Chapter Text
“- Once again, thank you for tuning in, this is Anya with the latest celebrity gossip, welcome, welcome everyone! Oh, do I have a spicy bit for you today; our very own Julian Alfred Pankratz has recently found himself in the news after a DUI incident! The mega popular singer rammed his brand new Lexus into a corner store last week in downtown London. Witnesses report seeing him earlier that same evening leaving one of the seedier clubs in Soho, they say that he seemed to be very emotionally distressed.”
“Oh, how hard it must be, Anya, can you imagine?!” Laughter.
“Hush, Michael, I always did say all that sudden fame would go to his head eventually.” More laughter.
“Well, he can always spot me some of that cash! Did you hear that he paid off the cops?”
“What?! No! Oh. My. God. You’re not joking!”
“Yes, yes! His father -”
He turns the radio off, huffily stuffing his hands under his armpits as he leans up against the window. “Why do they even get that show here? It’s the middle of buttfuck nowhere; I would have expected the only thing that they listened to here is the local station that plays the olden Slavic hits.”
“Sorry, phone was plugged in.” The radio turns on for a moment again before a Spotify playlist takes over the annoying talk show.
“Didn’t think you’d be into all the gossip shit.” He snorts derisively, “Thought you were above all of this popular media stuff, Nate.”
“I would be. If the news and the tabloids weren’t the only way your brother and I could keep an eye on you.” Nate responds levelly, deep voice rumbling in barely-concealed displeasure and Julian winces inwardly.
“Sorry.” He glances at the man driving the police car, takes in his strong profile and his large hands and thinks about how he’d probably pass the fuck out if Nate decided to smack him in the face like he deserved to be smacked.
“You’re not. I don’t want you to be.” Nate sighs, rubbing a wide palm over his face. “It’s good that you got out, made a name for yourself. But – you know. You could have called once in a while.”
“Thanks, I guess.” He feels wholly uncomfortable with all of this. Uncomfortable and cold, and terrified of the looming trees overhead. The road is abandoned and lonely, the flora is overgrown and unkempt, the pavement cracked and muddy – the whole scene is giving him very strong horror vibes. He resents the whole thing. But then again, he doesn’t have much say in the situation.
“Your brother will come by once he has time.” Nate’s voice wavers a little now; it’s almost as if he knows that it’ll take a long while before Julian’s brother makes his appearance. Well, certainly not before he’s dealt with the mess Julian had left behind. Because it wasn’t just a simple DUI, no, that would have been too easy.
“If and when Val shows up, I highly doubt it will be a happy visit.” He sighs, his breath fogging up the window. He brings a hand out and draws a little sad emoji in the condensation left on the glass, effectively making himself feel worse with his own dramatics.
The winding path they are on becomes bumpier the deeper into the estate’s forest they go, and Julian has to hang on for dear life once the pavement disappears almost completely. The dense forest thins out where it meets the cast-iron, rusted fence that borders a wide berth of the old mansion grounds. The crumbling brick fence posts are missing in some places entirely so Julian will have to worry about possible intruders eventually, but the main gate – that’s entirely too large and too ornate, tacky – still holds true and steady. It’s not an inspiring sight either way.
Nate leaves the car to open the gate and the horrible sound of screeching metal pains his ears like nothing else ever has - and he’s attended his fair share of death core concerts and bad raves in his lifetime. He sticks his little finger into his ear and wiggles it around, trying to get the weird feeling of the sound physically scraping the inside of his skull out from under his skin.
“I'm sorry you have to do this, you know.” Nate says once he’s back in the car and driving them down the dirt path that leads to the pillars of the old, dilapidated front entrance. The door is much like the gates of the fence: large, ornate, rickety and over the top.
“I know you didn’t exactly sign up to be my makeshift parole officer, Nate, but you don’t have to pretend like it doesn’t please you to have me in a place where you know I won’t be causing any trouble.” He scoffs, pushing open the door as soon as the car comes to a halt.
“Julian, you know that’s not-” Nate’s voice trails off as he slams the door shut once more.
He looks around with distaste. The mansion’s been empty for many years now, well over thirty of them; there’re weeds growing all around and vines climbing the corners. It could have once been a beautiful summer home in the Old Country, but it is well past its prime now. Nobody’s taken care of this place properly for years, and even the poor gardening job someone’s done prior to his arrival here isn’t enough to make it look like anything other than haunted.
“Jules,” Nate’s deep rumble makes him look up again, a frown that will hopefully convince Nate to drop the subject and the childhood nickname on his face.
“Julian,” Nate amends, “You know we mean well. With the family and everything – you’ve always had a penchant for drawing too much attention to yourself. We've been worried – I’ve been worried about you. I hate that they’ve made you come to this shitty place, but I can’t do anything about it; he– the Count...”
“Yes, it’s always the Count, isn’t it?” He grunts, moving away from the other’s large frame and towards the back of the police Range Rover where his luggage is. “The Count and his stupid fucking bald head, and his ugly fucking plaid ties – fuck him and his money!” He hisses with vitriol as he tugs one of the large suitcases out of the trunk. The case slams against the ground hard, two of the wheels breaking off on impact and scattering across the dirt. He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.
Nate comes back around and takes the other case much more gently than Julian had the first one. “I really am sorry.” The taller offers quietly and Julian breathes out in order to center himself.
He’s known Nate for most of his life. Nate has always been like a brother to him, has always been family in a way. Nate’s been there for every major event in his early life even when his actual brother, Valentin, hasn’t. Nate’s family, he is. But that, in and of itself, is a problem, because Julian doesn’t want to hear sincerity right now. He wants to be mad at every person that's ever crossed him, at everyone that isn't him because, when you really looked at it, everything was his fault entirely. But – but. He can’t do that to Nate and his kind, sad eyes, he can't be mad at him.
“I know, Nate, I know.” He relents, looking away from the earnest expression, “It’s not your fault. It’s really good to see you again.”
“I wish it was under different circumstances,” The taller nods, understanding him with so little effort, perfectly, in a way that comes from years of knowing a person.
“Well, come on then, let’s crack this lovely, bright getaway home open.” He shuffles forward, dragging his wobbling suitcase behind him, ignoring the hunger that's adding nausea to the anxiety swirling in his belly already.
The doors’ creak is much less menacing than the fence gates’, but it’s still not a nice sound to be greeted by. The foyer – and isn’t that lovely, he has a foyer now – is dusty and wide, mostly empty. The ornate wallpaper is cracked, the paint on the banisters of imperial staircase is chipping, and the fresco on the ceiling is faded – it’s a look that speaks a lot about the state of the rest of the manor.
“Christ, this place is a fire hazard.” He runs a finger along the lone, round table that sits there under the idle chandelier and frowns at the amount of dust he picks up. “Lovely.”
“I’ll have someone sent over to clean it up a bit.” Nate coughs faintly, looking around with a frown, but Julian just shrugs.
“Why bother? It’s not like I’ll be going through every single room anyway.” He doesn’t know the layout of the house, but he figures that the bedrooms are probably on the second floor as they are often wont to do in places like this.
There’s no real hallway once you get up the stairs. There is an area at the top of the staircase that can be called a landing. It's lit up by the sunlight coming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows that lead out to a marble-floored balcony. The balcony itself overlooks the little atrium-garden-fountain space below and has an ornate, concrete chess table in one corner of it. On each side of that bit of ratty carpeting covering the landing are double wing doors with even more chipping, white paint on them and stained glass, half-circle transoms above. He realizes with a start that the house is U-shaped and that all of the rooms are connected by open archways - sans the bathrooms. He makes a mental note to choose the one closest to the stairs as his own for safety and convenience reasons.
“Nice view.” Nate scrunches his nose up as he stares out the window and Julian agrees. There’s a large lawn yard beyond the fountain, further out back there is another set of fancy gates in the crumbling fence. Beyond that, though, there is a more of that dense forestry where trees doesn’t let much light through the canopy. It’s the sort of ominous sight that Julian’s grown up with – not in this particular location, not really, but further up east. All these manors are the same in a way. They're all half-empty houses, decaying and heeding laws of a time long passed. He hates it; hates the rigidity of it all. There’s a reason he got out when he did, a reason he became a singer of all things, after all. The tradition that digs its claws into you and never unclenches threatens to crawl back the longer he stares out of the dirty windows.
He shakes himself out of his stupor by accepting the chill that runs up his spine at the thought of being back in a place like this and goes left, walking through the door propped open by a discarded golden bust of some Romanesque figure
The first room is some sort of small, fancy sitting room with only a single couch and a coffee table in it. The couch is more of a divan than anything actually useful and the powdery blue wallpaper makes him a little ill. Useless rooms in useless homes.
Julian’s flat in London is small, too. It's cramped, filled with books and knickknacks, fanmail and gifts he’s received over the years. There’s not an inch of usable, free space anywhere, and while he’s not exactly a hoarder, he doesn’t like empty spaces left unused. It’s comfortable and cozy, it's a proper home. Empty spaces have always felt wasteful to him.
The next room is a drawing room with large, cushy chairs. There is a round table in the middle and a big fireplace in one corner. It’s one of those tiled monstrosities that Julian remembers catching a burn from when he was about nine; it stood imposingly in their living room and he'd always steered clear of it. The room is a corner room so the empty wall is occupied by a chest of drawers and a painting above it before it melts out into the other room.
There are three more rooms there, and this time all of them are bedrooms of similar design. He assumes that the layout is mirrored on the other side and that all of the socialite-oriented rooms are on the ground floor instead of up here.
He dumps his suitcases in front of the two large, wooden wardrobes and surveys the bed draped in muted green canopy. It’s big and bare, the lack of bedding disconcerting and another thing that he'll have to worry about later.
“I think there’s bedding in the chest in the previous room.” Nate runs a hand through his dark hair, obviously upset over the situation and - that's sweet of him, really. “The bathrooms are at the end of the wings on both floors. Think they had a washer-drier installed in one of them downstairs.”
“There’s running water, how wonderful.” He eyes the candelabra at the bedside table warily. Hopefully there is reception out here; otherwise, Julian might just drive himself mad running into walls without proper internet access.
“Here,” Nate holds something out and Julian takes a moment to assess the small, oval device – it looks sort-of like a Beats Pill.
“What is this, 2009? Why are you handing me a flip-phone?” He takes the thing gingerly as if it might bite him. It's been a while since he'd handled one of these and the device feels entirely awkward in his hands.
“It’s for emergencies. Modern day electronics tend to fail out here sometimes. There’s no landline either, so in case you need anything you can reach either me or Val with that thing.” Nate explains patiently, ignoring the bratty tone Julian is used to employing like armor by now. Then again, Nate wasn’t fazed easily by much of anything, really.
“Proper reassuring, that is.” He puts the phone into his jacket pocket and eyes the fireplace in the corner of the room. “Central heating?”
“Really, Julian.” Nate snorts and he sighs - he didn’t think so.
“Guess it’s back to chopping wood for me, then.” He walks back towards the previous room and starts rooting through the drawers until he finds the fresh-smelling linens.
“You think you still know how to do it?” Nate’s smile is gentle and teasing as they spread the large, soft sheet across the giant bed together.
“Can’t lose that kind of knowledge, not with the way the Count had beaten it into me until it stuck.” He scoffs; pretending that he doesn't still feel the phantom pains flaring up as Nate’s movements falter for a moment.
“Jules,” The nickname is still a painful remnant of the past.
“Jaskier,” He responds, “If you must call me something other than Julian, then please, Jaskier.” He tries for a smile but fails if Nate’s frown is anything to go by.
“Jaskier,” Nate tests it out tentatively, “It’s – what your grandma used to call you, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” He smiles for real this time, “I use it as my stage name.”
“She always did encourage your hobbies, even when the Count tried to – well.” Nate trails off because he doesn’t have to say it for the both of them to know what he's referring to. Jaskier doesn’t need his past told to him. He still remembers most of it in vivid detail and in lifelike nightmares on the rare occasion.
“I know you’d like to reminisce about the good old days, Nate, love, but – for the sake of my mental health, let’s leave the past where it should be, yeah?” He presses a hand against the other’s arm gently and Nate stares at it for a moment before nodding.
“Let the past die.” The taller agrees and Jaskier smiles at the small victory.
“We should go see where the kitchen is,” He says once the bed is finally properly made – a task that had taken entirely too long. The amount of pillows on it is ridiculous.
“Good call; I can go get the bags from the car once we see if the fridge works.” Nate confirms. His tone is too deliberate, too careful.
He shoots the taller a look that spells out stop it and Nate’s cheeks go a little pink at being caught in the act of babying. He knows the other’s used to looking out for him but – that was years ago. Nate would balk at half the shit Jaskier’s seen in the bowels of London. He’s no shy schoolboy anymore and sometimes Nate and Valentin seem to forget that. Well, it’s due time that they were both reminded of the fact.
“Want me to make lunch?” He asks as they enter the large kitchen. There aren’t any marble countertops or stainless steel appliances, but it’s quaint and there’s an old refrigerator in the corner of the room so he’ll do just fine. The stove is a cast iron thing that runs solely on wood and Jaskier mourns the future of his arms and hands. There’s also an island with some old barstools that's certainly a massive statement piece to the whole thing - that clashes terribly with the mint green cabinets since it's a pale yellow. On the other side of the mint coloured room sits a large, hardwood table with no less than eight chairs surrounding the oval monstrosity that he doubts he'll use at all. The windows are floor-to-ceiling here, too, and the double glass doors lead to the back yard. Upon closer inspection, beyond the atrium-fountain space, he sees now an old greenhouse with cracked glass walls and rusted, gilded décor.
“You can cook?” Nate teases and Jaskier smacks the back of his hand against the other’s stomach in a reprimanding gesture.
“I had to fend for myself somehow, didn’t I? Go get the bags from the car.” He shoos the other away, watching as the towering man ducks to avoid hitting his head against the top of the doorframe. He looks around the kitchen once more and then back into the foyer. Well, at least it looks like someone had cleaned the kitchen up a little. He snoops through the cabinets next and is pleased to find that cleaning supplies had been left behind for him to use. He'll have to develop a list system in order to keep track of his supplies in the future.
Nate ambles back inside, a dark look on his permanently-serious face and Jaskier sighs inwardly. “Alright, let’s have it then.”
“There’s a – situation – in town that needs my attention.” The taller runs a hand over his face in frustration and Jaskier wants to give him a hug but restrains himself by crossing his arms over his chest – he’s still trying to be mad at the other, albeit somewhat unsuccessfully.
“There always is,” He shakes his head, waving a hand in the air carelessly and accepting the two bags of groceries that the other hands him. “Go, play bad cop with your friends, darling, I’ll be fine.” He winks at the other and then because he’s feeling a little petty he tacks on, “At least now you know where you’ll be able to find me. Probably permanently.”
Nate throws his hands up in frustration and leaves the house in a hurry. Jaskier can almost hear the it’s for your own good that the other had definitely wanted to utter.
“For my own good, my arse.” He mutters unhappily as he chucks meat and bagged veggies into the freezer. “If it was my own good they were so worried about, would have left me to rot where I fucking was.” He sneers at no one in particular because – well, there’s no one there but him. He considers calling Nate and begging him to come back and bring a puppy with him or something other to occupy his time but doesn't give into that silly want.
