps winded back in his chair. “Thanks for the honesty, I suppose.”

“Do you like it?” she asks, with a sceptical arch of her eyebrow. “It’s your hair, so what does my opinion matter, anyway?”

“Yeah, you’re only the most beautiful person I know, why would I care about your opinion on style?” Jaskier scoffs, waving a hand to encompass her. She blinks, and opens her mouth, but he shrugs tightly again as the fight goes out of him, and he waves her off. “Oh, whatever. I dunno. I suppose I’m not a huge fan of it, honestly. And it’s really getting on my nerves, what with all the…” He flicks pointedly at his hair, sending a chunk of it flying merrily out until it lands unerringly in his face again.

He groans, and runs his hands through his hair, trying to drag it away from his face. “But it’s not like there’s anyone around to cut it, is there? And, honestly, thank the gods, the last thing we need is a bloody barber lurking around here, waiting to sell Ciri away to the first dickhead who holds out two coins and asks where she is.”

“I could cut it for you.”

The words fall into a surprised silence, as if her offer has taken both of them aback. His eyes dart quizzically to hers and, just for a second, he sees an expression of bewilderment on her face, before he blinks, and it is hidden behind an impassive mask. Yennefer raises her eyebrows impatiently after a moment, silently prompting his response. “Er. Could you?” He rests his hand on his chin, with his elbow balanced on his knee, and watches her curiously. “Do you know how to cut hair?”

“Theoretically.”

“How reassuring!”

Her mouth tightens into a thin line. “I used to cut my own.”

“Oh?” His own eyebrow arches as his curiosity only grows. “What about all the hair magic?”

She looks away. The elegant line of her shoulders draws up in tension. “This was before I became a sorceress.”

“You didn’t have anyone to cut it for you?”

“No.” The word clangs between them, dropping heavily onto the floor of the cottage. His eyebrows rise further, but he resists the clamouring temptation to ask about her past. If it was anyone else he would give in to temptation and pester them until they either broke or drove him off, but Yennefer…

There is something sharp and brittle lurking deep within her, and he suspects it grew during her youth. Jaskier does not wish to be the one to snap it. He suddenly realises, with only a tiny mote of surprise, that he no longer wants to be the cause of any cruelty done to her.

He meets her gaze when she allows it, and slowly asks, “Were you any good?”

The tightness in her posture relaxes incrementally. She produces sharp smile and aims a dismissive gesture towards his hair. “Better than that.”

He huffs a laugh, and nods, indicating his hair with a grand gesture. “All right, then. Do your worst.” He pauses then hurriedly adds, “Actually, please don’t do that, please do a good job, all right?”

She breathes a laugh and gives him an assessing look. “What style would you like?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” He frowns.

Her frown outclasses his in every respect. “Then stop wasting my time and do so.”

“Right. Yeah. Er.” Jaskier runs his hands speculatively through his hair, feeling the strands tangle beneath his fingers. “Something that won’t be in my bloody face all the time, obviously. Something… easy. Stylish, but effortless. And something that makes me look even more handsome, of course.”

She laughs through her nose. “Oh, is that all?”

“Well, what would you suggest, miss ‘my hair is magic’?” Jaskier says with a roll of his eyes.

He expects her to scowl at him, or to smartly rescind her offer in the face of his bitchiness, but instead Yennefer gets to her feet. She places her book onto the armchair, moves across the room to stand in front of him, and looks down at him with a speculative expression on her face. He blinks up at her, surprised by her sudden closeness, and opens his mouth to make some stupid comment, but her hand grasps him by the chin and startles him into silence. He offers no resistance as she guides his head this way and that, looking him over while she moves him as she wants. Her fingers are cool on his chin, firm but not forceful, and he swallows as her eyes slide over him, assessing and calculating as they examine him.

His heart is suddenly pounding in his throat, and he finds himself producing an awkward, strangled laugh when she eventually unhands him. His skin tingles where she had held him. “What, er, what’re you doing?”

