Prompt: Clothes - stealing clothes (yeah that's right I've gotten the prompt wrong on the first day) and cross-dressing (well, sort of).
Pairing: Jaskier/Yennefer
Rating: Teen
Word count: 1466
Warnings: Drinking & alcohol, post-mountain angst
For @whataboutthebard
Jaskier is lying morosely on the grass, eyes closed, feeling the cool damp of the ground on the back of his head, when there’s a nudge to his side.
He does not move. What’s the point of moving? Whatever it is will move on as soon as it realizes he’s not worth gnawing on.
There’s another nudge—this one far sharper, like the toe of a pointed boot—and with a little hiss he opens his eyes.
“Oh.” Yennefer is staring down at him. “I thought you were dead.”
He scowls. “Not yet.”
“What are you doing?”
He peers around as much as he can without actually getting up. “Lying morosely on the grass,” he says. “Obviously.”
Yennefer’s face melds into a perfect, beautiful frown. “I am going to regret asking this,” she says, “but why?”
He shrugs. “Because if I’m going to die a broken-hearted man, I’d rather it be somewhere where the views are this fine.”
Yennefer glances around them. Jaskier knows what she’s looking at: the gorse-covered mountainside, the heaps of loose stones, the scraggly rock face and twiggy, barren-looking trees. Even the sky is grey; not that exciting, turbulent grey that comes before a storm but a vast, off-white emptiness, promising nothing more exciting than a breeze.
She looks back down at him. “Quite.” She’s clearly battling with the desire to probe further and the urge to leave him where he lies. “You aren’t with—”
“No.” He cuts her off before she can say his name.
“Why not?”
“Because—” he finally sits up with a groan, feeling his back twinge. “—he told me to fuck off.”
Her eyebrows raise. “Did he, now?”
“Well,” he sniffs, “No, what he actually told me was that I was the cause for every shitty thing that’s ever happened to him, and that if life could give him one blessing it would be to take me from his hands. So...” He shrugs. “There we are. And here I am, from his hands at last.”
Yennefer’s eyebrows raise even higher. “He truly is a bastard, isn’t he?”
Jaskier struggles to his feet. His automatic instinct is to disagree with her, but he can’t find anything to disagree with.
“Utter bastard.”
They stand in silence for a moment, the wind buffeting at them. Finally, Yennefer speaks again.
“Care to join me for a drink?”
He glances at her from the corner of his eye. Her expression is carefully blank.
“Sure,” he says, “let me just flag down a passing barmaid and we can sit on that little rock over there to enjoy a bottle of Est Est. I hear the service here is marvellous.”
She rolls her eyes at him. “I’ll make a portal,” she says. “There’s a good inn in Barefield. Good wine.”
“Anything’s better than mountains and rainwater.”
“I'm inclined to agree."
He pauses, fingers twisting together. He doesn't want to say it, but he must. “Thanks, Yen.”
She doesn’t look at him as she opens a portal in front of them, the wind twisting into a swirling circle.
“I’d rather not drink alone,” she says. “Don’t read into it. And don’t call me Yen.”
He grins behind her back. “Whatever you say, Yennefer.”
~
Jaskier wakes with a pounding head, his mouth a mix of tannins and cotton. There’s something warm and soft—very soft—draped across his chest. He's suddenly assailed with the smell of lilac and gooseberries.
Oh, right.
Jaskier makes it a point of pride to remember everyone he’s fucked, and to not fuck anyone at all when he’s so drunk that he knows he won’t. Despite that, he’s still filled with the floating, post-sex haziness that he usually is when waking in a bed with a beautiful woman.
He rolls over and the pain in his head flares. Gods. It had been an enjoyable evening—thoroughly enjoyable—but he’s paying for it now. Yennefer had been right: the wine was good.
As he moves, his bedmate stirs, twisting around to peer at him.
“You’re still here," Yennefer says. Jaskier can't tell if she's genuinely shocked or simply annoyed that he's imposing on her time.
He pushes himself up on his elbows. “Good morning to you, too.”
Yennefer's hair is tousled around her head, her makeup blurred. Her lips are red, the colour smeared a little around her mouth. It’s odd seeing Yennefer like this—relaxed and sleepy and no doubt just as hungover as he is. A wall hasn’t been lowered, but he feels as if he can see through it a little; a door opened just a crack.
“How’s your head?” He asks.
“Fine.”
Jaskier’s been a bard long enough to spot a lie when he hears one. He pulls himself from the bed and pads across the room wearing just his smalls, grabbing the jug of water that sits beside the basin on the vanity table. He pours himself a cup of water, drinks, then pours another for Yennefer, who sits up and takes it without a word of thanks; not that he’s really expecting one.