Once the groceries are all neatly arranged and he’s located all of the pots and pans and plates and cutlery, he decides that he’s too tired to actually make any food. So he sets to exploring the ground floor.
Out of the kitchen and to the right there’s a drawing room with chest-height bookshelves with books on law and justice and whatnot stacked there. There’s also another well-polished, hardwood table in there but this time it’s in the shape of an octangle with plush damask-covered armchairs surrounding it. Every centimeter of the room is covered in a fine layer of dust that Jaskier despises. He steels himself against it, though, he refuses to clean the place – he will not concede nor will he make himself at home in these wretched, hollowed halls.
The old parquet creaks underfoot despite the ornate carpeting he’s walking on as he passes through the drawing room and emerges into a proper library. The shelves here are tall and filled with books that look as old as the mansion itself. He’s certainly going to have something to do when the days get boring. He just hopes that the paper doesn’t disintegrate in his hands the moment he picks one up. He runs a thumb along the spine of a thick book, clearing the dust away from the worn leather – Kafka the curled, bold letters read.
“Great, a good omen.” He tries desperately to remember what happens in Kafka’s The Castle. “Not terrifying at all,” He moves onto the next book and finds that it is Hesse’s Steppenwolf. He frowns, realizing that the books aren’t stacked alphabetically. He looks up and he’s pretty sure that he spots the works of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky – by the looks of it, it’s their entire opuses as well; thick book next to thick book. He ignores those, not really fancying re-living his high school days. He shudders, thinking about having to cram-read Crime and Punishment over the winter break while simultaneously learning the intricacies of his father’s business.
The next room appears to be a proper sitting room. It’s got pale pink tapestry emerging from the paneling that covers the lower half of the walls and another rustic chandelier dangling in the middle of the room. The fireplace there is a little more modern and the deer head mounted on the wall above it is entirely horrible. The couches are an ugly beige with gold-encrusted clawed legs and they look fairly uncomfortable to sit in. There are also cabinets lining the wall – the kind filled with crystalline glasses and decanters, empty bottles of expensive scotch and wine.
It’s still light out when he makes his way back to the kitchen and out of the glass doors there. He takes a deep breath and holds the fresh air in his lungs for a couple of moments before letting it out. Perhaps the only thing he’s missed from the Old Country was the scent of the forest, of the soft soil and the moss-covered trees. He eyes the trees beyond the gates warily, moving past the dried-up fountain and almost involuntarily towards the end of the property.
His palm meets the rusted iron that might have been dyed golden once. The gates out here are looser than the ones up front, one of the wings hangs slightly tilted, digging into the ground with a sharp corner. He tries to tug it loose since it doesn’t seem to be chained and locked but it refuses to budge, too insistent in its perch. He frowns and dusts his hands off, pointedly ignoring the screech of wildlife out in the distance. He hates thinking that he's not the only one out here alone almost as much as he hates thinking about being out here on his own.
He returns back to his humble abode, wondering if he can convince Nate to buy him a TV. Then again, he’s supposed to be going off the grid and keeping a low profile or whatever so it may be a long while before he’s even allowed to catch a glimpse of the news – lest he give into temptation and tweet. It’s going to be a long while before he’s allowed to do anything.
He spends three days uselessly milling around the manor, kicking up dust and vehemently refusing to sweep it even when it makes him sneeze. He cooks on the first night, some old dish his grandma showed him how to make back when he was a child, and he makes a large pot of it so that he doesn’t have to cook for the next three days. He's getting bored.
He’s dragged one of the damask chairs out into the middle of the empty fountain pit and is sitting in it, contemplating draining the bottle of desert wine he has in the kitchen, when he hears the sound of the front gate careening open with another painful screech. The car that drives up to the house is not loud and rumbling so he assumes that it’s not Nate. And if it’s not Nate, then it’s Val.
He remains seated, taking a slow drag of his cigarette and letting the smoke curl around him as he exhales.
“You’re not a very gracious host,” Valentin’s voice comes from behind him, already there is a mocking lilt to it. He lifts his shoulders in a carefully careless shrug.
“Do prisoners welcome their guards into their cells?” He decides that a bit of drama is what his afternoon needs, needling Valentin just because.
His brother drops down into the fountain, a very undignified action for a man in such a well-tailored, three-piece suit and polished, brown oxfords. He squints up at the copper-haired stranger that people keep insisting is his brother. Maybe it’s the eyes. And the fact that they’re related by blood. But other than that, Julian doesn’t particularly see them as brothers anymore - hasn't in a long while.
“That’s about as dramatic as it gets?” Valentin tilts his head, the sunglasses he's wearing sliding down his nose.
“Oh, you’ve seen nothing yet, brother! Wait till the tears start flowing, I’m very good at crying on demand.” He offers a cigarette out and Valentin eyes the pack before conceding and taking one.
“I kicked the habit years ago,” Val says as he allows Jaskier to light it for him.
“What can I say; I’m in prison because I’m bad.” He grins sharply and Valentin rolls his eyes.
“It’s not permanent.” The other takes a drag from the cigarette and closes his eyes briefly like he’s savoring it. Huh, he it must have been a really long time, then.
“Nothing good ever is, am I right?” He kicks out a little childishly, smudging the perfectly pressed pants on his brother’s legs with a dusty sneaker. He grins to himself; he’d forgotten how fun getting on Val’s nerves was.
Valentin grunts, dusting his pant leg off. “You know I don’t necessarily want to keep you here against your consent, right?”
“I don’t know. Both you and Nate always seemed so insistent on getting me to stay put.” He flicks the butt into the air, watching it land amongst half the pack he’s already smoked over the last three days.
“Nobody could ever get you to stay put, Julian.” Val snorts inelegantly.
He wrinkles his nose and takes in his brother’s appearance with a little more care this time. The older looks... tired – still impeccably dressed and well-polished, but the circles around his eyes are darker, and the crows feet there are now deeper and more permanent. Last time he’d seen his brother was at grandma’s funeral a couple of years ago and, back then, his brother certainly didn’t have that gray streak of hair curling elegantly at the front of his upswept haircut. He looks aged beyond his years, the whole weight of a legacy on my shoulders bit is really going to do him in.
“I don’t see why I need to stay put anywhere.” He shrugs, lighting another cigarette.
“Stability, Jules, people need stability.” Val rolls his eyes and it’s like - it's like they’re nine and thirteen again, and he’s just asked his brother to teach him how to play football and got smacked for being annoying and childish.
“What I need is for people to stop breathing down my neck. Just for once in my goddamn life I’d like to be able to walk outside without feeling like someone is going to try and kidnap me in the middle of the day!” He jolts up and out of the armchair, a hand compulsively burying itself in his messy hair. “I got out – I got away from all of this, and yet I am somehow, inexplicably, back again! There’s a reason why I don’t do concerts anywhere near this place, there’s a reason you haven’t heard from me in years! You might be father’s golden boy, but I was never interested in the family business.” He hisses angrily, the thoughts in his head boiling over in the presence of his brother. They'd always been encouraged to bring out the worst in each other, and despite them being all grown up now, it's still something that lingers.
Valentin was always calm and collected – a pious statue put on a pedestal, gleaming and golden, that has those at his altar bowing and basking in his glow. And Julian is – is not. He’s not any of those things. He’s never been calm – always fidgeting, mind too fast to settle on a single thing at a time, scatterbrained. He’s never been collected – he’s been an organized mess at best at times, but he’s never had all of his strings held close to his chest in an orderly fashion like Valentin does.
The only pedestal he’s ever been put on was the stage where he received his first Grammy. And while Valentin lives to distinguish himself from his followers with the cold demeanor of a particularly large and deadly cat, Jaskier’s always sought a friendly bond with his. He’s tried so hard to lower himself back to the level where his fans could still think of him as a friend rather than someone to be held up on that same pedestal he’s seen his brother on constantly. He's tried so hard not to be what his brother has become.
For a moment, he wishes he wasn't famous. He wishes he’d instead gotten out and found a pub to work in somewhere inconspicuous, a piano to play on his own time. But he had been young, naïve, so eager to prove to himself and to his family that he can make it on his own without them – that he had something to offer other than his skills in marksmanship and fucking accounting. He didn’t want to be Valentin’s second in command, he hadn’t wanted to be second best. It's no longer about that for him, but back then things were very different.
“Yes, we were all very aware of your little staged rebellion.” Valentin drops the butt of the cigarette and grinds it into the ground with the sole of his very expensive shoe.
Back to the condescension then.
“Why are you here, Val?” He sighs heavily, dropping the remnants of his own smoke and stalking away towards the greenhouse petulantly, hoping against all hope that his brother will just up and quit. Much to his disappointment, his brother does decide to follow him despite the steadily growing grass that will potentially ruin his shoes.
“Can’t I want to see my brother?” Valentin offers, tone tinted with mockery.
“No.” He scoffs, “Out with it.” He pushes open the cracked glass door and looks around. There are flowerbeds and pots strewn about, a dying cherry tree in one corner that’s broken out of the windows of the greenhouse. It looks like it used to be very beautiful once.
“We want you to come back.” Valentin doesn’t cross his arms over his chest but Julian can tell that he wants to take the defensive stance. Despite all of the ostentatious confidence Valentin has, he’s still a little boy scared of the Count on the inside – both of them are.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that. You’d love to have all of your eggs in one basket despite the saying. Can’t have crazy ol’ rebellious Julian traipsing around and getting himself into trouble, now can we?!” He throws his hands up in a frustrated effort to relieve anger. When it doesn’t work, he kicks one of the clay pots and watches it shatter, rather satisfied at the noise.
“I know that the London stint wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry you’re stuck in this place. But I do want you by my side, Julian. I want what’s best for you, you know that.” Valentin gives into the urge to cross his arms over his chest and Jaskier smirks, an admission of defeat if he is ever to get one.
“You don’t know what’s best for me." Scoffing, he turns to face his brother fully. "Father’s empire isn’t going to last, Val, you’re a fool if you think that it can in today’s day and age. Times are changing and the sooner you realize that, the less trouble you’ll be in when it finally falls. I know your blind loyalty will never allow you to see this but – it’s a dying trade, what you’re doing. There is no room for people like me in it.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out steadily. He’s not going to shout again, he’s not.
“You always-” Valentin cuts himself off, fists clenched by his side now. It’s the most disheveled Jaskier’s seen him look in years. It’s oddly comforting to know that he can still effectively ruffle his brother’s feathers like that, that he's still human under his porcelain shell.
“I always, hm? Isn’t that a wonder? Why would I continually and always do anything if I didn’t believe in my words and decisions firmly? I may have made some missteps along the way, but getting out of this country and this business has never been a blunder on my part.” He stares his brother down, an easy feat considering they’re the same height – something that’s always annoyed Val even if he’d never admit it, but was a great advantage to Jaskier.
Valentin deflates, shoulders sagging, and shakes his head. “We’ll see if you change your mind after a while here.”
“And you said this wasn’t a prison. A gilded cage is still a cage, brother dearest.” He walks past the other and out of the greenhouse. “Solitary confinement is a form of torture, you know. Very inhumane.”
“It’s for your protection.” Valentin persists but his conviction is wavering, Jaskier knows.
“Yes, you keep saying.” He chuckles mirthlessly. “Lovely of you to visit, Val, really, tell mother I said hello and tell father he can go shove his empire up his arse.” He pauses, turning to look at the older with a grin, “That is – if you dare.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He climbs the stairs two at a time and soon finds himself in his chosen bedroom, plopping down onto the bed heavily.
He decides that a nap is in order since emotional talks always take it out of him. He lets himself drift off, lets the irritation be drained away by dreamless sleep, and lets the unconsciousness claim him for the day.
Eventually, he walks through the rest of the house.
Located in the other wing of the ground floor he finds a study, and instead of another sitting room he finds a gallery of sort. There are paintings and busts, and various vases that have gathered more dust than anything else in the house. Some of the paintings are cracked and peeling, but they’re all very intriguing none the less. There are several paintings of the property itself, but those are small and unappealing to the eye, lost between the other larger works. There is a giant portrait on one wall, taking up the majority of the space, being lit up by sconces. It is of a beautiful, fair-skinned woman dressed in a black dress thats settled around her feet like a sea of silk. The painting is masterfully crafted, the brush strokes delicate but firm and the smile on the woman’s face barely threre. He stares at it, admiring the way the golden chair appears to be glinting and how the velvet of the upholstery seems almost soft to touch. There’s a crown on her head, perched precariously on top of her dark hair, indicating that she’s some sort of long-forgotten royal. Her smile might be almost-coy, but her eyes are severe. He startles back once he meets the painting’s gaze – which is ridiculous – and goes around the room to look at the other art there, ignoring the chills running down his spine.
A couple of the landscapes are of nothing he’s ever seen before, though. They're of sprawling fields and deserted lands, cottages and stone-walled cities that resemble Britain’s past in that they are very Arthurian in appearance. They’re all intriguing and Jaskier’s always had a certain appreciation for all the arts, but they just make him long for his lyrics notebook that he hadn’t been allowed to pack, for the paintings in his own home that he might not be allowed to go back to.
He understands that this is a punishment as much as a precaution, but they could have at least allowed him some joy. He’s not particularly fond of writing lyrics and lines down into his notes app and he can’t exactly play the virtual guitar on there either. He wonders, not for the first time, if he’d be able to get Nate to bring him an acoustic.
That is of, course, when he wanders to the next room that holds nothing in it other than a covered grand piano and its accompanying bench in it. His fingers tingle as he pulls down the sheet and his eyes meet the glossy body of a fantastical beast. The scrawl above the keys reads Julius Blüthner and his insides sing at the rarity he’s discovered. He pops the lid open, grinning madly as the bottom side of it reflects the innards of the piano.
“Oh, you lovely, lovely thing.” He purrs, running his greedy fingers over the fallboard and feeling some kind of way. He sits down onto the bench and opens it up to reveal ivory keys. He runs through some scales, frowning every time one of the notes comes out off-key – he’ll have to tune it. Theoretically, he knows how to do it. He just doesn’t have the appropriate tools. A damn shame.
He lets his hands fall away from the keys with a sigh – another day, another disappointment.
To no surprise at all, the house also has a basement – the entrance of it is hidden in the floor of the pantry, and he’s not particularly inclined to go in at first. But then his curiosity gets the better of him and he pulls out his phone to use as a flashlight as he scrambles down the rickety steps.
He sneezes at the dust that rises with his steps, patting the wall until he manages to locate the light switch. He flicks it up, not really expecting it to work but he ends up being pleasantly surprised when it lights up a single bare bulb in the middle of the cellar. He was right, there is wine. There are bottles upon bottles lining the racks along one brick wall, and there are cases of scotch that looks suspiciously home-made next to them. He ambles over, taking one of the dark-coloured bottles and squints so that he can see the label in the dim lighting.
“Shite,” He almost drops it when the cursive Polish on the bottle reveals that it's from 1835. Upon further investigation, many of the bottles are from similar ages and he’s just stumbled upon a treasury. Well, a damn shame he’ll never live to tell the tale.
Alright, so maybe that’s a fair bit dramatic again. But he’s been in a hopeless sort of mood for a while now.
He takes one of the bottles with him and goes over to the chests in the corner. Fiddling around with various latches he finds that one of them contains the tools needed for him to tune the piano upstairs. He grins again, his day becoming marginally less shitty the more he explores this dusty basement.