“Thinking about what would suit you,” she murmurs. Her eyes are fixed on him, but also look past him, somehow, as though he is a separate entity from his body. He finds that he cannot tear his own eyes away from her face as she examines him.

Her hands move up to run speculatively through his hair and he finds his eyes fluttering shut. He forces them open again as he flushes self-consciously, suddenly feeling daft as his scalp tingles with the light brush of her fingers. “Your hair is in surprisingly good condition,” she says approvingly, and something hot swirls in his stomach.

“Thanks. I grew it myself.” His thoughts are freewheeling just a little but he thinks he can see the ghost of an amused smile on her face as though she knows what she’s doing to him, so he scrambles to muster up his indignance and splutters, “Wait, what do you mean, ‘surprisingly’?”

“Times are hard,” she murmurs, almost to herself, and that shuts him up, because she’s right. It’s not as though he’s luxuriating in hot baths every night.

One hand moves to his chin again while the other fusses with his hair, making it lie differently. She tilts his head back and looks down at him, her eyes darting from his face to his hair and back again while he stares helplessly up at her, somehow left frozen beneath her hands.

It’s so stupid. They have been in a position not too different from this before, her baring his throat, and his heart had been hammering then, too. But she had been about to kill him, then; what the hell is causing it now? Is he really so touch-starved as to melt beneath the slightest of touches, from someone who is barely even a friend?

He knows. Of course he knows, even if he usually labours in denial. But he has always been ridiculous, hasn’t he? Why should that change now? Why shouldn’t his heart make ever more stupid choices as he stumbles his way through life?

Eventually, as his mind rages at his heart and his body trembles beneath both of them, Yennefer makes eye contact with him. Her lips are pursed thoughtfully. “How would you feel about short hair?”

Her fingers rest at his throat, very lightly, barely there at all, but he feels somehow held in place by her touch. He manages to get his slack mouth working enough to mumble, “How short?”

“Why not have it the way you used to wear it?” she suggests. Her voice sounds somehow faraway, as though she is in another place. “The way you wore it when we met.”

Ah; she is not in another place, but another time. It seems as though Jaskier is not alone in drawing comparisons to that day. “You remember what my hair looked like all those years ago?”

“Is that so surprising? It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Long enough,” he says lightly as he looks up at her. “Though I’m flattered that it was as memorable for you as it was for me.”

“I met Geralt that day,” Yennefer murmurs.

Something sharp sinks heavily in his stomach, piercing as it lands. “Oh. Yes. Of course.” Jaskier nods abruptly and hisses as it pulls on his hair in her grasp. “Ow!”

“It was an eventful time. It stuck in my memory for a multitude of reasons.” She meets his eyes for a fraction of a second, and just for a moment, rubs soothingly at his scalp. He does his best to suppress a shiver.

“Yeah, well, me too.” He had revisited their meeting in his dreams plenty of times in the months that followed, waking drenched in sweat with his hands flying desperately to his throat. “It was a, a big moment, sure. Still, I don’t remember how anyone had styled their hair that day! Are you seriously saying -”

“- You wore it short, with a fringe. I remember that it suited you. You had enormous eyes, and cute hair, and a mouth that wouldn’t fucking stop,” Yennefer says distantly. Her eyes focus, and her smile sharpens. “Some things never change.”

“Cute hair?”

“Mmhmm. I remember you being quite handsome,” her voice takes on a teasing tone, “back when you were young.”

“When – hey!” A flush rises in Jaskier’s cheeks, and he pulls out of her touch to scowl up at her as he remembers anew the perils of keeping company with magical, extraordinary creatures. What has been a good chunk of his life has no doubt been barely a blink of her lovely eyes.

She remains unchanged, of course; the same violet eyes sparkling with life, the same perfect, unblemished skin, and delicate, mocking mouth. He is suddenly more aware than ever of his scattering of grey hairs, and the lines at the corner of his eyes. “All right! Some of us aren’t perfect ageless beings. Thanks for the reminder!”

