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Jaskier is fine. Jaskier is fine because he is always fine. Jaskier is fine because pretending to be fine is the very best way to make it so.
That Jaskier is currently attempting to meld with Radovid’s mattress is not a sign of failure. It’s part of the plan. It’s a nice feather mattress. Not as nice as Anna Henrietta’s mattress, but it gains significant points for not belonging to a temperamental duchess, known for ordering beheadings and hangings with very little provocation. The mattress, however, looses points for belonging to the literal fucking King of Redania, whose temperament when angered or otherwise provoked is largely unknown. That is the purpose of the plan. Jaskier needs to know how dangerous Radovid is and what sorts of things provoked that danger. Jaskier is slowly and steadily gathering that information by being vaguely unpleasant and absolutely no fun at all.
That Jaskier has, over the course of the last week, produced no discernable reaction from Radovid is not evidence of anything. The plan is a work in progress.
Jaskier makes himself get up and clean his teeth and examine his nails. They are acceptably short because he has been taking care of them because he is fine. He dots oil on his cuticles and rubs it in because he is taking care of himself because he is fine. His hair is disgusting, even by his own admittedly lax standards. This is not because the idea of washing it feels like a daunting number of steps. It is simply part of the plan. He’s fairly sure Radovid has noticed. It is not just part of the plan, it is the most potentially successful part of the plan.
Jaskier quietly leaves the room—he’s fairly certain that Radovid is busy with official business and will not notice that Jaskier has taken a break from melding with Radovid’s mattress—and finds a large stick to wave around in the courtyard. Sword forms are something people who are sad and bored do to make themselves feel better. Doing things to make oneself feel better is the behavior of someone who is fundamentally fine. The irony that this is a habit he picked up from Geralt, who has probably been fine on a countable number of days in his exceptionally long life, is not lost on Jaskier. Jaskier smiles and frowns and then does his very best to stop thinking.
Jaskier is fine, because the alternative is… well, he genuinely doesn’t know. And he very much does not want to find out.
“Jaskier.” Someone is shaking his shoulder. It takes a while to drag himself out of his fitful sleep and place where he is and what is going on. He had done sword forms until his thighs and shoulders ached and then curled up in bed because he was exhausted. Geralt would have told him off and made him drink some water and have a snack before he took a nap, but Geralt isn’t here. Jaskier feels stiff and sore and his scalp is itchy with dried sweat. With context none of this is surprising.
Jaskier makes himself roll over and blink his eyes open. Radovid is hovering above him. This sets off a series of alarm bells that Jaskier has to quiet. Radovid has been nothing but caring and considerate in the face of Jaskier’s… whatever this is. There’s no cause to panic.
Radovid looks puzzled for a moment as though he is equally surprised to be found hovering over Jaskier and says “I brought you something to eat.”
They were both still for another awkward stretch of time until Jaskier unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth—it feels slightly fuzzy and tastes a bit odd. “You’re… in my way.”
“Oh.” Radovid flails slightly and takes several hurried steps back.
Jaskier struggles to sit. He feels awful, somewhat lightheaded, but it’s fine. He just needs to eat and he’ll feel better. And there’s food right there, he doesn’t even have to stand up. Radovid, or more likely a member of the kitchen staff, had left a tray of sliced meat and rolls of bread and a pitcher of water on the table next to the bed. He drinks a full glass of water and picks at one of the rolls.
Radovid is watching with his mouth slightly open. It should be unnerving, and it is slightly, but there’s something intrinsically honest about the expression even if Jaskier can’t quite parse it.
Jaskier focuses very intently on his food. Unfortunately, it is a lot less interesting than Radovid and his attention keeps drifting back. He finishes the roll while Radovid watches in continued silence, and pulls apart a second roll which he stuffs full of the sliced meat. Jaskier takes a bite—it’s too salty and the bread feels dry in a way that’s difficult to swallow. He puts the sandwich down and pours himself another glass of water. Sipping from the glass of water is not enough to keep him from staring back at Radovid.
“What do you want? I—ah, sorry. I should thank you for the food. Thank you?”