There’s a large wardrobe tucked into a far-away corner. He pops it open with a groan from the wooden door and winces as a moth flies out, shivering at the thought of the little critter coming into contact with him.
“Oh, yes.” He surges forward, pulling out expensive fabric after expensive fabric until his arms are full of fur and silk and soft cotton. He tugs his bounty up the stairs with a giddy grin and excitedly deposits everything onto the pantry floor before climbing out and closing the cellar door.
All things considered, it’s shaping up to be a good day.
While not prone to drugs or pills of any kind, he’s never been one to turn down alcohol. He’s been known to have had a bout of getting drunk off his arse and spending it in a stupor waxing poetic about this subject or that. It’s how some of his most successful hits had come to be and he’s not even marginally sorry for it. He doesn’t, however, make a habit of it. Which is why his tolerance is still fairly low.
Which is why when Nate comes by later that evening, the taller finds him swaying gently to the dulcet tones of Hozier while wearing one of the extravagant paisley-covered silk robes with the bottle of wine in his hand in the middle of the stupid sitting room.
“Julian,” Nate croons, somehow both fond and disappointed all at once and Jaskier only turns to him with a wink before belting out along with Dinner and Diatribes – albeit somewhat clumsily and without knowing the proper lyrics to go along with the tune.
“What’s all this?” Nate waves to the piles of cloth scattered along fancy couches and Jaskier giddily moves to the long, black cloak – eager to give it to Nate.
“I went down into the basement, y’know, as one does.” He hurriedly pats the other’s chest, beginning to unzip his police-issued jacket and chuckling when Nate freezes under his hands. “And I found so much old wine in there! It tastes like shit! But I also found all of these big coats and lovely robes and I think this one will suit you fine!”
Nate, forever indulgent, lets him drape cloak around his shoulders and he claps cheerily. “You look menacing!”
“Julian,” Nate rolls his eyes and spreads his arms out. “Want me to give a big villain speech?”
“No, no. You could never. You’re too soft.” He wrinkles his nose at the thought. He’s not entirely sure if the room is spinning or if he’s still swaying to the next song playing over his phone’s speaker. “You look like a right poppet!”
Nate shakes his head with a laugh, “I have no idea what that means. The Brits are ridiculous.”
“Oh, but darling, I’ve worked hard for this accent!” Jaskier whines, feeling only slightly bad for forgoing his Polish roots.
“I heard your brother’s been around,” Nate switches topics as subtly as a car getting jacked in the middle of the day.
He feels his good cheer drain out of him with a mournful kind of curiosity, amazed that a single mention of his brother can still throw him into a pit of anger and sadness.
“Pah,” He waves a hand, turning the music off and casting the sitting room into an eerie silence. “Screw him!” He pauses, turning to look at Nate and his large frame. “No, on second thought, please do because it’ll surely get that stick out of his arse! He needs a good lay, that wife of his is useless.”
“Julian!” Nate hisses in warning.
“Nataniel!” He mocks, snorting to himself as he passes through the library with Nate hot on his heels. He needs something to eat; he hopes there are still noodles in the kitchen from lunch.
“What did he say?” Nate asks, voice tentative.
“Oh, how much he aches for your strong, manly hands to hold him down and fuck him silly!” His mouth is running, he knows this, the wine had done its bidding and now all of his filters are incapacitated. He’ll feel bad about this in the morning but at the moment, he doesn’t particularly care if this is a sore topic for Nate.
“What could he have said, Nate? He wants me to come back, of course he does. Fuck him, seriously, just – it’s like he forgets that I’ve done fine on my own and thinks that I’m some sort of incapacitated toddler he needs to herd in the right direction.” He grunts, slamming his hip against the corner of the kitchen island accidentally. He curses silently and goes for the pot of cold noodles on the countertop, digging in with a fork that should have probably been washed already.
When the silence stretches, he looks up to see Nate frowning at him with such a severe expression that he almost drops the pot. He fumbles with the handles and then sets it down onto the island with a loud clang.
“I’m sorry.” He cowers a little, not wanting to incite Nate’s anger, especially when he’s drunk, lonely and sad.
Nate pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “I know. I know you’re hurting Julian, but try and see this from his perspective. He’s trying to protect you, himself, your family and your father’s empire. The simplest solution to protecting you is to stow you away so that’s what he did. And forgive him for wanting a little help while he’s buckling under the pressure of the Count’s legacy. There’s a reason there are two of you. The Count knew that a single Pankratz couldn’t possibly inherit the magnitude of what he’s created.” Nate takes another deep breath and Jaskier can almost hear it rattling around in his lungs.
“Even the man himself has a team of trusted advisors, all as old as him and only getting older. They don’t have much time left. Valentin is scrambling to pull something together and how he has to worry about rivals on top of everything just because you’d gotten yourself into the wrong club one time.”
Shame. He feels it deeply. He hates having Nate lecture him because the cuts he leaves are always more permanent than if it were someone else doing it. He knows these things to be true, objectively, but he doesn’t think they matter to him much.
“I’m sorry.” He repeats slowly, “I’m sorry he’s dealing with so much shit but you can’t expect me to want to be a part of this. I refuse to be defined by the fucking Count and his merry council of old farts. I refuse to be defined by where I grew up and by the people who planned my future for me. I have made this abundantly clear, three times over. Valentin will be okay, and as soon as I’m out of here – you won’t have to worry about me any longer.”
Nate stumbles back, looking as if he’d been struck across the face. It’s the last possible look he wants to cause in the other but none of them ever understood. Their minds, stuck in the mentality that family and blood were more important than any sense of individuality, will never be able to understand the type of freedom Jaskier yearns for.
He dumps the rest of the noodles into a trash bag and pushes past Nate, going for the stairs. “It’s late; you should go home, Nate.” He doesn’t wait for the other to leave as he climbs the stairs two at a time once again.
He crawls into bed and shoves his head under his pillow, only allowing for sleep to claim him once he hears the creaky groan of the front gate closing.
He can’t help but feel like this isn’t the last he’s heard of this conversation and that he’s utterly fucked.
The clouds roll over the horizon like a thick blanket as Julian watches from the vine-covered innards of the greenhouse. The air is stuffy and staticky, reeking of ozone. Inside the greenhouse it’s breezy just because of the missing window panes and the cracks in the ceiling. He looks up at the gray sky and blinks as the first drops of rain start to fall.
He pours the rest of his mediocre coffee out into one of the empty pots and makes his way back towards the house.
He’s just closed the kitchen door when it starts pouring proper. He watches the heavy drops and thanks his past self for having the forethought to bring the damask armchair back inside. The lightning comes next, basking the dark forest behind the mansion in light and showing him deeper into it than he’s ever expected to see. He remembers storms like these as a child. Powerful and menacing but so completely fascinating if you were inside your house, safe.
It’s been a week since anybody’s come to visit him last and even then, Nate had just come by to drop off groceries and detergent. They hadn’t spoken and Julian has only himself to blame for it, he knows, but it doesn’t help the feeling of hurt inside of him that’s infested his bloodstream. In that time he’d managed to tune the piano, air out half of the mansion and the stuffy fur coats, and deep-clean the kitchen.
He said he wasn’t going to, but the thought of dust and grime and filth hanging around the place he eats made his skin crawl, so he’d given in. And he might have dusted the sitting room and the bedroom while he was at it.
Though, this means that he doesn’t have anything else to do today. This leaves him with few options for how to entertain himself and he decides that today is the day that he tests out the piano.
He’d been – he’d been scared to sit on the bench and play it. If he’s being honest with himself - he’s been terrified of being unworthy of such a beautiful instrument. Even as he tuned it, he’d been frightened of something going wrong, of a string snapping, of a hammer breaking. But the tuning had been done properly with the tools he’d found in the basement and everything was perfect in the end. But. But. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to play it. Something was keeping him back, keeping him from sitting down onto the bench and playing his favourite compositions or just making something new.
It’s probably because he feels like he’s forbidden from it, like his brother and his family have cut him off from his inspiration, from something that means so much to him. He hates feeling like this, hates feeling drained and caged.
He sits down onto the leather bench, popping open the drop lid wit baited breath. He flexes his fingers and lays them gently on the keys. He starts playing, lightly at first, a few etudes he’s learned as a child from his grandmother to warm his hands up. He loses himself in the music, though, and plays well into the afternoon, only pausing when the need to hydrate becomes too great. And even then he only grabs a quick cup of tea that he settles by the piano and leaves to cool accidentally while he continues playing.
As the night falls fully, he dives into his memory bank for more complicated pieces, enjoying how the sound reverberates in the room, the acoustics perfectly encasing him in a bubble of music, making him feel like he’s playing for a concert hall of hundreds of spectators instead of the silence of the mansion. He plays through the crescendo of the storm, unperturbed by the loud rolling thunder and the flashes outside washing him with white light that clashes with the glow of the chandelier above him.
He’s almost done with Debussy’s Clair de lune and slipping over into Rêverie when lightning strikes inside the forest, the sound of splitting wood louder than everything else in the near vicinity.
“Christ,” He curses as his fingers fumble the next key and a dull note rings out through the empty space. He looks out one of the large windows and into the heavy rain, looks over the usually-empty fountain pool that’s filled with rainwater now and over to the side of the greenhouse and – and at the figure standing there.
He slams his palms down onto the keys as the windows of the mansion rattle under the barrage of the merciless wind. He blinks, rubbing his eyes as he plasters himself to the wet and cold glass, wondering if he's seeing things, but the figure by the greenhouse doesn’t disappear. It’s slight in size, wearing what looks like a white nightgown but he can’t make out much more of it from where he’s standing.
His entire frame shivers with dread as he slowly moves through the room, taking great care not to lose sight of the figure for too long. It looks idle, standing there, almost serene. The closer Jaskier gets the more of it he sees.
It looks like a little girl, drenched in rain with wet, blonde locks that travel well past her waist. There was also something distinctly red dripping down one of her forearms.
He peels himself from his kitchen window and opens the door to the back yard. Against his saner, baser, warnings, he heads out into the rain, walking slowly towards the solemn apparition. The rain felt freezing on his skin, the shirt he is wearing quickly getting drenched in it. He walks, barefoot, across the slippery concrete of the atrium and tries to make himself as non-threatening as possible despite everything in him wanting to either fight or run away. It’s not difficult to appear unassuming, not really; Jaskier’s had a lifetime of practice making himself small and unnoticeable. He relaxes his frame and turns his palms outwards in a peaceful gesture, shoulders hunched inwards and trembling from the cold.
Another strike of lightning streaks across the sky and he can see the figure clearly now. Her eyes are a striking blue, something in them unsettling, her cheeks are gaunt and her skin pallid. But most worryingly, she looks to be no older than twelve or thirteen. He gasps involuntarily, the sound getting lost in the storm.
“Are you alright?” He calls out, praying to whoever will listen that he’s not talking to a ghost.
The girl takes a step forward, the bloodied hand reaching out for him before she starts collapsing as if her strings had been cut. He curses silently, reaching out just in time to grab her around the waist and save her from a hard impact with the muddy ground.
“Hey, kid, come on.” He shakes her, trying to get her attention, but she remains unresponsive in his arms, slight frame shaking and shivering, her teeth rattling. He feels a fresh wave of fear making its way up his spine and he lifts her up in a bridal carry, hurrying back towards the warmth of the house.
He tracks mud through the kitchen, the foyer and up the stairs. He shuffles into the left wing bathroom and deposits her into the claw-footed bathtub. Warm water, he decides, the quickest way to get her to stop shivering. He angles the child so that the injured arm is draping it over the side of the tub and away from the steadily rising water level for now. The wound on her forearm looks like a clean cut, a single horizontal line that looked very purposefully made.
Well, grandma always did warn him about blood magiks.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He curses under his breath in quick succession, rattling through the cabinets and trying to find the first aid kit. “This is crazy, I’m crazy.” He finds the box under the sink and shuffles out the supplies before turning the water off. He’s definitely not about to disrobe this young lady yet so he hopes that the water warms her sufficiently despite the cold clothes on her. She’s still breathing steadily so that’s a plus, even though her pulse is a little too fast. She’ll surely have a fever later on, but for now the only thing he can do is clean and dress the wound. He carefully washes away the dirt in and around the the wound and staunches the bleeding, spraying it with an antiseptic and pressing a square of gauze over it before wrapping the whole thing for now. It’ll need to breathe a bit during the day but she’ll be at the moment.
He steps away from her side for long enough only to layer the bed in the room next to his with towels and blankets that will soak up most of the water before coming back to fish the kid out of the tub. She drips all over the polished-but-creaky floors as he carries her into the room and sets her down in the middle of the bed. He goes back to his room then, tearing off most of the bedding and transferring some of the wood from the pile that had been readied for him there in order to light a fire in the other room’s fireplace. It’s late in the summer and not exactly cold, but the room will certainly need to be warmed up even more if the kid is to get dry during the night.
He fights with himself not to drag an armchair into the room and watch over this strange apparition while she sleeps like an absolute creep and instead goes back to his room to dispose of his own dripping clothing. Once dry and sufficiently warm, he crawls onto his mostly-bare bed and huddles up under the only blanket he has left there.
He sleeps fitfully because the storm outside refuses to let up and his mind is filled with images of a pale ghost haunting him in his dreams.
He gasps awake, aware that something is wrong but not being able to put his finger on it. He pats himself down to make sure he has no injuries and winces when he comes into contact with the coldness of the outside sheets.
“Christ,” He can’t explain why his heart is beating so fast, but he’s certainly glad that whatever nightmare had chased him during the night is now forgotten. He looks out the window and smiles as the sun shines down upon the manor with grace and warmth that comes only after heavy storms. It will be autumn soon, and Julian will have to start bundling up but for now, he’s free to walk around in shorts and tees still. He scratches idly at his shoulder and by chance tips his gaze towards the side, towards the second bedroom door and – oh, fucking shit on a stick.
Wide, unnervingly blue-green eyes stare at him from the open entrance to the next room, small, white-knuckled hands clutching at the doorjamb.
“Oh,” He slowly lowers his arms to the sheets, palms still up. “Hello there.” He tries not to grimace at the scratchiness of his own voice. The child doesn’t move, her fingers stiff and cheeks slightly flushed – definitely more alive than what they’d seemed like last night. And oh, that’s right, last night, now he remembers. He closes his eyes briefly and inhales the morning air.
“Are you alright?” He ventures again, the Polish coming out smoothly, naturally assuming that she’s from around these parts. She couldn’t have wandered into the estate from anywhere else, but considering she came from the forest, well, there are some questions Julian would like to ask her. First one being how exactly she got in without the front gate creaking and with the gate in the back being stuck.
The child, however, doesn’t appear to understand him. He cycles through the languages he knows: Russian, French, Italian, even the bit of Swedish he’s picked up over the years, but nothing seems to elicit any reaction from her. She just stares blankly at him as if he’s the intruder in her home.
“Well, fuck, I don’t know what then.” He sighs in the Queen’s English and she startles to look at him with more focus.
He laughs, thinking it obvious and so overall imperialistic that she would understand English out of all the languages he’s fluent in.
“Sorry, um. Are you alright? Do you think you have a fever?” He watches, fascinated, as one of her hands touches her forehead and she frowns in concentration. Finally, she gives him a shake of her head and he sighs in relief.
