A/N: Some time ago I was reading articles on Reddit about men - young and old - who were bursting into tears when their partners treated them with tenderness. Simple things like washing their hair, or making them a candelit dinner. I immediately thought of Jaskier and Eskel. So... Jaskier has been causing a few headaches for his lovely witcher, and decides to treat him to a little bit of pampering. Eskel Is Not Prepared.
Jaskier had everything laid out. Two tall candles flickered in the centre of the small table in the middle of the room, with folded silk napkins by the plates and two trenchers of softer bread rolls covered beside each plate. Food would be brought up when he called for it, and the water would still be scorching hot for when his wolf returned. This was the least he could do; he’d got into a fight in the previous town over an alleged affair, and Eskel had accompanied him to a bardic competition as protection without protest. His Witcher deserved some downtime.
He moved across to the wide laundry basin and sprinkled in some of the subtly scented salts he’d acquired in town that day, watching them fizzle over the surface as they dissolved. Next, he smoothed a palm over the soft robe he’d paid three nights’ worth of tips for. It was made of a soft, fleecy material he’d never encountered; it’d feel absolutely divine against his wolf’s rough, weather-beaten skin. The soaps, the cloths and brushes, the comb and oils. Everything was ready. There was just one vital ingredient missing: the wolf.
He’d popped out briefly to collect his reward money for a wraith killing; a woodsman who’d crossed the wrong competitor and found himself tossed to the bottom of a ravine. His spirit haunted his old chopping grounds, murdering his fellow villagers with abandon. Just enough time for Jaskier to set everything out as he’d planned—a week’s worth of planning, after a month’s worth of saving, ferreting away of items and money—and then sit on the foot of the paillasse, hands clasped between his thighs.
The rain had started half an hour ago, the temperature dropping as the sky darkened, and Jaskier found himself gazing expectantly at the window as if he’d see a pair of golden eyes flash in the darkness.
Heavy boots stomped up the stairs, metal buckles and leather belts rattling, and then the door swung open. As expected, Eskel looked tired. His broad shoulders were hunched, dark circles beneath his eyes, with the filth of his labours still clinging to his skin and clothes. It was early autumn; he had to work harder, for longer, than he did at any other point in the year. No one cared that he was losing weight, that he ached or that he was feeling particularly low. No one but Jaskier.
Eskel shrugged out of his sword belts and then paused with them dangling in his hand as he stared at the table. “Jaskier, what—?”
“Just a little something, here, let me help. You must be frozen, we’ll get you in the bath,” Jaskier hopped up from the straw-stuffed pallaise and crossed the small gap between them. Deft hands worked through the buttons and ties of Eskel’s armour—so wonderfully intricate and flamboyant—before he dropped down to unbuckle his boots and sweep away his trousers when he stepped out of them.
Eskel was a god in human form. Kreve himself would be jealous of that barrelled chest with its dense, dark hair, the wide thighs and large hands. Even his scars—a reminder of Eskel’s survival, not his weakness—were like accenting brush strokes on his tanned skin. Jaskier ran paler fingers gently down Eskel’s forearm, tracing the knots and ridges of his scars, rough under his touch. He looked up into those tired eyes, obscured by shaggy tendrils of dark hair, and smiled. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
There was a definite flush. A widening of the feline-esque pupils to swallow the golden ichor of his iris. Eskel wasn’t used to being complimented. They’d been travelling together for nearly a month now; they met just outside Tretogor while Jaskier was between missions for Redanian Intelligence. It felt only natural to strike up a friendship with a lonely Witcher sitting in the darkened corner of a public house; he seemed to have a habit of befriending the quiet, uncertain ones after all.
Eskel allowed himself to be led across the room and stepped over the lip of the tub. The water lapped over exhausted, quaking limbs and Eskel let out a quiet groan of pleasure as cold, aching muscles began to thaw. When he reached to pick up the soap, Jaskier batted his hand away gently. “No. Just lean back. Would you like some wine?”
“Some wine—?” Eskel had, thus far, only parroted back Jaskier’s questions like an imbecile—or so he felt—and swallowed audibly when Jaskier indicated one of the fine bottles on the nightstand. “If, uh—yeah, please. Jaskier, you—I can wash myself.”
“I know, but I think you deserve a little pampering,” Jaskier left the side of the tub only long enough to pour two steins of wine, and then returned to Eskel’s side. “I hear it’s a pleasant vintage. A good year. If that scoundrel of an innkeeper lied to me, I’d like you to hold him down while I drown him with it.” He smiled around the rim of the cup at his lips as Eskel chuckled. After only a sip, Jaskier rolled up the sleeves of his chemise and set to work. Eskel’s hair was a mess; long, unkempt, knotted and saturated with mud and rainwater. The oils helped smooth out the tangles, and Jaskier guided Eskel forward to pour a full jug of water over his head before lathering the soap.