“It was no trouble,” Radovid replied softly in a way that makes Jaskier feel as if he’s done something wrong. He has, he’s being rude and unsociable but that’s supposed to be the plan. Jaskier is finding that he doesn’t actually like the plan, but he’s finding it difficult to do anything else.
“I should leave you to it,” Radovid says, visibly cringing.
“I’m sure you’re busy. Kingdom to run and all.”
“Ah, not particularly, no. Dijkstra—Philippa too but she’s more subtle about it—would rather I did less.”
Jaskier blinks at Radovid a bit stupidly. Part of him wants very badly for Radovid to stay, but the king’s presence makes it harder to cling on to all of Jaskier’s desperate threads of fine-ness. But Jaskier doesn’t want to just be fine. No, he’s not ready for that train of thought. Jaskier does not want to eat the sandwich but he picks it up anyway and takes another bite.
He chews and swallows watching Radovid watch him. It takes Jaskier an unreasonably long time to finish the bite of food. He clears his throat. “Well, I am clearly very busy so—“ Jaskier gestures at the collection of empty chairs clustered around the rug before the fireplace.
“I don’t want to intrude.”
“This is literally your bedroom.”
Radovid sits, angling the chair towards the bed, but he’s quite far away. Jaskier pulls apart his sandwich and starts to eat little bits of the sliced meat. It’s less overwhelmingly salty now that he’s had more water. He misses Geralt. Geralt would figure out what an adequate amount of food was and grumble at Jaskier until he ate it. Now Jaskier has to do it for himself. It’s exhausting.
He looks up at Radovid again.
“I’m sorry I’m not being very entertaining,” Radovid says. Which is nonsensical, so Jaskier snorts inelegantly.
“Bit outside of the King of Redainia’s job description?”
Radovid looks surprised by this, which is even more nonsensical.
They sit in awkward silence while Jaskier finishes his sandwich. It’s somewhat of a relief.
“Ah, what do you like to eat?” Radovid asks.
“What?”
“It doesn’t seem to be sandwiches, and then I’d know for next time?”
Jaskier’s stomach twists. It feels like grief but he’s not quite sure why. “Oh. Sandwiches are fine. I’m not very hungry.”
Radovid looks at him shrewdly. Jaskier shouldn’t have encouraged him to stay.
“No one likes sandwiches,” Radovid says finally. Jaskier can’t help but laugh at that.
Jaskier seriously considers telling Radovid to fuck off. That would be more inline with the plan, but Jaskier really doesn’t want to. He answers the question: “Chicken soup, with dumplings, uh, and carrots.”
Jaskier’s pretty sure that’s not actually a good answer, but it’s the thing he can most envision himself enjoying at the moment. It makes him sound like an invalid.
He sighs, “That’s a bit boring, isn’t it?”
Radovid looks at him very seriously. “No, I don’t think so. There isn’t anything boring about simple and comforting. Not right now. I’ll take this under advisement.”
“You don’t—“ Jaskier stops. He doesn’t actually want to discourage Radovid from bringing him soup. His stomach grumbles.
Radovid smiles a little half smile and they lapse back into silence as Jaskier continues to pick at his food.
“You must be bored, cooped up in here,” Radovid says after Jaskier has given up on the remnants of his sandwich.
“Ah,” Jaskier can’t say no. He’s fine. Of course he’s bored sitting around doing nothing.
“I suppose. Been busy catching up on sleep, and I haven’t been spending literally all my time in here. I’m very clearly allowed to go out and wander about. I can entertain myself.” It comes out in a ramble and Jaskier’s not sure if any of it was what he ought to have said.
Radovid smiles in a way that splits the difference between polite and concerned. Not a particularly successful ramble then. He looks down at his shoes and scuffs them against the carpet.
Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, desperately trying to think of something else to say, but he can’t. He’s stuck with the stupidest drivel.
“I do like sandwiches. But a good sandwich needs more than just the nearest bread and leftover meat. You need proper bread–dinner rolls are too sweet, a dressing, and something crunchy to round it out. If you don’t think anyone likes sandwiches, it’s because your kingdom is full of bad ones.”