“Good, that’s good.” He relaxes minutely, swinging his legs to the side carefully. “Well, I am certain that you are hungry and that the weird nightgown you have on is stiff and dirty, so I shall procure both breakfast and a change of clothes! Follow me, please, then we can talk, I suppose.” He walks towards the door out of the wing, not wanting to overwhelm the child and mentally running through the choice of clothing that he’d pulled out of the basement and washed recently. Surely, there’s something in there fit for a child – albeit an aristocratic, 18th century child, but it’ll have to do.
He doesn’t exactly have much in the refrigerator either. He doesn’t buy a lot of perishables and he’s had the last of his bologna two days ago so cereal it is. The kid probably won’t mind a bowl of Nesquik after a night out in the storm. He adds processed meats and cold cuts to the shopping list mentally, thinking about making the chicken tenders he has saved in the freezer for lunch. Something unobtrusive in case her stomach is upset and – Christ, he’s already sounding like his gran, may she rest in peace. She always did say he’d make an excellent father. Not that he’s adopting this strange little girl, of course. But, realistically, he does have to take care of her for the moment – or at least until he’s figured out where in the world she came from and how to get her home.
He hears her footsteps silent across the floor and he turns, bowl in hand, to find her wielding a large dagger in his direction. He almost sloshes the milk over the rim of the dish with how fast he twitches out of her reach.
“Woah, there, little lady!” He sets the bowl onto the counter gently and raises his hands up in surrender. “Surely you haven’t come into my house, bleeding and sopping wet from the storm just to try and stab me?”
Her eyes dart to the cut on her arm that’s been bandaged and then back to him, squinting in accusation.
“Yes, I take the blame, I cleaned up the wound and bandaged it. How awful a host I must be, oh woes be gone!” He rolls his eyes and she bares her teeth at him in warning, still oddly non-verbal. Maybe – oh, shite, maybe she can’t speak. He shuffles a little closer and the hand holding the dagger shakes uncertainly.
It’s laughably easy to divest her of the weapon. A well-placed press to a frail joint bone and the dagger tumbles into his other hand, solid and silver and singing under his touch. The craftsmanship looks exquisite and like nothing he’s seen in a long while. Knives just don’t look like this anymore, least of all the silver ones.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” He reaches back and shoves the dagger into one of the cabinets, out of her reach. “Here, breakfast.” He drops a spoon into the bowl and waves her into the chair that she has some troubles getting up on. He grimaces, remembering that not everyone is comfortable on barstools. Well. They’ll have their lunch at the never-used dining table, then.
She eyes the food warily before she takes in a spoonful of round, chocolate balls and milk that Jaskier usually eats dry as a snack. Her tentative, awkwardly-gripped, spoonful turns into frantic shovelling the moment she manages to properly taste the chocolate, and then she’s done and asking for more by shaking the bowl at him insistently.
He doesn’t think it’s necessarily good for her, but she probably needs the energy and the calcium so he indulges her and fashions another one. He definitely ought to be freaking out more about this possibly-feral child showing up on his doorstep, but – he doesn’t have the strength for it. And this is the first human contact he’s had since a week ago when Nate had barely glanced at him. He’s pitiful, really.
“Okay, alright. I have some questions, but we’ll settle those a bit later. For now, I need to know if you can speak at all. So: can you speak?” He hopes that he doesn’t come across as insensitive. But when she stares at him with those unnerving eyes and nods, he can breathe easy again.
“Will you speak?” He ventures again, only marginally disappointed when she shakes her head no. “Alright, I can respect that.” He drums his fingers across the table. “Nate’s gonna kill me for procuring a child out of nowhere, but – we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
The kid remains immersed in her bowl of cereal and he feels wholly dismissed. So, with his tail between his legs, he makes for one of the rooms where he’d stashed the rescued clothing, hoping he can scrounge something up. He changes out of his shorts and into a pair of jeans, feeling unreasonably underdressed, like perhaps he should be decent for the occasion which – ridiculous, all things considered. Still, he puts on a pair of distressed jeans and goes back to the kitchen with a handful of various flowing fabrics.
“Uh, I didn’t know what you’d like and I don’t really have anything very modern here for you so...” He trails off with a shrug as she watches him. The stare feels like it’s scooping him hollow him from the inside which makes absolutely zero sense because this is a child that’s staring at him – a kid that almost probably, possibly would have died in his back yard last night had he not noticed her there.
He spreads the dresses and lithe gowns over the dining table and she carefully approaches the selection. Her fingers trail over the embroidery and the lacing on some of them, pausing when a particularly bright colour catches her eye. There’s clothing here from all walks of life, he reckons. There are simple dresses a peasant might have worn and there are expensive gowns that are just shy of being too royal. There are more modern clothes there, too, denim and suede that look like they’re from the seventies – probably the last time anyone’s been in this house, to be fair so that makes sense.
She takes a while to decide and when she does, much to his surprise, she picks out the brown suede overall skirt-type item and a yellow turtleneck. He doesn’t exactly have shoes for her so she’ll have to deal with that for now but at least she’s not going to be walking around in a bloodied nightgown. Who even dresses their children up in nightgowns anymore? Ridiculous.
He gives her the privacy to change while he clears the bowl from the island and carries away the rest of the clothes into the sitting room. When he comes back, she’s frowning down at the straps of the top of the dress and he chuckles. The kid shoots him a threatening stare and he offers up his hands, carefully approaching her to try and help. She lets him but not without glaring at him in warning. He doesn’t say anything in turn, thinking it better to keep his mouth shut if his companion can do so as well.
He takes the discarded nightgown and inspects it. It looks a bit frayed at the edges and of course there’s the blood so it’d do well with a wash. He sighs and scrunches up his nose.
“Don’t suppose you’ll tell me your name, little lady?” He eyes the girl but she’s too busy running her hands over the suede in wonder to respond. The clothes are a little too big for her but it’s the best he can do.
She lifts her head and then shakes it.
“Didn’t think so,” He snorts. “Well, my name’s Julian – I prefer Jaskier, if you’d be so kind. I mean, if you’re ever to refer to me as anything. Welcome to my humble abode, my prison and my sentence.” He rolls his eyes at himself and carts the dress off to the bathroom with the washer-drier combo. The kid’s near-silent footsteps follow him through the rooms and he catches her looking amazed as she eyes the appliances in the bathroom.
What kind of home did this tot grow up in exactly? He muses mentally as she startles at the sound of the washer turning on. Well, it’s not exactly uncommon. This far in the country, far from any form of proper civilization, there are still villages with mud huts and straw roofs that do their washing by the river or inside of large troughs. Europe, for its many advances in society, is still somewhat disproportionately stuck in the past in certain parts.
“There, that’ll wash the blood right out.” He’s certain that the cold rain from yesterday got most of it out anyway. Though, he would have liked to pour some peroxide on it as well if he had any. Oh, well, make do with what you've got and all that.
“Does your arm hurt? We should let the wound breathe.” He holds out a hand again, waiting for her to approach him. “If you would?”
She squints at him again from where she’d been bent over, watching the clothes in the washer spinning through the little window. She takes a moment to assess him before finally offering her arm out. He unwraps the bandage carefully, tucking the clip into the pocket of her overall-dress-thing and then throwing the bandage over her shoulder before he gently lifts up the gauze. The wound’s bled during the night but not by much. It’s not as deep as it seemed to be last time he’d seen it, but that was probably a trick of the light and the panic he’d felt. It’s not bleeding now so he takes the gauze and the bandage and straightens up.
“Good, looks a little inflamed but nothing another pass with the antiseptic can’t help.” He reassures her even though she doesn’t look particularly worried. For all that dagger-attack bull she’d attempted back in the kitchen, she’s sure come around quick enough to trust Jaskier with her wounds. Then, she doesn’t really have a reason not to trust him seeing as he’d rescued her from the storm and cleaned her wound.
“What do you think? Does it hurt much?” He asks and she shakes her head. “We’ll leave it like that, then. Try not to irritate it much, alright? Keep the sleeve rolled up.” She nods her head eagerly.
“Well, you just about gave me a giant fright last night but you’re rather sweet, darling. Dagger attack notwithstanding.” He boops her nose and she startles, looking at him wide-eyed and surprise with a blush rising to her pale cheeks. He hums leaning back and tapping his chin. “I need something to call you. How about Mary – like Mary had a little lamb?”
Her nose wrinkles and she shakes her head. “Alright, fair enough. How about Goldilocks, hopefully you hadn’t run into any bears in the forest?”
She bares her teeth in a sneer. “Alright, not that either, then. What about, like, Lorde, I don’t know!” He should open up a page on his phone and let her choose for herself and he does pull the device out the moment she frowns at his suggestion.
“Alright, I’ll pull up a page and you can choose.” He unlocks his phone and types in Behind the Name dot com but when he looks up she’s staring at his iPhone like he’s pulled a gun on her.
“Alright?” He tilts his head, pausing his search as her eyes track the movement of his hands desperately. She points to it insistently, turning her frightened gaze to him and he frowns. “Phone? Do you know the number to your house? Do you want to call home? Of course! I’m a bloody idiot.” He smacks a palm against his own forehead and holds out the phone to her and she takes it with alarming speed and then proceeds to smash it against the ground.
“Hey!” He can only watch in horror as she picks it up and slams it against the tiled wall of the bathroom.
“Well, alright.” He sighs, resigned that this is his life now, apparently. “I suppose you’d want any electronics out if you’re being tracked. Am I housing a criminal, then?” He eyes her and she doesn’t confirm nor deny anything.
“I don’t suppose you can write?” He ventures and she turns sullen with the next shake of her head.
“Shame, that.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and then picks up what’s left of his iPhone – and it was the newest model, too. “I suppose I’ll just call you Dove, then.” He smiles to himself as she doesn’t protest and mourns the loss of his playlists.
“Come on, little Dove, I’ll give you a tour.” He vacates the room and doesn’t wait for her to follow, knowing full well that she will.
Out of everything in the mansion, three things fascinate the little Dove the most. The first is the grand piano, the second is the greenhouse, and the third is the library. She’s curious about the piano and Julian can see that she wants to touch it, but that she’s afraid. He makes a mental note to play her something on it later.
She’s delighted by the prospect of a greenhouse when he explains what it is usually used for and it makes Jaskier a little sad that his isn’t operational. She pokes around the pots and the cherry tree in the corner and only startles mildly when a squirrel darts form the branches and out of a broken window. She’s a little tense about the forest but that makes sense. She also pauses at the fountain and Jaskier wonders if he can find a way to get it functioning again.
The library, however, makes her sad. She stares longingly at the books and trails her fingers along the leathery spines wistfully. He thinks back to the one-sided conversation from earlier and wonders what kind of absolute cunt wouldn’t teach their child how to read. Schools were mandatory even in lowly European villages, were they not?
“I can read to you, if you’d like.” He offers and she looks back at him, startled as if she’d forgotten he was there. Something dark passes over her eyes, there and gone in a second, and she shakes her head no.
“Offer’s still there if you change your mind, Dove.” He smiles gently, feeling entirely too drained already. “I’m going to make lunch, feel free to explore on your own if you’d like. But it’d be best if you kept out of the front yard, just in case.”
Cooking has always set his mind at ease. So he lets himself relax as he dips the thinned out filets of chicken into eggs and then into the breadcrumbs, setting them aside until he’s done with all of it. He doesn’t dare think about his situation the way he usually would . Because if he does, then he’ll start panicking and if he starts panicking that won’t help anyone. He hums lightly, one of his older hits, as he cuts up some potatoes to fry as a side dish. He’ll need to put his mental grocery list on paper and call Nate with the emergency phone tonight. He can eat microwaveable garbage all he wants, but he can’t very well let a growing young lady eat bland TV dinners. Once he’s done marinating and cutting, he starts the fire in the stove and waits for the thing to heat up enough so that he can cook on it.
He’s just about done frying the potatoes when the little Dove walks back into the kitchen, clutching what looks to be a stuffed dog close to her chest. He glances at the dusty thing, frowning and wondering where she’d found it but he doesn’t comment - if it makes her happy then he doesn't see any harm in her having it. He should probably give it a wash, though.
“Be a darling and open up the door to let some of the stink out, would you?” He waves the fork in his hand towards the glass and she shuffles over to it, pushing it open easily.
“Go and take a seat at the table, I won’t make you sit on the barstools again.” He grins as she offers him a small smile, unsure and confused, but genuine.
He hears her pull out a chair and he takes the pan off the fire, scooping the fried potatoes out into a paper towel-lined bowl. He picks up a couple of plates and some cutlery before going over to set the table. She watches him with a keen eye as he arranges everything to his linking and then brings the food over. He goes back for a pitcher of water and two glasses and sets those in front of her, too.
She stares at the plate piled high with fried tenders as he takes a seat at the head of the table. He waits to see what she’ll do and when she doesn’t do anything, he forks one of the bigger pieces onto her plate and scoops some of the potatoes onto there as well. He wishes he remembered to buy ketchup.
“Hey, no, forks.” He waves the silver utensil and she glares at him, her fingers already halfway in her plate. “Come now, watch me.” A tendril of dread curls in the pit of his stomach, he feels mortified. He feels so suddenly unsettled because this child doesn’t know how to properly use a fork and knife. She watches him raptly and mimics his motions skillfully, if a little shakily.
“Good, excellent.” He speaks despite the tightness of his throat, pleased with the progress, he watches her eyes light up at the simple dish and then readily offers her water once she inhales the food too quickly.
“Easy, the food’s not going anywhere.” He reassures her, gently rubbing her back as she catches her breath.
It’s a silent meal after that, the little Dove taking measured bites and making sure to chew as she eats.
All in all, it could have been worse.
“You, uh, wanna tell me why you have ‘size 36 green Converse All-Stars’ on this list?”
“Listen, Nate, I promise I’ll explain as soon as you get here but for now, I need everything on that list. Including the sneakers.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, watching as the little Dove sits in the empty fountain on his damask chair and stares up at the stars.
“Alright, but you better have a good excuse. Also, I can’t promise you an iPhone, but I’ll see what I can do.” Nate sighs on the other line and Jaskier really doesn’t know what he ever did to deserve Nate as a friend.
“You’re an angel, Nate, darling.” He grins to himself as he hears Nate scoff.
“This better be good,” Nate says and hangs up, leaving Jaskier to his own woes once again.
“Are you cold?” He asks, coming to stand next to the chair. Dove looks to the side and meets his eyes, she shakes her head and she looks so incredibly sad that Jaskier’s heart aches. He wants to know this child, he decides. Wants to know what she’s been through and what had lead to her being here, in Jaskier’s back yard. Unfortunately, until she decides to talk, he’ll have to deal with his own curiosities being unsatisfied and remain supportive.
“I'm worried about you, little Dove.” He admits, placing a hand on top of her head gently, pleased when she doesn't shake him off or flinch away like she did in the morning. “You show up here out of nowhere, lookin’ like a ghost and scare the holy spirit out of me, and I don't know what to do with you. I'm happy to have the company, don’t get me wrong, but I am far too young and independent to have children.”
Her eyes turn even sadder – as if that were even possible. And then – then her mouth tilts down and-
“You’re quite lonely, aren’t you?” She speaks and Jaskier’s almost startled out of his house slippers at the timid, choppy, sound of her words.