“Don’t worry. You still have your charms, despite your decrepitude.” Yennefer breathes a laugh and gently pats his cheek. Amusement dances in her eyes and at her lips. He wonders if she can feel the rush of his blood beneath her touch. “You remain handsome enough.”

He glowers at her and smacks her hand away from his cheek with a little slap. “Hang on, forget about all of that - are you saying you’re going to put my hair back on my forehead?”

“Mm.” She moves her hands back to his hair and arranges it over his forehead. “It suits you more than leaving your forehead bare.”

“But the whole point of this is to keep my hair from falling into my face,” he says, and he hears the whine in his own voice. “Isn’t that defeating the object? It’ll be back in my eyes in a few weeks!”

She lets go of his hair and abruptly turns away to go through a drawer across the room. “Then I’ll just have to cut it again in a few weeks, won’t I?”

“What?” Jaskier watches her, feeling frozen in place as she searches. He misses the warmth of her hands on him, and his pulse thunders erratically in his throat. “Would you do that?”

“Will you still be here in a few weeks?”

“Who knows? Depends if I’m still welcome here, I suppose.” He laughs too loudly, the noise rattling around the room as something squirms restlessly in his stomach. “If Ciri still wants me here, then yeah, I’ll be here.”

Yennefer pauses. “Ciri?”

“Well.” Jaskier runs a hand through his hair. His scalp tingles at the memory of her fingers even as his hair yet again falls into his face. “She’s the only one who asked.”

Her pause is even longer this time. Her hands have stilled inside the cabinet drawer. “And is that all it takes? Asking?”

“Apparently,” Jaskier laughs. It sounds hollow. “I’m here, aren’t I? I wouldn’t be, if she hadn’t…”

He trails off, his pride abandoning him as he stares at her unmoving figure. Yennefer remains silent for a long moment, before her head tilts in his direction. “Well. If your limited charm hasn’t worn off in the course of twenty years, it’s probably not going to do so anytime soon,” she says, tossing the words over her shoulder casually, but her eyes catch his for a moment before she turns back to the drawer. “I can’t imagine any of us throwing you out now you’re here.”

His mind tosses a memory at him: Geralt, fury blazing in his eyes and insults spitting from his lips, unceremoniously severing their friendship. It feels simultaneously like it happened a lifetime ago, and yesterday. He sighs and runs his hands over his face. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

“Nothing would surprise me about you, bard.” Yennefer’s voice softens as she turns to look at him with a pair of scissors held in one hand. “You’ve led a very unlikely life.”

“Right.” His eyes focus on the scissors and he quickly adds, “And I’d love for it to continue for many more years.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes at him. “If I wanted you dead I wouldn’t resort to fucking scissors.”

“I know!” Jaskier pulls a face, then adds, “You’d just use your witchy talons.” He mimes it at her, his fingers pulling into claws and swiping across his throat.

She doesn’t smile, but he sees the slight crease of her eyes as she stifles a laugh. She waves the scissors pointedly in his direction, produces a genuine smiles as he flinches, and crosses to the cottage door. “I’m going to get Geralt to sharpen these. You are going to wash your hair.”

“Oh, am I?”

“You are if you want a haircut,” she says, and slips out of the door. He pulls a face at it, then sighs, and drags his hands over his face again. He lets out a groan that is muffled by his hands before he gets to his feet and slopes off towards the well.

It takes a minute of determined work to draw a bucket of water out of the well, and he finds his thoughts rattling around his skull as he dunks his head into it with a gasp.

His reaction to her touching him has left him strangely rattled, as it does every time. She is right; he has led a strange life, with a thousand odd twists and turns, and yet somehow Yennefer willingly laying hands on him has always been the thing that catches him most off guard. The version of her that lives in his mind’s eye is still her as she was when first they met, all sneers and sharp words and cruel indifference, and it is repeatedly shattered by the living, breathing version of her reaching out to him as though it is entirely normal.

He wonders if she realises how much it affects him, every time; if she has noticed the way his body cannot help but lean into her touch as though it craves it, no matter how bewildered his mind is by the feel of her hands on him.