It was then that he caught the glimmer of confusion in Eskel’s usually placid expression. He didn’t question—didn’t push—only smiled gently as he began to massage agile fingers across the wolf’s scalp. There was a moment of uncertain tension in broad shoulders as Eskel navigated the unknown territory of such tenderness. He’d adjusted slowly to Jaskier’s tactile nature; the casual touches to his hands, the pats on the shoulder, the thumb that had brushed gore from his cheek. The Witcher sighed; more like a steadying breath than anything, but it was a start. Jaskier circled his thumbs down Eskel’s neck as his fingers swept behind his ears.
The rain battered the thin panes of glass in the windows, Eskel savoured the fruity notes of the wine in his hand and Jaskier washed him tenderly. He paused every now and then to kiss Eskel’s face, the lobe of his ear, the slant of his jaw; simple, chaste affection that made the Witcher flush and a small, earnest smile flicker across his full lips. Once his hair was rinsed, Jaskier washed Eskel’s shoulders and chest, running the cloth down to the surface of the water before retracing his lines to his arms. The tender caresses down to Eskel’s hands earned a quiet grunt, like a bitten off groan, and Jaskier glanced up. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah, fine, ‘m—,” Eskel cleared his throat, shifted in the water, and gazed down at Jaskier’s hands. It was like he wanted to ask for the attention to continue, but wasn’t sure what order the words should come out in, or if he was allowed to make demands. It didn’t matter. Jaskier continued, tapping the edge of the bath in a non-verbal request for Eskel’s foot. From this angle he could gaze into the Witcher’s eyes. Or try to. His brow was furrowed with uncertainty, his gaze averted, and one large hand pawed intermittently at the scars on his face. Nervous. When Jaskier pushed his thumbs into the sole of his foot though, Eskel sank into the bath water, head falling back with a dull thud. “Fuck.”
The wine forgotten, Eskel stared at the ceiling and tried not to look too closely at the reasons behind the knot building in his throat. Jaskier worked over his ankle to his calf, before swapping over to his other foot. Limber fingers that coaxed such beautiful music from the strings of a lute threatened to stroke far deeper notes from Eskel’s chest. The pressure alternated between soft caresses and a firmer touch that teased out the soreness left over from months of graft. It was completely innocuous. Jaskier wasn’t seeking a reaction; he seemed happy to swirl soap through the dark hair on Eskel’s limbs and chest, with a faint smile the whole time. He was finding pleasure in this simple act.
Before he stood up to give Eskel a chance to soak in peace, Jaskier leaned over and placed a gentle kiss upon his cheek. Soft lips brushed over the mottled, sensitive rake marks on Eskel’s face and that knot he’d been so worried about began to unfurl into a foreign pressure behind his eyes. Once he was left to his own devices, Eskel felt a quiver pass through his jaw and finish at his lower lip; he swamped it with one large hand and tried to occupy himself with washing beneath his arms and between his legs as he heard Jaskier call down the stairs for food.
Eskel stood and glanced around in search of a towel when Jaskier bustled back into the room. “Oh, here, a towel,” he grabbed a stretch of grey fabric from the pallaise and spread his arms. “Nice and soft.” Jaskier helped Eskel dry off, smoothing his hands in wide circles over his broad chest and back, pausing only occasionally to steal a cheeky kiss on warm skin; his shoulder, his neck, upper back. Eskel glanced at him bashfully, and was so distracted by Jaskier’s mischievous affection that he startled when there was a heavy knock at the door. “That’s for you. I used the measurements for your gambeson,”—Jaskier pointed towards the bed—“so, it’ll fit your chest. Let me get the food.”
With the towel still wrapped around his waist, Eskel scooped the robe up in his hands and felt the texture between finger and thumb. He didn’t recognise the material—something exotic, expensive—and he felt that pressure in the back of his eyes again. It was something he hadn’t felt for a long time. He wasn’t… sure what it meant. There was a twist in his throat too, and a tightness in his chest.
“Don’t you like it?” Jaskier asked, the heavy bowls of meat-heavy soup thunking on the table.
“Oh, no, I—it—hmm,” Eskel cleared his throat and quickly pulled the robe around his shoulders. The sensation against his skin was what he’d always imagined clouds to feel like; it whispered gently across every scar, sent tingles skittering down his spine and he couldn’t help but run his hands up his arms, soft material wrinkling beneath his palms.
“Oh, good, it fits,” Jaskier smiled brightly, admiring the flare of Eskel’s chest still exposed by the open v of the folded collar. “Does it—does it feel nice?”