“Oh,” He tries not to let it show, tries to encourage her silently. “I suppose I am. With the way I grew up, it’s always been hard to find loyal friends.”
She hums, settling into the armchair with her knees to her chest, and letting him pet her while they watch the sky.
“Come on, little Dove, let’s get some rest and tomorrow I’ll play something for you on the grand.”
He wonders, for a moment, if he’d imagined the sound of her voice in the first place. If it was all in his head because she’s right back to being silent as the grave. It’s odd, he thinks as he tucks her into her bed, that he’d told her he wasn’t ready for kids and yet he finds that he enjoys her company more than he thought he would. This little Dove that had landed in his garden and brought some sort of intrigue into Julian’s miserable life is a breath of fresh air. He supposes it's just like finding a stray kitten or a puppy at the side of the road and bringing it home, already fiercely attached to the prospect of taking care of something else for a change.
“Goodnight, little Dove. I hope you’ll be here in the morning and that I’ve not gone completely mental in my isolation.” He chuckles as she smiles faintly at him.
That night, for the first time since he’s gotten to the mansion, he falls asleep not dreading another day in his gilded cage.
Nate arrives early in the morning just as promised. He lets the little Dove sleep in and pads downstairs as quietly as he can as to not alarm her, deciding it's best to wait for Nate by the door. He’s come by with his own car so there’s no noisy rumbling you’d usually get from the police Range Rover - he’s thankful and frankly surprised that the loud noise of the gate opening hadn’t woken the sprog up already.
He hops anxiously from one foot to the other, watching as Nate drags several bags out of the trunk of his car.
“Are you going to tell me what this is about? Are you trying to become a chef? What’s with all the vegetables? Is this some elaborate plan to poison your brother? Did need to buy you a mask for the phone or do you have one?” Nate bombards him with questions the moment he’s within earshot and Jaskier shushes him.
“Come on, to the kitchen, quietly.” He warns and they shuffle across the foyer into the room where he closes the door just in case Nate starts shouting at him immediately.
“Julian,” Nate, still cross with him and still obviously a little incensed from their fight almost two weeks ago, groans.
“Look, I'm – I'm about to entrust you with some very serious, secret, information and I need you to be calm and collected and try not to react outwardly in any form of rage. Alright?” He smiles ruefully as Nate’s brows furrow in distress.
“That’s not reassuring.” The other dumps the groceries onto the island and turns to him with arms crossed over his chest.
“Look, there was a storm two days ago, yeah?” He waits for Nate to nod before continuing. “So there I am playing my beloved piano because there is no bloody cell reception anywhere and I'm, like, starting on my Debussy run because I’m bored, you know and I’ve gotten into it – oh, the grand is so magnificent, I really have to play you something-”
“Julian.”
“Right, right! So I look out the window and I almost lose my fucking mind because-”
The door to the kitchen slams open and the sprog runs in, wild-eyed and wielding yet another ostentatious dagger, this one even bigger than the last, in her hands. Nate startles and Jaskier quickly turns his palms up but Nate’s already got his gun out, the barrel pointed at the child.
“Christ!” He yells, startling the two people facing off. “Talk about brining a dagger to a gunfight, Dove, please.” He implores gently and she shakes her head. Instead or dropping her stance, she drags him behind her as if she’s trying to protect him from Nate. It’s – well, it’s very sweet actually. It makes his chest warm and it makes him want to smile too brightly but he resists the urge because the situation might be a little too serious for easy grins.
“Julian, please tell me you didn’t kidnap a child.” Nate calmly clicks the safety back on, raising the gun where the sprog can see it.
“Um, I was getting to that bit, actually.” He chuckles and then slowly liberates the dagger from the feral child, making sure to put himself between them again.
“Y’alright there, little Dove?” She twitches her head in Nate’s direction rather harshly and Julian winces. “He’s fine. He – he helps. He delivers food and stuff. I got him to buy you some shoes and stockings so you don’t have to walk around barefoot, yeah?”
She frowns at him as is customary.
“Julian, mind telling me why this kid is trying to protect you?” Nate, seemingly aware that the girl doesn’t feel safe listening to Polish, switches to English easily.
“Little Dove, this is Nate. Nate, this is – well, she doesn’t speak and she didn’t like any of the names I suggested, or my brand new iPhone, so I’ve settled on calling her Dove or any number of endearments.” He winks at the sprog and she wrinkles her nose, looking to the side uncaringly, but her cheeks redden either way.
“Why’s she dressed like a dancing queen?” Nate, still frowning and possibly thrown for a loop now, asks instead of trying to pry more information out of him like Julian had expected. Well, that must be the confusion talking then.
“It was all I had, well that and a couple of dresses that looked entirely too old. Her nightgown was drenched and bloodied and I-”
“Bloodied?” Nate hisses in surprise and Jaskier waves at him.
“A cut on her arm, it was bleeding a lot and she was out in the rain looking like a wraith. Almost lost my bloody mind, I’ll tell you that! Took care of the wound, got her dry and let her sleep. Fed and dressed her yesterday though, she’s a very capable young lady when technology is not involved.” He eyes her warily and she’s staring right back at him, petulant and serious as only kids can be.
“How old are you, anyway?” He tilts his head and she copies the motion mockingly. He rolls his eyes. “Ten? Eleven? Twelve? Thirteen? Thirteen, then.” He spreads his hands out, trying to desperately show that he is, in fact, sane.
“She speaks English and doesn’t understand technology,” Nate leans back against the island. “What else do you know?”
“Well, she can’t write or read and she’s a fan of fried chicken. Not a fan of using a fork and knife, however, had to show her that, too.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Come on, give me the shoes and stockings. I hope they’re not very offensive or they’ll clash with her outfit.”
“Christ, Julian, what the fuck?”
“No cursing in front of the child!” He grins, delighted as Nate’s eyes bulge out of his head in wonder and further confusion.
“How did she get here?” Nate mutters, turning around and fetching the items Jaskier’s asked for.
“I don't know. I'm assuming through the back gate. The gate there is stuck but the wrought iron around the property is shoddy at best and some of the fence posts are missing. I didn’t hear the front gate opening, though so definitely not there.” He yelps as the sprog punches him in the arm.
“Yes, I know I'm talking about you like you’re not here, but you’re not exactly helping, are you?” He hisses and she stares back just as stubbornly, arms crossed over her chest. “Christ, let me see the wound.” He sighs and she offers her arm out again. The thing has scabbed over surprisingly well so he takes the bandage he’d stored in the overalls pocket and wraps it around again. “To keep the dirt out.” He reassures when she shoots him a concerned look.
“You’re – surprisingly good with her.” Nate speaks and Jaskier turns around to look at him, surprised at the awed tone of the other’s voice.
“I have younger fans, Nate. Not all of them are middle-aged mothers and melancholic twenty-year-olds.” He grins as Nate’s cheeks heat.
“So, back gate?” He asks the sprog again and she nods. “The forest?” She nods again. “Any nearby village?” She remains silent, staring at the floor resolutely. “This country?” Nothing again.
“Alright, but, just so you know, you’re safe here.” He pats her head and she nods, still somewhat reluctant.
“Uh, Julian, she absolutely cannot stay here.” Nate makes the mistake of speaking and every fight or flight instinct in Jaskier turns towards fight at once. He whips out the pilfered dagger and brandishes it in Nate’s direction. The taller drops the bag he’s holding in surprise, both hands jolting up.
“You are not going to tell anyone about her, and you are not going to take her away. I'm going to figure out where she came from and why she’s here and you’re going to keep your mouth shut or I swear to God I’ll track you down and skin you alive myself.” He growls, dead serious, for once letting the darker part of his past speak for him.
“Julian,” Nate gulps.
“I love you like a brother, Nate, you know that. But you also must be aware that I would sell my actual brother out in a heartbeat. You will tell no one.” It doesn’t feel good, threatening Nate like this, but he doesn’t have a choice. If she leaves here with the other then she might as well be sent off into human trafficking with how the countries in this neck of the woods deal with their orphans. Or she’d be placed with a family that would only end up ruining her and he wasn’t going to let her become a part of a statistic.
“Okay, alright.” Nate raises both of his hands in a placating manner and Jaskier breathes a little easier for the moment.
“Glad we understand each other.” He hands the dagger back to her and bends down to pick up the bag Nate had dropped. He sets it onto one of the barstools and then hoists the little Dove onto the kitchen island, ignoring her startled yelp. He wrinkles his nose at the striped, knee-high cotton stockings but they’ll have to do. He puts one on her and then lets her do the other one when it seems like she wants to try. The shoes are a little more difficult and she thwacks him on the head when he bends her foot at a wrong angle but they wrangle the All-Stars on her and then he ties the laces together as she watches the process, enraptured.
“There we go, outfit complete!” He holds out a hand and she takes it as she drops to the ground. Taking a few tentative steps in her new shoes, she looks up at him with a bright grin and he feels like his world’s shattering a little. Who would have abandoned such a lovely child?
“You’re already attached, aren’t you?” Comes Nate’s input, rumbled in low Polish and - and he’s scared. He’s terrified because the answer is yes and because it’s only been a day.
He’s really fucking lost it, din’ he?
“Make sure to call me when you know Valentin is coming over for a visit. I’ll have to hide her.” He looks at Nate again and the other nods, still looking somewhat unsettled by the turn of events. “Thank you.”
“I’ve – yeah. I have to go. It was – nice meeting you, I guess.” Nate ruffles his own locks and the little Dove just turns her nose up at him, dismissing the taller entirely.
Jaskier laughs as Nate vacates the kitchen with his shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Showed him, didn’t we?” He’s still chuckling a little when the sprog grabs him by the wrist to get his attention. “Hm?”
“Thank you,” Her voice again, firm and sincere and Jaskier sighs, closing his eyes briefly.
“I'm not letting them take you away.”
She smiles her sad little smile that has no business being on a child’s face again. “I'm not sure we have much choice.”
“Come on, little Dove. We can put away the food and I’ll make you French toast.” He doesn’t ask what the words mean, why they’re so fucking ominous or what her name is. He doesn’t think his mind is ready for what those answers are going to imply once he gets them.
Sometime after lunch on that very same day, he finds the little Dove sat on the floor in front of the large and imposing portrait in the gallery room. Her eyes are wide and teary and her bottom lip is wobbling and he’s suddenly terrified that he’d done something wrong.
“Dove, darling, what’s the matter?” He hushes gently, taking a seat on the hardwood floor next to her. “Do you know who she is?” He asks when the girl doesn’t respond to his initial inquiry, turning his eyes to the striking figure in the painting. The little Dove shakes her head, her hands clutched around the hilt of the dagger she still holds in her possession. There’s obviously something about the painting making her emotional but if she’s not going to voice it, then he doesn’t know how to help. He's not going to press the matter, that's for sure.
At a loss in face of the sudden burst of emotion, he decides that it’s time to avoid feelings altogether and goes to do what he usually does. He stands up and enters the next room, dropping onto the bench and starting the first few notes of Rocket Man. Perhaps Sir Elton John can cheer her up if Jaskier can’t.
Sure enough, somewhere near the chorus, she drifts into the room with her eyes wide and full of wonder. He smiles at her as he sings the words and she drops to sit on the ground next to the piano. He fumbles some of the lyrics and makes her giggle as he invents new ones. It doesn’t matter that he's being silly because she doesn’t seem sad anymore, instead, she seems like she’s enjoying herself. He follows this with the piano version of Panic! At The Disco’s Gospel and she starts humming happily the more he gets into it. It has always been one of his favourites, and despite almost always being seen with a guitar, Jaskier’s quite fond of the piano. She frowns her way through Work Song, and grins once he starts singing Bowie’s Ashes to Ashes. He’s not nearly as good as the original, of course, but he tries and he has an inkling of suspicion that she’s never heard any of these songs anyway.
He keeps her entertained for a good hour and a half before his throat starts hurting. It makes him aware that it’s been a while and that he has always hated singing without warming up first. He delves into a couple of the piano etudes, the ones he’d played the other day and she’s just as enraptured with those as she was with the songs.
“Are you a bard?” She asks once he’s done and once again, he startles.
“Er, sort of, yes. I sing and I play various instruments. I'm proficient in the guitar, the piano, the drums and the saxophone, but I dabble a little in the harp as well.” He smiles as she comes to stand next to him, pressing a finger into one of the ivory keys, making the note ring out dully.
And then, then he finds himself teaching her how to play Frère Jacque which she picks up on rather fast. He attempts to teach her some of the easier pieces but she grows bored fairly quickly and ambles out into the yard, settling herself into the damask armchair to watch the clouds. He can appreciate that, the piano isn’t for everyone.
“A bard!?” He realizes suddenly, startled that it had escaped his notice the first time. Who even uses the terms bard anymore – Dungeons & Dragons nerds and nobody else, that’s who. Maybe her parents were a couple of fumbling teenagers when they’d had her and now they’re too busy for her because they’re campaigning or whatever and, well – that’s ridiculous but at this point, possible.
Jaskier almost slams his head against the piano but resists the temptation as he stands up to go make her some lemonade or something.
Time passes quickly with his little Dove there to keep him company.
He flits daily between looking up new meals to make her for lunch and making her favourites for dinner. Sometimes they play the piano together and other times he watches her go digging through the dirt of the glasshouse, trying to plant the tomato seeds they’ve dried even though they’re out of season and the seeds need to be put in cups to become seedlings first. But she’s confident that they’ll grow so he lets her play around with the tools they'd found in the shed in the corner of the property near the forest as much as she wants to.
He introduces her to the world of the internet slowly, reading to her out loud and teaching her to recognize letters and words and match sounds like one would teach a toddler. He downloads some parenting books onto the Kindle app on his phone just to be sure he’s doing the right thing, too, overwhelmed with low-simmering panic at having to teach anyone anything. She’s proper brilliant and such a quick study, and he’s honestly amazed at how swiftly she’s learning. Much like with the piano, she’s happy to spend time revising what she’s learned on her own and he lets her do what she wants as he retreats to his empty fountain and the damask armchair and writes a song about caged birds and trapped souls for the piano.
On the last day of their second week together, she brings him a pad of paper and a pen and he watches as she painstakingly writes out CIRI in big, blocky letters.
“Is this – is this your name?” He asks reverently, tracing his fingers over the lettering and feeling like he was unlocking something new. She nods and he smiles. “Ciri,” He tests it out, beaming when she smiles at him with the corners of her eyes scrunched up.
“Lovely,” He decides, booping her nose. “A lovely name for a lovely little lady!”
She pouts at him but he ignores the insolent look in favour of smearing the custard cream he’s working on across her cheek.
From that moment, she is no longer only his little Dove but she’s little Ciri as well. The name is odd, for sure, but he’s heard stranger, that's certain.
Ciri also spends a lot of time sitting in front of the portrait of the intimidating lady in the gallery. She spends enough time there that he drags one of the chaise lounges from one of the drawing rooms into the gallery so she'd have somewhere comfortable to sit. She’d smiled gratefully at him then and Jaskier had felt something in him settle. It was – it was good. It was good not to be alone even if his companion was mostly silent. She might have been near-mute but her personality is big and her mind stubborn, and somehow she fills out any room with her presence.
The scariest thing is that – Nate was right, all the way back when, Nate was right and Jaskier is attached to her.