And yet, despite his jokes about her tearing his throat out, despite the years they have spent mocking and belittling each other, despite how thoroughly odd it feels for her to touch him at all, he realises that he trusts her to look after him.

Are they friends? Jaskier is not sure. He has said as much to Ciri, though the word feels too small for everything he and Yennefer have done to and for each other. But he is certain that they are no longer enemies, and there may be no person he would be more likely to trust his life to, these days.

He mutters softly to himself as he does the best he can to wash his hair, fighting awkwardly with the bucket to rinse himself off. He accidentally spills water down his neck and shudders as his shirt sticks to his chest and back, grumbling about demanding witches as he towels himself off as best he can.

When his hair is as clean as it will get, he returns to the kitchen and finds Yennefer waiting for him with impatience radiating off her. She opens her mouth, then falls silent as she glances down at his body.

He follows her gaze, to where his wet shirt is sticking uncomfortably to his chest. “Look, you try washing your hair in a bucket, all right? Yeah, I spilled a lot, but I’d like you see you do a better job.”

It takes a fraction of a second longer than he would expect for her to drag her eyes back to his face and say, “Are you quite ready?”

“Yes!” He looks around awkwardly, and asks, “Where do you want me?”

Her impatience softens into something closer to teasing. “At the bottom of a very deep hole?”

“Oh, sure, very funny.”

“Where you were will be fine,” she says, suddenly businesslike as she indicates his chair. She has rearranged the room in his absence, pulling the chair closer to the window, propping a mirror opposite it, and lighting a few more candles. The chair is facing away from her; he looks hesitantly back at her before he settles awkwardly onto the seat, suddenly unsure how to hold himself.

He jumps when she puts her hands on his shoulders and lets out a gusty sigh as she laughs lightly. “You’re very tense, bard.”

“Wouldn’t you be, if a powerful sorceress had you all wet and vulnerable?”

“I must tell you about my time at Aretuza one of these days,” Yennefer says easily, and holds him firmly in place with both hands on either side of his head as he tries to spin and gawp at her. “No, don’t move. I’m going to brush your hair first. Try not to jump out of your skin at the big, bad witch using a comb on you.”

Jaskier expects her touch to be rough, or businesslike at best, and braces himself accordingly; he sees his reflection wincing in the mirror. Instead, he feels the tension in his shoulders start to dissipate when she gently runs a comb through his damp hair, spending long minutes deliberately and carefully untangling the knots.

It is surprisingly relaxing. Jaskier has not recently had a lot of opportunity to indulge in personal grooming beyond the basics, and he realises that he has missed both the ritual of it, and the way it makes him feel. A tension he was unaware he was carrying slowly drops away from him as Yennefer quietly and gently devotes her attention to brushing his hair. Eventually his eyes drift shut without his willing it.

He could not say how much time she spends neatening him. Only when his breathing has slowed and his hair is sleek enough for her liking does she set aside the comb and say, “Good.”

Her fingers land on his temples. He opens his eyes and meets her gaze in the mirror. “Tip your head forward for me,” she says easily, and he does as she wishes, tilting his chin into his chest until he is staring at his own lap. She hums in satisfaction. “Very good. Now don’t move until I say otherwise.”

His heart does an awkward skip in his chest, and he laughs hesitantly in the hopes of covering it up, feeling suddenly ridiculously sure that she has somehow noticed. “I’ve heard that before.”

Yennefer hums lightly and lets his words fall away as though they are completely inconsequential as she runs her fingertips through his hair. A shiver dances through him, and her only response is to laugh softly, and to gently pat the back of his head as if in praise.

Time fades away again as she begins to cut his hair. Jaskier had not expected to find the experience anything other than tense and awkward, but there is something surprisingly soothing about the whole process; the gentle swish of the scissors, the light touch of her hands, and the soft sounds of her breathing wash over him, somehow conspiring together in a way that leaves him drifting. His eyes slip shut and his tension drops away and all he can do is concentrate on following her directions and filling his lungs as steadily as he can manage.