Radovid looks up at Jaskier, confused and lost until his face twists and then he laughs.
“There was a time I thought you would be suave, you seem like you would be from your songs, but I like you better as you are.”
It’s Jaskier’s turn to look at Radovid, totally lost.
“Ah, that was too forward of me—“
“It’s fine. Endearing, even.”
“I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“No one does.”
“Really. I’ve never…”
Jaskier waits as patiently as he is able for Radovid to finish. He’s certain Radovid isn’t sexually inexperienced, what is he going to say? He looks like he’d very much like to not finish his sentence but Jaskier raises an eyebrow and he does.
“… courted anyone before.”
“Still haven’t. I’m not sure what you call this—“ Jaskier gestures between the two of them, “but it is definitely not courting. We’ve already, very memorably, fucked.”
It’s a dismissive thing to say, but Jaskier doesn’t want to talk about this now. It’s too much. Having food and water in his system is a significant improvement but he’s tired and sore and sad. He swallows the last of his sandwich filling and lays down on his back, his arm dangling over the edge of the bed, vaguely stretching in Radovid’s direction. Jaskier’s not sure if it’s meant to be a dismissal or an invitation.
It doesn’t matter what Jaskier’s intention is. Radovid stands and leaves, but he walks past the bed, catching Jaskier’s hand, gently pressing his lips to Jaskier’s knuckles, before he does.
Jaskier watches him go in stunned, wrongfooted silence. Maybe he’s wrong. Who is he to say they’re not courting?
Radovid is still there, sitting up in bed, paging through a book, when Jaskier finally gives up on drifting between dozing and pretending to sleep. He feels groggy and tired but he knows trying to sleep more will not make it better.
Radovid notices Jaskier stirring immediately and slouches back down into the pillows instead of waiting for Jaskier to sit up.
“Good morning,” Radovid says cautiously.
Jaskier reaches out and tangles their fingers together. They haven’t touched much since arriving back from Toussaint despite sharing a bed. They keep drifting past each other, largely by Jaskier’s design, but he’s sick of it.
His smile is a bit thin when he says: “Is it still morning, really?”
Radovid, clearly humoring him but in a way that fills Jaskier with a rush of affection, turns to look out the window next to the bed. “Just barely. There’s breakfast on the table, if you like.”
Jaskier catches himself before he says no and says “Soon” instead.
Radovid reaches out to push Jaskier’s hair back from his forehead and Jaskier forgets to stop him. The way Radovid’s nose scrunches up with disgust and his hand hovers about as if he’s afraid to offend Jaskier by wiping it on the sheets is unreasonably endearing.
Jaskier laughs, shocking himself. He catches Radovid’s hand and rubs his fingers down Jaskier’s sleeve—he needs to change his shirt too anyway.
“Sorry, none of the people who usually bully me into washing my hair are, well, here. The lifestyle of an artist isn’t that glamorous—quite grubby really.” It’s not entirely true, Jaskier spends quite a bit of his time off on his own and rarely lets his hair get this off putting, but it’s not not true either.
Radovid looks at him cautiously with his liquid eyes and Jaskier wonders if he’s somehow made a tremendous mistake.
“I could… step up,” Radovid says, so quietly.
So that’s what it was. That’s adorable actually. Jaskier nods encouragingly.
“I’ll order a bath for after breakfast.”
“That might not be enough,” Jaskier says, aiming for and—oh thank the gods, that would have been awkward—achieving light-hearted flirting.
Radovid smiles crookedly. “I’ll supervise and make sure the job is done well.”
“If you don’t have more important things to do?” Jaskier asks sincerely.
“Philippa and Dijkstra can handle matters of state for a morning while I see to you. They can only do so much harm.”
Jaskier sits up suddenly. “They can only do so much harm?”