He’s given up trying to figure out where she’s come from and how she got into the house by now, and has instead dedicated himself to trying to teach her about the things a kid her age should know. He learns about her and introduces her to new wonders that have her excited and cheerful. She’s a happy kid – finally, and this in turn makes Jaskier happy as well.
He learns that she loves flowers and pop music, that she likes listening to his songs and watching music videos on the small screen of his android phone when they can get internet access. She loves drawing with the pencils he’s procured for her and she draws flowers and dogs and birds. She also loves running and she loves the sunshine and the night sky. She’s delighted as the birds from the forest take interest in the manor and Jaskier has to set up a bird feeder next to the greenhouse to give her an opportunity to see them up close since there’s no other way - mostly because she refuses to enter the forest and when Jaskier first offers, she shakes so badly that he has to bundle her up in a blanket and sit with her in the gallery for an hour before she calms down.
Valentin shows up only once and it goes as well as he’s expecting it to.
He barely manages to convince Ciri not to stab his brother once she seemingly senses how much contempt Jaskier holds for him and his brother wonders why there’s noise upstairs. Jaskier manages to convince him it's the rats in the attic are having a bender, I’m quite miffed they hadn’t invited me and Valentin rolls his eyes so hard he had to have sprained something.
It’s a good time overall and Julian finally understands how a retreat into seclusion can be therapeutic instead of just plain torture.
(The media seems to suspect that he’s somehow died. They’ve written him off as a lost cause and a burnout despite all of his fans still supporting him. Well, he can’t blame them entirely. His brother had informed him last time that all of his accounts have been frozen and that they have threatened his manager into silence with a very dodgy non-disclosure agreement. Poor Marion, she deserves better than this. If he ever gets out of here, he’s sure that he’ll treat her to a raise and a vacation somewhere luxurious, all expenses paid.)
It’s a really good time until it isn’t.
Three weeks and three days after he’d found Ciri in his garden another storm rolls over the horizon.
He prepares by closing all of the shutters and locking the windows firmly. He does all this frantically as Ciri stands on the balcony and stares out into the horizon with fear in her eyes. He can’t blame her but he does find it a little odd that she refuses to enter the house until the sun is well below the tree line and the rain has started falling softly.
He feels bad leaving her on her own that night so he manhandles the mattresses from the other rooms into hers and constructs an elaborate pillow fort that she seems to enjoy. She cuddles close to him and he reads her 20.000 Leagues Under the Sea while his phone acts as a flashlight. The storm is loud but the surrounding mattresses dampen the sound some. He also feels bad that the bird feeder will get blown over but they’ll fix it in the morning. It’s fine, they’re fine.
She falls asleep somewhere halfway through the fourth chapter and he follows soon after.
He’s woken up by the sound of a piercing scream and with his blood frozen in his veins, he realizes that Ciri isn’t in the fort with him. He detangles himself from the blankets and sprints out of the room, slamming light switches to illuminate his way as he searches for her with his heart in his throat.
The backdoor in the kitchen is open, rain pelting inside and making the tiles wet, and he almost slips as he sprints out and into the storm. He finds her standing in the greenhouse, drenched and shaking and with the remaining glass from the structure gone, shattered around her.
“Ciri!” He yells, fighting against the wind in just his flannel bottoms and a flimsy shirt. Summer storms are savage but this feels entirely different, this feels like he’s stepped into a hurricane. “Ciri! Come here!” He holds out an arm, desperately hoping she’ll hear his call.
She turns to him, eyes wide and fearful and raises her arm, finger pointed to the forest insistently and shakily. And he realizes that he sees, now that the muddy glass is gone, through the frame of the greenhouse, he sees something white and looming slam through the back gate. The metal gets wrenched, bent towards the ground, and Jaskier’s stomach drops into his soles.
“To the house, quick!” He grabs her arm, tugging, and she stumbles over her own feet in her hurry to follow. A harrowing sound rips through the night, rolling like thunder and deep enough to reverberate through Julian’s chest and rattle his poor heart. He doesn’t close the door to the kitchen, doesn’t have time to do anything other than open the pantry and lock them inside. He scrambles to lift the hatch of the cellar, hands shaking and his pulse pounding in his ears as he finally pries it upwards and instructs Ciri to get in. She’s silent apart from her thin sobs and snivels and his heart breaks.
There’s a sound of crashing from the other side of the door and more thunder as he closes the hatch as quietly as possible. He fumbles for the candelabra and the matches he’s left somewhere near in the darkness. Once he lights up the three candles he breathes out a sigh of relief.
“Are y-” – are you alright is what he would have asked if Ciri’s hand hadn’t slammed against his mouth in fear. She shakes her head and he understands that she wants him to remain quiet. So he nods and grips her wrist with his free hand. She slots their palms together and leads him down the stairs and onto the dusty couch near the empty wardrobe. They huddle there together, trembling and drenched, terrified and too scared to close their eyes for longer than it takes to blink.
Once he’s a little calmer, once he’s able to think again, he realizes that whatever’s happening is definitely something that should not be happening. But, despite the wrongness of it all, Ciri seems to know what’s happening and this terrifies him most of all.
He doesn’t sleep that night. He tries to, he does, and even as Ciri dozes off against his shoulder, he keeps twitching awake at the faintest sound. The last time he’d been this terrified – well, it’s been a few years. It’d been a few years since the last time they tried to raid one of the Count’s houses – especially with his family in it.
He’s terrified of going up again, of exiting the cellar. But they can’t stay down here and he can’t call Nate or Valentin because he’d left his phone up in the blanket fort. Eventually, they’ll have to leave.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” He whispers into the top of Ciri’s head. “I don’t want whatever it is out there to hurt you.”
She clutches at his shirt and regards him with a rather serious expression – they’re almost out of candlelight.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” She says solemnly and takes out the dagger – the longer one – that seems to somehow always be on her person.
“Oh, little Dove, that’s sweet of you but I don’t think you can protect me from what awaits us in that kitchen,” He smiles ruefully, caressing her cheek like his grandmother used to do to him when he was being particularly endearing.
“I can.” She reassures him, patting his cheek like he’s the one being a silly goose.
“We should probably go out there and smell the roses, huh?” He looks around, finding the pile of suspicious-looking pipes in the corner he’d been studiously ignoring and picks one out. He sets the candelabra near the stairs and they quietly make their way out of the cellar.
“I’ve shown you how to use the phone, love, if anything happens to me I want you to call Nate – tell him that shit’s hit the fan and come back here to hide. Okay?” His heart is in his throat as he speaks to her, his tone wavering with each breath.
“It’s going to be alright,” She grips the dagger, the ruby on its hilt glinting in the low light of the pantry.
“Here goes nothing,” He takes a shuddering breath and opens the door up to peek outside.
At first, he doesn’t see anything amiss. The door to the kitchen is still open and the floor muddied from the dirty rain; he’ll have to clean that up – that is, if he lives. He notices the barstools knocked over next and a great big dent in the side of the kitchen island, the wood cracked and caved. Frankly, it looks like a small car had run into it. He grips the metal pipe and opens the door further, wincing as the hinges creak.
Suddenly, Ciri barrels out from behind him, looking very much like a child raised in the woods - with her hair flying all over the place and one of Jaskier’s repurposed tees billowing around her like a nightdress – wild and unrestrained. A low growl makes the crystal bowl on the counter sing as it fills the room. Ciri doesn’t look afraid – if anything, she looks livid. Her teeth bared and a hiss leaving her mouth as her eyes focus on something beyond the kitchen door.
“Ciri, no!” He screams as she launches herself towards the source of the sound. He runs after her, dreading the worst as the sound of the foyer table hitting the ground reaches him. He rounds the island and finds himself faced with an inexplicable sight.
Ciri, her teeth still bared in a threatening snarl and the dagger in her hand pointed down, sits atop a great big mound of white fur. The mound is silent, still and rising lightly as if breathing. He takes a cautious step towards the two and Ciri raises her other hand to stop him from approaching.
“Ciri, darling, what is this?” He hushes but his throat closes up as the mound turns its head towards him and – and it’s a wolf. It’s a giant wolf with eyes as yellow as sunflower petals and teeth as lengthy as knives, lying still under Ciri’s fragile frame with a dagger pressed to its throat.
She eases herself off the wolf-monster-thing and comes to stand in front of Jaskier as the beast quickly rights itself, hackles raised and drool drooping off its snarl.
Ciri makes a threatening noise, some weird exclamation of distaste, and then clicks her tongue and the beast settles down onto its haunches. Jaskier watches, fascinated, as Ciri slaps the thing’s muzzle with the flat of her dagger, causing the wolf’s ears to draw back in displeasure and its maw to close.
“Little Dove, mind telling me who this handsome boy-o is?” He places a gentle hand onto her shoulder and the wolf growls, causing Ciri to repeat the scolding gesture.
“He’s – a guard dog.” She grins easily and Jaskier feels the weight drop off his shoulders.
“Christ, little one, why did we hide out in the cellar then?” He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling entirely too tired for this strange, strange encounter.
“I was not sure if – he does not react to strangers well.” She settles on saying, grimacing at whatever it is that was her original sentence. “Come, offer him a hand.”
“Do I get to keep my hand if I do that?” He sets the pipe onto the floor and steps closer, eyeing the lumbering form of the weird wolf dubiously.
“He’s not allowed to harm you.” She says firmly and Jaskier is reminded of how little he actually knows about this child and where she comes from. He pushes a hand out, dangerously close to the wolf’s big head, and Ciri holds his wrist to make sure he doesn’t jerk back in surprise when the wolf’s cold nose presses into his palm.
“Jaskier, this is Geralt.” She smiles, rubbing the hilt of the dagger between the wolf’s eyes affectionately and Jaskier wonders if he’s still, miraculously, asleep.
“Pleasure to meet you, I suppose.” He lets the wolf sniff up his arm and shove its nose into his armpit before he squirms away from the touch. “Alright, okay!” He squeaks and Ciri giggles, scratching under the wolf’s head. It’s a large beast; sitting on its haunches its head is parallel with Jaskier’s collarbones. Not for the first time (even in the last hour), Jaskier wonders where exactly it is that Ciri comes from. Maybe it’s Chernobyl since this wolf is, obviously, a mutant of some sort.
“He’s certainly quite big,” He mutters and Ciri startles a little, looking the wolf over as if she’s just noticed.
“I have no point of comparison,” She shrugs sheepishly and, yeah, Jaskier should have seen that coming.
“Yes, well, take my word for it, little Dove.” He chuckles and goes to right the table they’d knocked over.
“Is he hungry? Should I thaw some meat? Can you understand him? Is he thirsty? Is this all a bit magical? Was nana right when she said that I should never go into the forest on my own? Well, that’s a shame, I do quite like hiking. Perhaps you two should accompany me, then. Well, if we ever dare to go into that ghastly place, anyway. Just looking at it sends shivers down my spine. I don’t think he can drink from a bowl, his head’s too big. I should find a basin, there’s perhaps one in the bathroom. If not, I’ll fill up the bath. How about I-”
“Julian,” Ciri’s voice cuts through his rambling and he realizes that he’s shaking where he stands, eyes wide in belated panic.
“I’m sorry, I might be a little shaken.” He rushes to the kitchen and fills up a cup, downing water as the adrenaline leaves him now that the threat has been done away with.
“Are you hungry? I can make you French toast again, I know you love those.” He grips the edges of the counter, staring down at the polished surface.
“How about you take a seat for now, to calm down, yes?” Ciri’s hand on the crook of his elbow is gentle and he nods. Taking a seat seems like a decent option. He turns to the right and almost bumps into the sitting form of the giant wolf.
“Christ!” He yelps, clutching at his chest like he’s a fair maiden. “Don’t do that you bloody dog!” He hisses out against his better judgement, miffed at the invasion of personal space.
The wolf growls and Ciri tutts again, shooing him away with an easy hand wave. The sprog then leads him to the dining table and pulls out a chair for him to sit in. She starts a fire in the stove with the kindling and sets a kettle on it to boil. The entire time she’s going about making tea, the wolf watches Jaskier with a keen eye.
“You’re quite unnerving, aren’t you?” He directs at the wolf and the beast manages to look indignant with his lowered ears and leaning back proudly. The wolf huffs something at Ciri and she snorts.
“No, he’s perfectly harmless.”
He guesses that she’s talking about him to the wolf and for the life of him he doesn’t know why the wolf would think he’d be any harm. Except he did sort-of come into the foyer with a pipe in his hand ready to bash heads. But! Out of the two of them - the choice is obvious.
“Is he – is he staying, then?” Jaskier asks because, well, there sure will be a bit of a struggle to get acclimated to the wolf’s presence and the shopping list will surely expand again and Nate is going to murder him-
“Is – is it alright if he does?” Ciri asks tentatively, placing camomile tea in front of him onto the table. “I know I'm not supposed to be here either but...” She trails off, falling silent again.
He sighs; there’s only one reasonable explanation why Jaskier is even considering letting the wolf stay and that is that he’s surely lost his mind. But he can’t say no to Ciri, and if this is a piece of her life that helps her feel safe and like her old self then he’ll – well.
“It’s fine. He can stay. Just, can he hunt for himself in the forest or do I have to add to the groceries?” He looks over to the beaming child and she surges forward to hug him. He pats her back and rolls his eyes, he’s grown too weak. His father would be ashamed. Then again, he already is so what’s one fault more?
“He can hunt.” Ciri confirms and – at least that’s something.
“Good, alright.” He takes a sip of his tea. “This should be interesting.”
That night he is the one sitting in the damask armchair as Ciri sits on the dried out concrete of the fountain pool next to the big wolf in front of him. He watches them interact and notices the easiness with which she leans against the wolf and how the beast curls around her protectively. It’s very sweet. And if you overlook the part where the wolf is overly grown and the child is halfway feral, then it’s almost like seeing a regular sprog playing with their dog. He wonders if Geralt would play fetch.
He has many questions more urgent than whether or not Geralt would fetch on his mind, so many inquiries about the state of things, and a curiosity that’s almost bursting out of his ears and yet. He doesn’t ask any of them. It doesn’t feel right to ask. He trusts Ciri and her judgement. If she’s run away from somewhere then she’s had a good reason to, and the best thing he can do is keep his mouth shut on the matter and try and keep her safe.
Things don’t really change much after that.
He still cooks for Ciri, still reads her books and watches her draw and look at the stars. They still dance together to the music on his phone and they still try to garden in the greenhouse. Things stay the same - except now he has to watch out so that he doesn’t step on the wolf’s tail when he moves around the kitchen and he has to brush white fur off of anything dark in the house because the beast sheds like mad.
The wolf still stares at him, as distrusting as ever and Jaskier sticks his tongue out at the beast every time he catches the suspicious gaze on his back. Ciri laughs more with the wolf there, too. She’s quicker to share her thoughts and quicker to ask for things. It’s like having Geralt there is reassuring in a way that Jaskier could not be no matter how much he tried and wished to. He’s not really bitter over it, no. He’s mostly glad because he gets to hear her giggles and occasionally he gets to hear her singing along to some of the songs.
Another two weeks in and she’s reading on her own. The books that are in the library are mostly in Polish but some are in English and while they’re often old and filled with complicated words, he’s always there to explain and simplify. And with these little changes, the wolf warms up to him as well – seemingly realizing how much Jaskier cares about the little girl that’d turned his life upside down.