Yennefer mostly remains quiet as she works, relying on her fingers to direct him. She turns his head this way and that as she concentrates on her task, occasionally circling him but mostly guiding his head to her whims with a surprisingly tender touch. If she has comments about his reaction to her work, she keeps them to herself.

He hears her move to stand in front of him and resists the urge to look up at her. She does nothing for a long moment, apparently standing still in front of him, and his mind’s eye fills in the image: Yennefer, looking speculatively down at him, watching as he bows his head and remains where she has placed him. He wonders what her expression is; is she amused by his obedience after all of his earlier tension? Or is she mocking him to herself, cataloguing how ridiculous he is?

Her fingers suddenly rest on his chin, and his breath catches. “Lift up for me, bard,” she murmurs, and gently raises his unresisting head. His eyes open hesitantly and he sees, just for a second, a warm smile on her face. Then it vanishes, swept away by a wry look as though it had never been present at all. “There you are. I almost thought you’d fallen asleep.”

“Me too,” he mumbles. He blinks hard but remains unmoving in her hold, feeling frozen in place simply by the fingers curled delicately around his chin. “Are you done?”

“Not yet.” She lets go of his chin and gives him a satisfied smile when he remains where he placed her. “You may want to close your eyes again. I’m sure you don’t want to get hair in them.” His eyes slide shut immediately, and warmth blooms in his chest and rushes through his body with the pounding of his heart when she murmurs, “Good.”

Her hands slide into the hair at the front of his head, her fingers fanning out and lifting up, and he feels the feather light sensation of hair drifting past his face. His lips press shut as he breathes slowly, not wanting to inhale any strands and risk a coughing fit with scissors so close to his face.

Yennefer’s work becomes more sporadic, now; she cuts for a while, then pauses, ruffling his hair and humming thoughtfully to herself, before she starts to cut again. This happens a few times, though Jaskier could not honestly say how long the process takes as he merely exists through it, a drifting, floaty body beneath a careful pair of hands. Eventually, after maybe a few minutes or possibly an eon, her fingers fall away from his hair and she says, “I believe I’m done. Unless you have any objections?”

She steps back as he opens his eyes and laughs softly when his gaze automatically seeks her out, blinking blearily up at her. “Look in the mirror,” she says, with her arms folded across her chest in a way that brooks no challenge, but the set of her mouth suggests fondness rather than irritation. “Tell me if you want any more taken off.”

“Oh. Right. Okay.” Jaskier turns his eyes to the mirror, and blinks in astonishment at his own reflection.

It is not as though she has completely changed him; he is still the same man he was before she pulled out the scissors, but somehow he looks more different than he had expected. It is almost like looking into his own past, with his hair shorter and resting on his forehead, the style subtly changing the shape of his face, and he raises his hands to pat at his hair in something close to astonishment. He was not aware that this Jaskier still existed. “Oh!”

“Do you want it any shorter?” she asks again, the slightest tinge of impatience bleeding into her voice, and he hurriedly turns his attention to considering this.

He runs his fingers through his hair, ruffling it speculatively and testing the length. He tilts his head forward and shakes his head around, trying to see if it will bother him while he plays, but it remains out of his eyes despite his efforts. “No. No, I think that’s good.”

“Good?”

“Great, actually.” He gets up to get a closer look at himself in the mirror, hunching over to admire himself properly. The sensation of hair on his forehead slightly ticklish, but he really does like the look of it. “Hey, seriously, excellent work!”

“And?” He glances behind himself in the mirror and sees her smiling. “Do you look even more handsome?”

“You tell me.” He grins and turns to smirk at her, cocking a hip as he poses. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all.”

He expects her to scoff, and to tell him he is ludicrous, and to walk away. Instead, to his astonishment, she hums and moves close to once again grasp him gently by the face.

Her hand cups his cheek and turns his face from side to side with a firm, careful touch. He feels his breath catch and his heart hammer as she examines him closely, her eyes darting over his hair, the line of his nose, his startled, wide eyes. He feels his cheek flush beneath her fingertips.