Radovid gives him a confused, panicked look. “I, I… no, of course not. They terrify me. I just meant I mostly sit and watch, feeling impotent and stupid while they make decisions—“
“Hey,” Jaskier cuts Radovid off and reaches out to cup his shoulders. He’s not used to having to explain or express himself clearly like this. But of course, Radovid hasn’t known Jaskier the entirety of his adult life. A fresh wave of grief and anxiety rolls through him—he misses Geralt so much sometimes. He evens out the shoulders of Radovid’s shirt just for something to do with his hands. “I just… needed to make sure we were on the same page about this. I don’t—I don’t know, expect you to just know how to run a kingdom when that’s not the path you ever wanted or expected to go down.”
Radovid bites his lip, and looks at Jaskier forlornly. “But I want to.”
“Then you will.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is. It might take you longer than you like, but there’s plenty of intellect in that pretty little head of yours.” Jaskier smiles and pokes Radovid in the forehead. He looks deeply affronted and then laughs.
“But your biggest problem for this morning is making me wash my hair, ok?”
“Ok.”
Jaskier looks shockingly vulnerable, sat in the half full bath with his knees pulled up to his chest. Water drips from his hair down the shockingly defined muscles of his back. Radovid feels an unpleasant combination of arousal and second hand embarrassment. The light hearted flirting Jaskier had summoned when they were in bed together and held onto through breakfast had evaporated rather suddenly and Radovid had no idea why or what to do. He’s also never washed someone else’s hair before. He barely ever washes his own hair!
He’ll do his best. It will be better than kneeling next to the tub, awkwardly observing the vulnerable slump of Jaskier’s shoulders.
“Tilt your head back?”
“Oh,” Jaskier says like he forgot what they were doing, but he does as Radovid asks, thoughtfully wriggling forward a bit so Radovid won’t get water all over the floor when he is inevitably sloppy pouring the water. He picks up the pitcher and moves towards the pair of buckets closer to the fire.
“You really don’t know what you’re doing,” Jaskier says. Maybe he sounds a bit amused but mostly he sounds tired.
“I said I would supervise, did I not?” Radovid’s mouth says on autopilot, but Jaskier forces out an awkward laugh.
“Use the water in the tub, you should save the buckets to rinse.”
“Right-e-o.” Jaskier’s eyes dart towards Radovid for a moment before gazing back away and into middle distance.
It takes a while to get Jaskier’s hair properly wet, it’s greasy enough to repel the water a bit and Radovid is erring on the side of splashing most of the water back into the tub over accidentally pouring it all over Jaskier’s face. Jaskier doesn’t seem in any rush. Jaskier hasn’t seemed in any rush since they arrived here. Part of Radovid is relieved—he wants Jaskier to stay by his side, which is more likely if Jaskier has no ambition to attend to—but he’s worried by the bard’s passivity. It’s unlike him. Or Radovid thinks it’s unlike him, but what does he really know about Jaskier? But it feels like Jaskier has given up and that can’t be good for anyone.
It takes a great deal of soap to get Jaskier’s hair to lather but gently scratching Jaskier’s scalp is pleasant. It’s intimate in a way Radovid hadn’t considered, especially when Jaskier relaxes leaving Radovid to support his head. He works his fingers through Jaskier’s hair for much longer than necessary, unwilling to give up the momentary fragile peace.
Eventually, Radovid follows the trail of soap suds down Jaskier’s neck with his fingers, tracing the muscles standing out in Jaskier’s shoulders. His skin is as luminescently pale and soft as Radovid remembers, but the texture of his body beneath it is different—harder. Perhaps the clearly defined muscles ought to suggest strength, but it makes Jaskier look brittle, fragile, defenseless.
“You…” Radovid says hoarsely, voice catching terribly. “I knew you were stronger than a bard had any right to be, but this is different.”
Jaskier turns to look at him, but Radovid doesn’t meet his eyes. He keeps his gaze fixed on the muscles of Jaskier’s neck, accentuated by the twist. He should not have said that, he has no right, he is over stepping, Jaskier will be angry with him.
But Jaskier isn’t. He speaks softly. “Spend enough time with a witcher and you pick up some strange notions, like if you can drill sword forms hard enough you don’t have to feel your feelings. So I spend a lot of time waving heavy sticks around when I’m—“ Jaskier trails off and then finishes in a massive understatement: “—sad. I think last time you saw me with my shirt off I was a reasonable amount of upset and worried instead of… distraught.”