“You don’t seem as lonely anymore,” She says one day, her hair practically white in the late-summer sun.
“Hm, I don't suppose I'm all that lonely anymore, no.” He hums, leaning back onto his elbows where he’s lying in the back yard, surrounded by daisies and dandelions. “I’ve got two incredibly vivacious friends to keep me company now.”
Ciri eyes him with a sad smile on her face. Even after all these months, it hurts to see such a forlorn expression on her.
“I’ll be sad to leave,” She admits.
“You don’t have to,” He responds, not really understanding the implications of what he's offering or of what she's saying.
“All things must end,” She sighs and picks up a couple of daisies to make a wreath out of.
And – really, what can he say to that? Ciri doesn’t speak much, but when she does it’s always a little cryptic. Almost Like she knows bad things are coming and instead of fearing them, she’s enjoying the time she has left. It’s possible that whoever is after her is coming to take her away and instead of running she’s just biding her time. He doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like the implication that he’s holding her back from being free.
“Ciri,” He says carefully, voice low and serious. “If I – if I had the freedom to leave here and take you with me somewhere far away, would you want to come with?” He knows that for this to happen he would have to accept his brother’s offer, his heritage and the whole of the empire. But if it meant saving Ciri from whatever it is that haunts her, then it would be worth it. He could always overtake the branch they have set up in Argentina, there would always be options and he'd do anything in his power to keep her safe - even if it meant suffering the fate he'd so long avoided.
“It’s not a matter of where, Jules, it’s a matter of when.” She says, once again, cryptically.
“Do you mean to tell me you’ve travelled from the past?” He raises an eyebrow at her and she giggles. They’d finished H. G. Wells’ The Time Machine last week and she’d been captivated by the prospect of travelling through time, finding herself in a different world altogether. It certainly says something about her that she’d turn back time if she could.
“Not really, no.” She yawns, giving up halfway through her wreath and lying down next to him instead.
Geralt’s head snaps up and Jaskier tenses.
“Car?” He asks and Ciri nods.
“Upstairs, keep quiet and stay out of sight, both of you.” He hisses out and the two scramble to get into the house before the car can drive up to it. He takes it at a slower pace and makes sure to remove any traces of his two houseguests from downstairs while the car approaches the front gate. He looks out the foyer window and grunts as Valentin’s car finally pulls up to the front of the house.
“Fucking perfect,” He shoves away from the window and goes into the kitchen, pretending to wash the dishes while his brother knocks on the door briefly before letting himself in.
“Julian?” The older calls and he resists the urge to tell him to fuck off. If he’s to help Ciri then he’ll have to make peace with his brother first.
“In the kitchen!” He yells, revealing his position despite not wanting to face his brother in the slightest.
“Ah, there you are.” Valentin, looking completely unruffled and unconcerned by the fact that they fight every time they see each other, smiles at him like the colossal twat that he is.
“Of course I'm here, where would I be? Holding a concert in Barcelona?” He hisses, the words leaving his mouth before he can stop them.
“Still testy, I see.” Valentin comes around the kitchen island and Julian winces as his brother eyes the dent there curiously. “What happened here?”
“I got drunk and tripped. Took a tumble into the side because the floor was wet.” He shrugs, “You want tea? Coffee? Expensive aged wine that tastes like the bottom of a wooden barrel?”
“Water will be fine.” The older pulls out one of the barstools and sits, still looking infuriatingly dignified in his dark blue suit. Who even looks anything other than slouched and depressed seated on a barstool?!
He grimaces and fills up a glass, hastily shoving one of the chewed up wooden spoons in the sink under a plate. He slides the glass over to his brother and crosses his arms over his chest. “This’ our monthly check-up then?”
“Can’t I want to spend time with my brother?” Valentin raises an eyebrow.
“You see, I’d believe that if you weren’t on a schedule that has you leaving in half an hour from now.” He waves a hand in the direction of the door as if he can urge his brother to leave earlier.
Valentin sighs, running a hand over his face and his shoulders drop from their ramrod-straight posture. Julian pauses.
“What’s wrong?” And he’s the one tensing up this time. He knows this expression on his brother’s face. He sees the bad news in his brother's eyes when they’re incoming.
“Father’s sick.” Valentin’s hands twitch where they’re laid flat on the table. “He’s been sick for a while now but... it’s getting worse. They want me to – to take over.”
“Fuck, Val.” His heart lurches into his throat rather violently. If the Count doesn’t die soon then, as per some horrible, outdated tradition, Valentin will have to get rid of their father – by force. “His council?”
“They’re ready to disband and I – I haven’t picked enough members for a new one. There are not enough men in the business here that I trust.” Valentin leans his elbows onto the table and brings his hands up to dig into his copper hair. This is rather serious if Val is showing signs of weariness so easily and openly.
“Can't you start with the trusted three and then work your way up from there?” He grinds his teeth together.
“Yes, and my triad members would be you and Yara. Even if Yara came back, you’d still be stuck here being stubborn.” Val’s eyes are blazing with anger now, the mood of the conversation switching rapidly, and Julian is tempted to reach for the ornate dagger, the smaller one, that’s still in one of the drawers as a precaution.
“I'm not joining you.” He grinds out; so much for playing nice. “Yara was right to want to distance herself from this place. Out of all of our cousins, she’s by far the smartest one.”
“She’s also the one I trust the most which is unfortunate.” Valentin huffs.
“You shouldn’t trust me, Val. I’d sell you out the first chance I got.” He says, voice steady as his brother’s hands clench around his glass of water briefly. “I hate what you do. I want no part of it. And if you force me in, then I’ll do anything I can to sabotage the Count’s precious empire.”
“You can’t do that.” Valentin pushes out of the chair, the sound of it scraping against the tiles loud in the silent house. “You know what they’ll do to you if I even breathe word of this conversation to anyone.”
“Well then, brother dearest, you better hold your breath, yeah?” He grins sharply and Valentin slams his fist against the kitchen island’s wooden top. He doesn’t flinch, he’s expecting the outburst, it tracks that this business of theirs is the only thing that can bring out the worst in them both.
“You are not immune, Julian. Don’t forget that they can get to you the same that they can to any other sorry bastard that crosses their path. You’re not me, they’d hunt you down.” Valentin’s entire frame radiates fury and one wrong word could set him off. Julian just wishes that he didn’t feel the need to push buttons, say that word that is precisely the wrong one to say.
“Oh, I never would want to be you, Val. I’d never want to be a stuck-up, repressed, emotionally unstable bastard threatening his brother in his own jail cell.” He drawls, the anger in him simmering in turn. He’s sure that the wolf can hear the heavy beating of his heart because, as if summoned, there is a crash of something upstairs and Valentin turns his eyes to the ceiling in suspicion.
“What was that?” His brother growls and Jaskier’s bravado drops all at once.
“A draft.” He bites out, hoping that the two guests would stay silent but - no dice. Another thundering noise is heard from up above and Valentin’s eyes turn knowing before his brother darts towards the kitchen door.
“Fuck,” He grunts rushing after him clumsily. “Geralt, out the balcony!” He hisses out in English, so quiet only the wolf would hear it, and sees the hulking form drop to the ground outside the kitchen windows just as Valentin starts climbing the stairs. He waves the confused-looking wolf away and goes after his brother, hopefully Ciri is hiding somewhere inconspicuous.
“What are you doing? Can you stop snooping around?! We were having a serious conversation!” He demands, tugging his brother away from where he’s trying to enter his room.
“Why? Are you worried I'm going to find something up here?” Valentin sneers back at him, an odd and unflattering look that he hasn’t seen on his brother’s face since they were both petty preteens.
“There’s nothing to find, you idiot!” He pushes forward until his forehead is almost pressed to the other’s. They’re in the middle of the landing where Valentin can’t see anything out of the ordinary but he knows that if the other enters either of the wings he’ll see signs of other occupants there that Julian won’t be able to explain easily.
“Then why won’t you let me look, huh?” Valentin pushes him back with both hands and he stumbles. “Have you already betrayed us? Have you already sold your blood out!?”
“When? When would I have had time to pull this grand betrayal off, huh?! I’ve been stuck here for months! I’ve been your prisoner for months! Go fuck yourself, Val, get a nice big fucking dildo and stick it up your-”
Valentin pushes him, harder this time. He pushes and Jaskier takes two more stumbling steps back and then he meets the railing of the landing. And then the wood gives out from behind him, splintering like kindling, and for one terrifying moment - he’s weightless and falling down. This is it. He closes his eyes as his brother’s yell of distress gets drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears. This is how he dies.
And then – then he doesn’t. Because there are strong arms catching him and a grunt of surprise is leaving someone in the room.
For a moment, everything is deathly silent. And then, Valentin is running down the stairs with tears in his eyes and a hysterical wheeze to his breathing.
“Julian, no-” His brother stops before he says whatever it is he was planning to say and Jaskier still can’t open his eyes. The arms around holding him up in a bridal carry tense and he finally forces himself to blink. He meets familiar yellow eyes that glaze over a deep blue a second later.
“What the fuck?” And surprisingly, it’s not Jaskier who’s said this but his brother instead.
He stares into the previously-yellow eyes and the man holding him up looks equally as startled. He doesn’t know what to say, really. It’s not every day a handsome stranger catches you from a fall and stops you from breaking a bone or two, maybe a neck. A handsome stranger that he’s certain is naked and possibly his wolf-y guest.
‘Geralt?’ He mouths so that Valentin doesn’t hear the clear question in his tone and the white-haired man nods. Oh, sweet merciful Jesus Christ, he thinks and looks down where the man’s pressed him into his very impressive chest. Oh, holy mother of sweet merciful Jesus, he thinks as all of his blood promptly rushes in two directions – his cheeks and his dick.
“Did you just almost murder me?!” He shrieks in outrage like a wraith, deeming it easier to do that instead of acknowledging that he’s half-hard in his shorts at the sight of this glorious, naked man that had saved him like he’s a damsel in distress.
“It was an accident!” Valentin shrieks back, looking equally as distressed as Jaskier feels – at least that’s a comfort.
“Oh, my God! You can’t just almost murder me and say it was an accident! You pushed me through the fucking railing!” He accuses, shaky in the knees enough that Geralt notices and curls an arm around his waist – which really isn’t helping the downstairs situation.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t know it would break!” Valentin looks briefly up to where some of the railing is still dangling precariously off the edge of the landing.
“It’s called manslaughter for a reason!” He stomps his foot on the ground and Geralt growls behind him, obviously sensing that he’s turning hostile towards the perceived home invader despite not understanding what was being said.
“Julian, I – no. No. Who is this!? Who the fuck is this random man naked in your house?!” Valentin waves a hand at him and man-Geralt frantically, voice reaching new heights once again.
“The fucking gardener for all you need to know! How dare you question the guy that’s just saved my arse from possibly dying!” He shoots back, not willing to relent and give his brother the option to change the subject.
“Oh, please, it’s not that high up. At worst you’d break a leg.” Valentin winces at the same time that Julian does due to the harsh words.
“Glad you think so kindly about my wellbeing. Now, I’ll ask you nicely before I make him throw you out. Please, leave.” He stands his ground as Valentin gapes at him with his stupid face and his stupid surprised expression.
“We’ll be talking about this soon.” Valentin grinds out and stomps away in a tizzy.
“Careful on the drive back, there’s a storm coming!” He kicks the air uselessly as he shouts after his brother, the motherfucker.
“Can you believe him? What a giant cunt! God, if we weren’t blood I’d have kicked his ass thrice over by now!” He turns back to Geralt and, oh, right. Still naked. Still very handsome. Still glaring at Jaskier very intently.
“Hi,” He squeals out and quickly looks away, prying Geralt’s arm from his waist despite the temptation to cuddle closer.
“Alright?” The voice rumbles its way down Jaskier’s spine and he suppresses the urge to shudder.
“Fine!” He squeaks embarrassingly and steps aside as Ciri’s hurried footsteps sound through the house.
“Jaskier!” She comes to a halt much like his brother had. “Geralt! You! Oh, Gods!” She rushes down the flight of stairs on their left and throws herself at Geralt, hugging him firmly and letting him twirl her around.
“How, Geralt? I didn’t think it was possible.” She sobs, her voice thin and filled to the brim with emotions Jaskier can’t even begin to discern.
“Curses, they do not seem to translate over well.” Geralt speaks and once again, it’s like the man’s spent years gargling gravel. “There is no magic in this world.”
“Christ, I need a fucking drink, yeah?” He rubs a hand over his face, distinctly not horny anymore but still very distressed. He pushes past the two of them into the kitchen. “There’re some clothes in one of the right wing rooms, find something there and then come see me. I’ll be in the sitting room.” He grabs a bottle of wine from the rack in the kitchen and goes back and left towards the only sitting room they actually use.
Honestly, what the fuck?
He settles into one of the uncomfortable beige couches, uncorking the bottle of wine and taking a big chug to settle his nerves. His body is still buzzing from the adrenaline of taking a fall like that. He waits and nurses his aged wine and thinks about how fucking insane all of this is. Well – not like he’s actually complaining about the wolf turning out to be a handsome man, but that’s just it. He’s supposed to just be an unnaturally large wolf. Not some sort of weird werewolf-shapeshifter-thing. Maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe he’s just asleep and if he dies he’ll wake up – like in Inception. He wishes he brought a totem, then, to make sure. Alas. Though, Geralt could certainly be the Eames to his Arthur. Except Jaskier is too fond of his rather lavish lifestyle to be that uptight. Maybe the other way around. Would that make Nate Ariadne or Cobb? Nate would probably-
“Jaskier.” Ciri’s voice startles him out of his musings.
“Little Dove,” He smiles fondly at her despite his own inner crisis and she grins back.
“I think it’s time we told you where we’re really from. It seems unfair to keep you in the dark now that you’ve seen something’s wrong. I know you didn’t want to ask questions or pressure me into giving information and I’m eternally grateful for that.” She pauses, coming to sit onto the coffee table in front of him, followed by Geralt who’s wearing some impressive leather pants and a black shirt with too many buttons.
“But I think it’s time we give you answers anyway.” She smiles, taking one of his hands into her own. She seems so impossibly mature as she speaks to him and he’s always known she had to be older than she looked, but, right now, she seems like she’s eons older than Jaskier himself. And with the way things are going, she might just be.
“Well, then. I’m guessing that you and your impressive friend over there have quite the story to tell me, huh?” He glances briefly in Geralt’s direction but doesn’t let his eyes linger on the well defined muscles now hidden underneath the shirt.
“It’s imperative that you understand that I didn’t want to tell you anything in order to protect you, Jaskier. But with the storm coming, I don’t know how much time we have left.” She sighs. “Geralt and I – we’re not of this world.”
“I gathered as much,” He smiles shakily and she chuckles.
“We come from a different – reality, let’s say. Where there’s magic and beasts and kingdoms and bad men doing bad things to those who don’t deserve it.” She lets out a huff of anger as her hand clenches around Julian’s.
“And Geralt and I, we were both cursed back home. They took my voice away and they confined Geralt to his second form. The longer I was here the more I could speak so it wasn’t a problem. I didn’t know it would work the same way for Geralt, I assumed it was because I was so far away from home that the hold of the magic had lessened but. Obviously, I’ve regained my voice even if I’ve lost some of the other abilities.” She stands up and holds out the dagger that she’s taken to keeping in a loop on her belt.