“Yes, it—,” Eskel didn’t understand why he kept having to clear his throat, but there it was again, “it’s… I really like it.” It was red. His colour. As he sat down opposite Jaskier and the smell of the stew made his stomach growl, Eskel felt his lower lip quiver. He rolled it between his teeth and clenched his fists on the edge of the table, and—
“Eskel?” Jaskier looked up from his food, brow knitted together in concern.
“Yeah, I—umm, I’m fine,” he swallowed quickly several times; his nose blocked up, and then the edges of his eyes were stinging. The legs of Jaskier’s chair scraped across the rough hewn floorboards, and his arms wrapped around Eskel’s head.
“Hey, no, you’re not, beloved,” Jaskier whispered, pressing Eskel’s face into the soft linen of his chemise. The dampness of Eskel’s tears soaked through to his skin and the Witcher’s big hands gripped at his waist. “There, there. Have I done something to upset you? Did the contract go awry?”
“N—no,” Eskel pulled away, embarrassed. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes and sniffed. “Sorry, I… uh, this doesn’t usually happen. I… just, I’ve never—no one’s ever done something like this, and… I’d always imagined that this is what it would be like if...” He shook his head, irritated at his own foolishness.
“Tell me,” Jaskier petted Eskel’s dark hair from his face, cupping his jaw to guide his face back round.
“I always imagined that if I were human, there’d be someone at home, waiting for me, when I got in from work—farming, maybe, blacksmith, or lumberjack, I’ve thought of it all—and…” Eskel lifted a tentative hand, those calloused fingertips brushing over the back of Jaskier’s palm. “...there’d be food, and a bath, and we’d talk. They’d tell me everything that had happened in the village while I was away, and I’d listen just because I loved the sound of their voice. After, we’d… uh—.” Eskel flushed pink to his ears. Those that said Witchers didn’t blush had never seen one warm and comfortable.
“You’d what?”
“I’d… we’d, uh, we’d kiss.” Just a whisper. Like he was asking for an unholy act.
“Hm,” Jaskier smiled, his thumb brushing gently over Eskel’s lower lip. “Now, I may not be some handsome farmer’s daughter, with a buxom chest and a demure smile, but may I offer to fill her stead for this evening?”
Eskel’s amber eyes flickered, his skin alight beneath Jaskier’s luxurious touch. Even though it was just a fantasy, Eskel craved it. For just a single night, he could pretend he was a normal man, with a loving partner, in a home he’d built with his own hands. “I’d like that.”
Jaskier stroked the backs of his fingers down the bumps and valleys of Eskel’s face as he leaned forward. When their lips touched, Eskel felt the breath leave his chest, and the worries of the world receded. As Jaskier’s tongue swept into his mouth and Eskel pushed up to meet him, a small glimmer of hope kindled in his heart; perhaps, one day, his dream could become a reality.
“All artists copy. We try as hard as we can to sound just like someone we admire; someone who evokes a strong feeling that we would like to emulate. The best part is, no matter how hard we try to copy, we wind up sounding like a version of ourselves. The elements of voice and style are braided together like twine, consisting of these attempts to copy other artists, or an instrument, or even the sound of a bird or passing train. Added to these characteristics are emotions and thoughts that register as various vocal quirks, like hiccups, sighs, growls, warbles — a practically limitless assortment of choices. Most of these choices are made at the speed of sound on a subconscious level, or one would be completely overwhelmed by the task.
When I bend my ear to a singer's performance, I often try to track who it was that influenced him or her. For instance, I can hear Nat "King" Cole in early Ray Charles, Lefty Frizzell in early Merle Haggard, Rosa Ponselle in Maria Callas, Fats Domino in Randy Newman. In a recent duet with Tony Bennett, the late Amy Winehouse was channeling Dinah Washington and Billie Holiday to great effect, yet she still sounded like Amy Winehouse.
The regional accent one speaks also affects rhythms and phrasing, so someone who is "copying" has to import the accent too. For me, it helps to know the vocal bloodlines in oder to decode the phrasing of a song. I once sang a Tom Petty song called "The Waiting," which has an intricate rhythm scheme for fitting lyrics into the music. Petty, an artist I admire, came along later than many classic rockers and so was able to absorb their elements into his writing and singing style. As I studied his vocal performance, it broke down something like this: Tom with his Florida accent was copying Mick Jagger with his British accent, who was copying Robert Johnson from the Mississippi Delta. And in another part of the same song, Tom was copying Roger McGuinn, who was copying Bob Dylan, who copied Woody Guthrie, who was in turn copying someone lost to our generation. These influences can show up in a whole line or just a word, or even the way that part of a word is attacked. As voices age, the vocal twine can become unraveled, and one hears the seams and joins of the laminated sound that has come to be recognized as that artist's style. It can collapse into a heap of ticks and quirks.”