This is several orders of magnitude more honest and vulnerable than Radovid was expecting, and he’s not prepared for it, with Jaskier so naked and fragile looking in the bathtub.
“I would prefer if you were happy, but a reasonable amount of upset is a good look on you.”
Jaskier looks at Radovid with a boyish grin and Radovid’s entire body goes hot with a combination of pleasure and embarrassment at being so pleased by a simple smile. But Jaskier’s smiles, his real ones, are treasures.
“May I kiss you?”
Jaskier looks shocked to be asked, but then he smiles again, a bit more suave than before, and uses a wet hand on the back of Radovid’s neck to guide their mouths together.
“I didn’t even have my own bedroom. I had no privacy…”
Radovid looks aghast.
“Radovid, don’t—“
“Jaskier, you don’t have your own room here either.”
“Oh. That’s not… it’s clearly an oversight. Your staff doesn’t look at me like...” Jaskier twists around to look at himself in the vanity mirror. “Or they won’t now that my hair’s clean.”
Radovid turns to follow Jaskier’s gaze and studies their reflections in the mirror. They have matching dark bruises under their eyes, but Jaskier, post bath, is looking much better than he has since Radovid had rescued him. His skin is still flushed from the warmth of the bath and most of the tension has leached out of his shoulders. Most importantly, though, his hair is clean. That had gotten really dire.
“Anyway, the looks you get when the staff suspects you’re having a breakdown—and not the fun artistic kind—are different than the ones you get when you’re being kept as a pet by someone who—“
Jaskier stops abruptly and clenches his whole body before forcibly relaxing. “I—you can tell a lot about someone by their staff. I shouldn’t have been testing you. And I don’t need my own room.”
“No, you’ll have one. It’s good for you to have your own space.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me now? Am I irritating you?” Jaskier asks with a half smile that Radovid finds deeply unnerving.
“Jaskier, no—“
“It’s reflexive. Sorry.”
“To be self depreciating? Because—“
“No.”
“I don’t find you irritating!”
“I didn’t mean anything by that.”
Radovid looks at Jaskier, aching and uncertain.
“Fine. You will find me irritating. No, stop it. This is a fact; I’m not being self depreciating. I am immensely irritating. Usually because I think it’s funny, but sometimes because I have awful impulse control and can’t help it. But my numerous wonderful qualities, including but not limited to my musical talent, exceptional skill as a lover, and ability to needle Dijkstra without quite pushing him into a murderous rage, balance it out, and I don’t doubt that you think so too.”
Jaskier leans over and kisses Radovid on the nose. Radovid threads his fingers through Jaskier’s still damp hair and tips his chin up, bringing their lips together. It’s a sweet and tender kiss until Jaskier licks into Radovid’s mouth and pushes him back on the bed. Radovid sighs, both pleased and well… he doesn’t know what Jaskier needs, how to make Jaskier feel safe when neither of them are.
But he wants to grab Jaskier’s hips and pull their bodies together, so he does.
“I’m fine.”
“Maybe you need to stop lying to yourself,” Radovid says firmly and with a confidence he does not feel.
Jaskier stares at him, somehow managing wide eyed and jaw clenched at once. Radovid thinks Jaskier is going to say something awful. That Radovid has overstepped and Jaskier is angry enough to get the quiet, scary sort of mean.
But Jaskier doesn’t say the worst thing he can think of like he had back in the cabin. He drops Radovid’s gaze and checks his nails.
“Let’s assume it’s, at the minimum, a useful fiction, and also none of your business.”
Radovid reaches out to put a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder but he ducks the touch. It’s a subtle move that almost passes as a coincidence. Of course, Jaskier—given his profession and the blurred intimacy between a performer and his audience—would be practiced at something like that. Jaskier had spent the first week deliberately just out of Radovid’s reach and he hadn’t even noticed. It stings.
He gathers himself. “I overstepped, I apologize.”
Jaskier looks angry for a brief moment before plopping onto a chair, his head bowed, forearms braced on his knees, and wrists dangling limply.
“Don’t apologize, I hate that,” he says softly.