“I was cursed and kept captive by a bad man. An evil king trying to rule over all the lands. I managed to escape with the help of one of the servants that had delivered me the daggers. They serve as a - a channeling tool of sorts. With them, a bit of blood and a lot of natural magic, I managed to open a portal into this world to get away.” She tucks the dagger back into the loop and comes to sit next to him.
“I ended up here and I am glad that I did. You took me in without even knowing my name or if I was running away from someone dangerous or not. You are very kind Jaskier, you and your books and your funny little machines that function by touch, saved me.” She looks to Geralt and the man comes to kneel at her feet – and by default, at Jaskier’s too.
“Aside from Geralt, I never had anyone looking out for me. But he was cursed too, bound to the evil king for his crimes against the crown. For years all we’ve known is captivity, Jaskier. I never had an education, I never met people my own age. The king knew it was too dangerous to let me outside of the castle and all I ever saw were the grey walls of my tower and the small bit of desolate horizon seen from the narrow window.” She pauses, leaning down to press her forehead against Geralt’s.
And while she speaks as if she’s telling a tale, for once, she is not cryptic and Jaskier understands her all too well. What she’s saying, if it’s true, then it makes everything he’s ever known a massive fucking lie. Though, alright, that might be overdoing it. His country is old and superstitious, his grandmother loved telling him stories of great beasts and wandering travelers, or curses and curse-breakers. There was always something in him that believed.
“I – ah.” He shakes his head, suddenly uncertain. “I’m glad I could help. You’re an amazing kid, Ciri. You’re bright and brilliant and you’re so eager to learn – I’m sorry anyone has ever denied you the opportunity to do so. It’s really bloody fucked up.” A warm hand settles onto his knee and he looks down, following it to Geralt’s face. He blushes and looks away, feeling wholly unbalanced at the almost-scorching touch.
“Thank you, for taking care of her.” Geralt rumbles and Jaskier gives a jerky nod.
“Of course. There was never any doubt. And – she helped me as much as I’d helped her.” He takes a deep breath to calm down. “While we don’t have magic and beasts here, there are certainly bad men. I’m not really squeaky clean either.”
She nods, a bright grin on her face again as her eyes shine in admiration. “I’d realized once you told your friend that you would hunt him down and skin him if he told anyone about me being here. And, you always disarm me quickly.” She pouts mightily and Geralt snorts at that, a gruff sound that reminds Jaskier of the wolf in so many ways (as if there was any doubt that the two were one and the same).
“Yes, well. I might have overreacted but I didn’t want anyone coming around here asking questions. I’m supposed to be here on my own, this is a punishment.” He waves a hand to the state of the room which has once again become dusty because he’d forgotten to clean it – for three weeks.
“What have you done to deserve such a cruel punishment?” She leans against him, shoulder against his and a hand slipping into his palm. It’s comfortable. She’s – well, he’s not going to say he’s pseudo adopted her, no. She’s more like a younger sibling to him at this point and he’s grateful for it - and happy knowing that he's being a better older brother than Val has ever been to him.
“It’s more about what I didn’t do.” He sighs. “My father is, what is considered in this world, a bad man. He’s a powerful man, a king of sort, sure. And he’s ill. And when he dies, Valentin and I are supposed to take over the – er, kingdom. And I don’t want to. Because the kingdom is very bad and I want nothing to do with it.” He explains, trying to stick to the words the two of them would understand instead of going with mob and crime syndicate.
“You were trained for this, yes?” Geralt surprises him by speaking again and Jaskier nods.
“They tried to train me,” Ciri sighs. “But they never could. I am too strong-willed, unruly they’d say.” She smiles proudly, squeezing his hand in reassurance. “So they just kept me locked up until they found a way to bind me to someone like they’d done with Geralt.”
Geralt grumbles at that, a wordless noise of displeasure that has Jaskier grinning a little.
“You are the strongest little sprog I’d ever see, I’ll give you that.” He stands, pulling her up with a hand and absolutely ignoring the sight of Geralt still on his knees. “Come on, I think it’s time for dinner then some light reading. I can get started on Papillon for you, if you’d like.”
“You have a preference for books where someone is either trapped or confined to a single place. It’s very telling.” She says smartly, putting her hands on her hips as she watches him make the batter for the crepes.
“Well now, just because you’re smart doesn’t mean you have to and analyze me to bits, darling.” He shakes his head, still fond despite her blunt words.
“I’m sorry,” She mumbles and he turns to look at her. She’s sitting on the kitchen island with Geralt behind her like a silent sentinel. It’s quite the sight and he thinks, briefly, back to when he thought she’d been raised by the wolves and how fitting it actually was without him even knowing.
“It’s quite alright. You’re on point anyway. I read so that I can hope to escape this bloody place and my cursed fuckin’ bloodline, yeah? After all, everything else’s been stripped from me so my dreams are all I have left.” He admits forlornly, hating how dejected he sounds. He’s always tried to keep a chipper attitude to distract her from her own miseries but now that the truth is out, he feels like maybe a little moping is appropriate.
He runs a hand through his hair, “The crapes will be done in a little while. You can go play something, I know it's been a day but don't let that stop you from practicing before dinner.” He smiles, hoping for reassuring. She looks at him long and hard and then nods, hopping off the island and heading for the piano. Curiously, Geralt stays behind.
“Taste that, tell me if it needs more salt.” He deposits one crepe out onto the plate and motions to it with the spatula. He could, technically speaking, flip them with the pan but he prefers flipping them neatly with the plastic spatula instead.
“What are they supposed to taste like?” Geralt grumbles and pokes at the crepe curiously, splitting the floppy thing down the middle and shoving one half of it into his mouth.
“Neutral, not too sweet but not salty either. So that you can cover them in whatever you’d like – sweet or savoury.” He’s gotten quite good at explaining trivial things over the course of the past few months. Things like umbrellas and deodorant and submarines and democracy.
Geralt chews on the thing more than it’s strictly necessary and then nods to himself. “More salt.”
“Good,” He smiles, adding a pinch to the bowl with the batter and stirring with the ladle.
He hums as he works and Geralt is a silent presence at his side, enraptured by the process of it and all of the little things Jaskier does as he cooks. He smiles at that; the both of them – Ciri and Geralt – are impressed by the simplest things and he finds it so oddly charming, especially since the two come from a world where there’s magic. He’s pleased with himself on some level, too. A bit smug of him, sure, but deserved.
“Everything here is so different,” Geralt mutters when Jaskier finally gives in and flips the crepe in the pan just to show off.
“I’d imagine it is.” He chuckles. “It’s not a bad thing, I hope?” He nudges Geralt with his hip playfully and the other shifts uneasily for a moment before clearing his throat with a weird snorting sound.
“No, not really.” Geralt decides and Jaskier’s glad. The last thing he’d ever want is to make the other feel bad. Soft piano music drifts through the air, a little belated which means Ciri had stared at the portrait for a good while again. The music is stilted but she’s progressing nicely, practicing hard.
“That’s good, then.” He flips another crepe and Geralt follows the motion, fascinated.
“Why are you doing this?” Geralt’s voice is low and still slightly confused and Jaskier throws a glance his way before pouring out another ladle-full into the pan.
“Doing what? Making dinner? The sprog’s gotta eat, mate.” He clicks his tongue and Geralt shakes his head in a slightly stiff motion.
“You didn’t have to take her in, not many people I know would. And you were a complete stranger.” Geralt, somehow, shifts closer to him and Jaskier’s suddenly aware that the man next to him is very much a Greek God in the flesh and that he himself is only wearing a flimsy shirt and shorts – which means he can feel the heat radiating from Geralt in waves very acutely.
He clears his throat as the blood rushes to his cheeks. “You have to start meeting better people then, yeah?”
“Not many of those around back home,” Geralt grunts crossing his arms over his chest and really, Jaskier knows the other is standing too close to him now. And alright, even as a wolf, Geralt liked invading his personal space to scent or whatever but that was fine because he was a wolf and not a gloriously built man who he’d seen in the nude. Jaskier thinks he might just faint like a maiden. Geralt sniffs him and Jaskier resists the urge to flinch away from the invasive action.
“Better be careful then, no? Find a nice house, lock yourself away to keep safe.” He babbles because the heat rising up inside him has nothing to do with the fire in the stove. “Start a garden maybe. Throw up a gate to keep the bad people out.”
“What, like this place?” Geralt snorts and the rush of air ruffles Jaskier’s hair. He should step away, he knows he should, but Geralt’s presence is comforting even if he’s making him sweat.
“Christ, no. This place is a nightmare and the upkeep is terrible. I’d have preferred a nice little cabin in the woods. Maybe next to a lake with a little dock so that I can have a little boat that I’d take out into the water to fish. Hm.” He sighs, depositing another crape onto the plate.
“That where you were before?” Geralt picks up the freshly made crepe and eats it plain, not bothered by the fact that it’s probably too hot.
“No, no. Nothing like that. I’m a – well, I suppose I’m a bard, yeah? I have a flat - a home - in London, it’s not big but it’s close to Hyde Park so I can visit the lake there. It’s not much but it’s truly home. More than any place like this ever was.” He sighs wistfully, he misses his flat. He misses his quilts and he misses his favourite mug. He misses the downstairs neighbors and Mrs Maple’s fluffy, gray cat Larry that likes to hang out on his kitchen window and beg for food. He hasn’t allowed himself to think about home in a while, hasn’t allowed himself to mourn what he’s lost.
Geralt makes a displeased sound and Jaskier looks at him with a raised eyebrow.
“You smell sad.” The other elaborates.
“I miss it, I haven’t really – wait. Wait. You can smell how I feel?!” He squeaks, stepping away from the other, suddenly very mortified that he’s been broadcasting things he hadn’t meant to.
“It’s – complicated. Very much so. But in a way, yes. You smell the strongest when you’re happy. Like – like those little brown things you serve Cirilla in the morning with milk, those and honey.” Geralt sniffs again to make sure. “You smell like the storm when you’re angry and you smell like the ground after a heavy rain when you’re sad.”
“That’s – huh. Alright.” He pointedly does not think about what he might smell like when he’s aroused.
“Alright?” There’s an annoying smirk on the other’s face that has Jaskier squinting at him, brandishing the spatula like a weapon.
“Go away, set the table. I’m done with the crepes.” He looks away from the other, embarrassed and with pink cheeks. Great, now he’ll have to worry about that as well.
“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice is a low growl of something that he doesn’t want to examine.
“The plates are in the cabinet over there,” He waves a hand to the said cabinet and busies himself with pouring out the last of the batter. He takes the stack of crepes to the table before fetching the marmalade and the strawberries from the fridge and the Nutella from the cabinet designated for the sweets stash.
He moves out of the room silently, then. Away from Geralt and the weird atmosphere and towards Ciri and her piano playing. Oddly enough, she’s playing Für Elise at a slow tempo. She usually tends to avoid the classics if she can; if Jaskier’s not forcing her to practice culture, she’s tapping away to her own beat. He knocks on the doorjamb and the playing stops, Ciri peers at him from behind the piano.
“Dinner’s done, love.” He smiles as she nods and carefully closes the lid and the drop lid, being gentle with it like he’d shown her.
“Is Geralt-” She starts and then looks around as if the wolf might hear her – and by all accounts he just might so she hushes her voice into a whisper as Jaskier approaches. “Is he – does he seem alright to you?”
“Well,” He sighs, sitting down onto the bench next to her. “I don’t know. I didn’t know him before becoming a wolf and by all means, he’s still a little wolf-y but he seems fine. Why?”
“He’s been stuck in his other form for so long. I’m worried it has affected him negatively.” She sighs, idle fingers tapping against the closed lid of the grand piano.
“Wouldn’t you know better than me?” He tilts his head, trying to meet her eyes.
“No, not really. I only met him once he was already a wolf. The prince – the king didn’t let him shift back often and never when he was guarding me during ‘training’.” She hisses the last word out rather meanly and Jaskier can’t blame her for the venom in her tone.
“We’ll just have to keep a close eye on him then, huh?” He bumps her shoulder with his own in a companionable gesture. “Come on, the crepes are either cold by now or the wolf’s eaten them all.”
“Does he like them?” She smiles, knowing full well that Jaskier’s crepes are irresistible.
“He scarfed down two of them plain, I’d reckon that’s as good a review as any.” He chuckles, leading her out of the room and through the gallery, pausing pointedly when she falters at the portrait of the lady in the black dress.
“I never asked but – do you know who she is?” He ventures gently, broaching the topic for the first time since Ciri’s arrived at the manor. He’s not sure what he’s expecting but a confirmation certainly isn’t it.
“Yes,” She says, pulling her shoulders back as if in defiance. “She was my grandmother.”
“Christ,” He mutters, thinking about the implication of it all. “Well, that’s something to unpack on another occasion, innit?” He shuffles them out of the gallery and Ciri walks to the kitchen with renewed interest as the smell of fresh crepes reaches her.
“Hel– oh, why are you on the floor?” he asks curiously as he spots Geralt sitting down next to one of the legs of the table, looking completely unconcerned. The man casts a glance around himself as if he hasn’t even realized where he was and Jaskier offers him a hand up. Geralt eyes the proffered hand and takes it, letting Jaskier attempt to haul him up.
“Geralt,” Ciri mumbles, pressing a hand against his forearm. “Sit at the table, yes?”
The taller frowns down at her and then looks at Jaskier expectantly. Suddenly, Jaskier realizes that he doesn’t know the last time the other was – Christ – permitted to eat like a normal person instead of eating off the floor like a wolf.
“Oh, fuck. Okay.” He runs his free hand over his face and leads Geralt to a chair. “Sit in the chair and I’ll get you a plate as well.” He curses himself silently as he fetches another plate and some cutlery. Whoever did this to the two of them is a proper fucking monster.
The dinner is silent, the atmosphere in the room tense due to the previous incident and the air smells faintly of ozone that the wind’s bringing in through the open back door. There’ll surely be a storm tonight and he’s not looking forward to it. Mostly because the last two storms they’d had had brought forth his two current companions and he doesn’t think he can bear any more surprise nightly visits.
Once they’re done with the food, he picks up the plates and puts them in the sink to deal with later. He turns to Geralt who’s looking at him all lost like. He sighs.
“I – I don’t have any fresh linens but I can wash some tomorrow. I hope a bare mattress is alright for tonight.” He says, not really sure how Geralt will take the offer.
“I don’t-” Geralt starts, looking unsure as he hunches in on himself a little. “It’s fine.” The other settles and Jaskier nods, letting him hold his words for whatever reason.
Except that, later the same night, he wakes to find Geralt sleeping on the floor at the foot of the bed in his room. He eyes the curled form of the man curiously and decides to deal with it at a later date. He goes back to sleep.
And later yet, when he wakes a second time, it’s to hands grabbing him and clamping down onto his mouth as the storm roars outside and Ciri screams in the background uselessly. Geralt’s nowhere that he can see and the men grabbing him are decked out in elaborate armour and surely, this is how he dies. His breath comes short and his vision swims. Surely now is the time. His last thought before darkness overcomes him is that he’s had quite enough of this already and if he’s going to die any time soon then Death should fucking claim him already.