Work Text:
There are bubbles in his fingertips but he ignores them as he slaps the spoons together, teasing a smile from Ciri and boisterous laughter from all witchers but one as he sings from his comedic yet child-friendly repertoire.
“He barges through the battlefront
Pulling his sword from his sheath
He can kill three beasts all at once
He’s strong, he’s brave - look at that physique!”
He fawns playfully, adding even more dramatics that meet the goal of finally prodding a laugh out of the princess, who can’t help but giggle as Geralt buries his face in his hands, all the while his brothers roar and slap him in the shoulder.
“Give him a griffin, he has the guts!
But oh, don’t ask him to speak!”
Again, he plays it up, throwing his free hand to his forehead like a damsel in distress, moving the rest of his body enough as he pretends to faint that the redness isn’t too noticeable, at least not by the firelight. The words combined with his theatrics cause a guffaw from Lambert.
“He hmms and humphs
It’s like pulling teeth
He’s the man of a thousand grunts!
He hmms and humphs
He sighs in defeat
He’s the man of a thousand grunts!”
There may not be many in the dining hall, but luckily the remaining witchers are loud enough that it can almost go unnoticed. Their laughter and applause makes something settle in Jaskier’s stomach - it’s the first thing that’s gone down easy in weeks. The bard finally feels like a bard again as Ciri hides a poorly concealed laugh behind her hands as she looks at Geralt, who of course has to put on a show of embarrassment, looking towards the invisible heavens, but Jaskier can see the way that his shoulders have lightened just a little.
This is why Jaskier is who he is, does what he does. Of course he loves music, of course he loves writing, he loves singing and playing even if it’s with a handful of silverware, but without an audience, without anywhere or anyone to spill that joy or anger or pain, without the connection, it never feels like enough. He finally feels the good kind of warmth in his chest, as he basks in the brightness he’s managed to bring to a place that’s had far too much sadness and grief. He holds onto that warmth, feels it nestle under his rib cage.
“No exaggerations in this tale, my dear witcher,” Jaskier teases, his mouth perking up as Geralt sighs and rolls his eyes, and -
“Hm.”
“There it is,” Jaskier says, which prompts another spark of laughter. He grins, twirling the spoons in his hands as he does a little bow, as much as he can sitting up on one of the tables like he is.
“The eloquence is astounding as always.”
Jaskier brightens - which, honestly, a month ago would
never
have happened - and twists to see Yennefer just inside the doorway of the hall. She looks hesitant, which Jaskier wouldn’t be able to believe if not for their time in Oxenfurt pushing him to see her through a new lens. It’s grown a little quieter, too, and oh, that won’t do, he thinks. So, he gestures widely, throwing his arms outward.
“My dear lady, have you any requests?” he asks, and she takes the invitation for what it is, allows it to pull her towards their impromptu concert.
She simply gives him a smile, and she shakes her head as she sits beside him. “Play whatever you like, bard.”
“Oh!” Lambert shouts, and he slams down his pitcher of ale. “Do - uh… what’s it called… Burn? Yeah, Burn!”
The delight in the air promptly turns to ashes on Jaskier’s tongue.
He feels Yennefer stiffen beside him, but he can’t even think to look at her, not when his eyes automatically dart towards Geralt, who along with everyone else, is looking at him expectantly.
To them, it’s just a song. A song that Lambert has clearly only barely heard, if he doesn’t know the quite obvious topic, not to mention the proper title.
To Jaskier, it’s pain and heartbreak and anger and screaming out his pettiness and woes to a world that doesn’t care. He can’t sing it, he won’t sing it, not when the object of it is right here, and Jaskier has forgiven him, even if his heart still aches and he doesn’t know his place and he still can’t sleep, and he absolutely most definitely cannot sing it when his mind cycles through the lyrics anyway of burn, burn, burn, burn, watch me burn and his hand throbs because fucking damn it, fate has always been a cruel bitch, hasn’t she?
The silence has persisted a little too long as Jaskier finally pulls his gaze away from the hearth, the flames licking upward, and when had he even looked over there?
His eyes flicks to the table of witchers looking between each other and him with an air of confusion, to Vesemir who’s looking at him like he’s a puzzle, to Geralt with his brow furrowed, to poor Ciri who has worry in her eyes, to Yennefer who looks ready to hold on to him if he decides to faint, which - no, he will not be that much of a damsel.
Finally, he manages to find his voice and turn his gaze to the red-headed witcher. “Erm, maybe not tonight, my friend, it’s not exactly a song fit for the spoons,” he says. It’s a weak excuse, not a single one of them buys it clearly, but then Ciri - bless her heart, dear Ciri - clears her throat.
“Um, there was this song that one of the cooks used to sing. It went - um…” She hesitates, then sings tentatively, “Love run, love run, for all the things you’ve-”
Jaskier catches onto the request with both hands, mentally sending a thousand blessings the princess’s way. “Yes, I know the one! Sing along if you'd like. Ahem…” He straightens, shakes out his hands, ignores the blisters, and lifts the spoons with a dramatic slap against his leg.
“O let the world come at you, love
Like distant toms a-drumming
Love, run! The song you know’s begun!”
He settles into the song easily - it isn’t a comedy, but it’s light and easy, and most importantly, the flames have managed to recede for the time being.