He sits at the stool in front of the vanity and peers critically into the mirror. His eyes are darkly lined with kohl, his eyelids a shimmering blue. He remembers that very clearly; he’d complimented Yennefer’s distinctive makeup, and she’d insisted on putting it on his eyes, too. He’s even wearing her lipstick; although it's now smudged around his mouth in a wide red stain despite how expertly she had applied it.
Aside from the smeared lipstick, it’s not a bad look; although the eyes may be a little dramatic for anything other than a performance or banquet.
He hears Yennefer rise from the bed, and speaks without turning around.
“Do you have anything to get this off?” He says.
“Soap.”
He rolls his eyes, then grabs a scrap of cloth and begins to wipe at the makeup, watching himself in the mirror. Yennefer appears in the glass behind him, and he twists around on the little wooden stool.
“Is that my shirt?”
She looks down at herself, red lips pursed. She’s wearing nothing but Jaskier’s chemise, but on her it’s long enough to almost be a dress. A short dress, but not entirely indecent. She shrugs, and the hem rises, displaying even more smooth thigh, then continues to move around the room as she gathers her things. Jaskier watches her, nibbling on the inside of his lip. He remembers the many and various things they got up to last night, fuelled by wine and anger and heartbreak. No; they did not fuck. Not quite. Yet…
She stops pacing the room and turns to look at him with a sigh. “Maybe next time, bard.”
He blinks at her, and then realises his pounding head is fizzling with a familiar pressure. “Don’t read my mind.” He says. And then he catches up. “Hold on, next time?”
She doesn’t respond, merely returning to gathering her things. Jaskier sighs; from what Geralt has said, this seems typical.
“Where are you off to next?” He asks, after he deems enough time has passed.
“Somewhere without any witchers.”
He laughs. “Now that’s an idea. Best idea you’ve had all day. Well…” he pauses, wiping the cloth across the smudged lipstick. “... second best idea. I don’t suppose you could—”
There’s a sudden whooshing noise from behind him, the air in the room growing close and tingly, and he spins around to see a swirling portal on the opposite wall.
“Now hold on—”
Yennefer grins at him, still wearing his chemise, as well as—
“Are those my breeches?”
She shrugs, violet eyes sparkling. “See you around, bard.”
“Wait a fucking minute!”
And with a wave—a fucking wave—she steps through the portal and vanishes in clap of air that makes Jaskier’s ears pop. He stands in the empty room, wearing only his cotton smalls and expertly applied makeup.
Fuck.
He runs his hands through his hair and slouches over to the bed with the vague plan to hide beneath the covers until his hangover has abated enough for him to properly deal with this.
There, lying on the rumpled covers, is the grey furred dress that Yennefer had worn during the dragon hunt. Jaskier can’t help but smirk as he shakes his head, grabbing the garment. He wonders if this is Yennefer's idea of a joke.
It’s a surprisingly good fit, if a little short, and he suspects there may be a touch of magic sewn into the seams. Nothing designed for Yennefer’s slender shoulders should fit him so well.
He ties the belt and takes a look in the mirror again. He does a little twirl.
It really isn’t all that bad. Quite the opposite, in fact. The front doesn't quite close across his chest, showing off a deep vee of skin and hair. The furred collar suits him. Without much else to do, he pulls on his boots, grabs his things, and leaves the room.
Ignoring the curious gaze of the landlord as he exits the inn, he wanders out onto the wide dirt road. The sun has still yet to properly rise, so the town is still cast in shadows. The air smells fresh and new.
There’s an ache in his chest, but at least it’s not a dagger. Later, he's sure it'll hurt, but for now he can ignore it. He picks the direction he’s fairly certain is south, and begins to walk, the dress swishing around his legs.
Honestly, it'd be kinda funny if it wasn't so pathetic. Got not one but two (2!) diary spaces. Then again, lots of feelings.
I'm tired. I want to cry. To run away. To scream and shout and cry again and be angry. At you. At █████. At myself. But it wouldn't be fair to the both of you, so I'll stick with being angry at myself.
The leave from work doesn't help. I'm trapped both in body and mind, and I keep tearing myself apart, because fuck me I'm stupid.
And not.
Stupid, for not seeing it before, after the ████ thing. And not.
I almost said something, back then. But you were already dealing with enough grief, I couldn't bring myself to burden you with my feelings.
So, I did what I thought was best, back then. I tried to become a rock. Steady and present. When things crumbled, I wanted to make sure you knew not everything would do so. But well.
Well. Would you look at that. You were the one to run away after all. And you keep saying things like "that's okay. that's aight" when it's obviously not. You're hurting. And tired. And a smidge angry. Maybe more than a smidge. It's curious how one of the things still in your mind is the damned series.
It wasn't good enough when it was you asking about it. But now oh it so is. But she'd rather watch it with you, she says. Or like, you know. You remember the conversation. But it felt. Feels. Like a lie, to save face. And yet thinking like that makes you sick to the stomach. Even more. Night time.