Eventually, she smiles in apparent satisfaction. She does not let go of his cheek. “Quite handsome.”

Jaskier does his best to summon up the expected splutter of indignation, but he cannot quite reach it as he murmurs, “Quite?”

“All right, then. Very handsome.” She lets him go and gives his cheek a gentle pat as she smirks triumphantly at him. Her eyes are sparkling. “But only due to my excellent work, naturally.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well. Thanks, then.” He huffs a sigh through his nose and crosses his arms, feeling a ridiculous desire to reach out to her and instead burying his hands tightly against his sides. His thoughts scud slowly through his brain as he looks down at her, already missing the touch of her fingers. He has not felt so relaxed in much too long. “You’re better than any bloody barber I’ve ever met.”

“You’re welcome.” She moves away from him, turns her back, and it is like a spell is broken.

He exhales slowly and realises that the floor is littered with his hair. “Ah. We should clean up, shouldn’t we? What do we need, do you think? A mop? Or a broom? Probably a broom, right, that feels like the, the appropriate tool?”

She looks down at the floor and gives it an indifferent look, as though such thoughts are beneath her. “Whatever you think is best.” She walks towards her bedroom without another word, as though her mind is entirely elsewhere.

“Right. Yeah. Of course you’re not going to help. Even though you have the actual magic of the universe at your disposal and could do it in a click of your bony fingers. No, naturally, it’s my job. Yeah, just leave it to me.” He ruffles his hair and, despite his complaints, he feels a small smile reluctantly creep onto his face as it remains out of his eyes.

He heads towards the cupboard but stops short when she speaks. “Bard?”

“What now?” He turns on his heel to glare at her. “Found another mess you want me to clean up?”

“Will you stay?”

His eyes widen as he replays her words. “Eh?”

Yennefer keeps a hand on the doorhandle but turns to face him directly. Her own eyes are dark, and the line of her mouth is flattened in determination. There is not a trace of mockery on her face. “Stay with us. Here. For as long as you like.”

“Uh-huh.” He chuckles lightly and ducks his head. “Did Ciri put you up to this?”

“No.” His eyes dart up in astonishment to see her watching him closely. “You said she’d already asked. Now I’m asking.”

“Oh. Er. Right.” He runs a hand through his hair, surprised anew when the hair falls away from his fingers more quickly than he is used to. Yennefer had done that for him, had offered it as though it was nothing, and now she is asking him to stay as if it is no less easy for her to do that than to cut his hair. His heart does a complicated leap in his chest. “You really want me here?”

“Would I ask if I didn’t mean it?” She watches him quietly for a moment, seemingly all irritation and impatience, before a half smile tugs at the corner of her mouth and some tension in her relaxes. “Yes, bard. We do. I do.”

“Well.” He blinks, letting her words wash over him, leaving warmth in their wake. Civilisation calls to him, with its crowds and luxuries and endless amusements, but Jaskier finds himself nodding jerkily without even having to think about it. “Yeah. If you want, then… yes.”

“Good.” The word lands in his chest and stays there, pulsing through him with the beat of his heart. Yennefer nods in return and opens the door.

Jaskier swallows and realises his throat is oddly dry. “Good.”

“And do let me know when you need another haircut.” Yennefer turns, halfway through the door, and gives him a thoughtful look as he blinks at her. “I enjoyed doing that more than I expected.”

“Oh?”

“Mm. It shut you up for longer than I thought possible.”

“Oi!” His eyebrows shoot up in affront as whatever fragile mood she has built between them falls away. “Cheeky cow!”

“And you’re very good at taking directions.” Yennefer’s eyes gleam as she adds, lightly, “How interesting.”

The door shuts behind her, and Jaskier is left staring at it, his eyes wide as he gapes. “What the fuck does that mean?” he hisses to himself.

“Now clean up your mess, will you?” she adds, shouting through the door.

He gets the broom out of the cupboard, grumbling to himself about who even made the damn mess in the first place the whole time.

But he sweeps it up anyway, because she asked. And, apparently, that really is all it takes.