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There is an ache in Yennefer’s chest that threatens to consume her every night when sleep is the furthest thing from her mind, because sleep will only bring fire. It’s hard to swallow the lump in her throat when the screams and cries of terror that fill the keep reach her ears, but it’s harder still to hear the whimpers down the cold stone hallway.
A voice that shouldn’t whimper like that, that should instead sing songs and weave tales of heroics and glory and the fire of the soul. Instead, it breaks in the memory of a different kind of fire.
Every night, Jaskier has nightmares.
And every night, Yennefer aches for him. For the way his once so bright eyes will draw nothing but shadows underneath them, tinged in red from all the crying. She aches when she remembers the way he looked at her on that ship in Oxenfurt. With such tenderness, such glaringly obvious yet intimately secret affection. Nobody had looked at her like that before, not even Geralt on his gentlest days.
Jaskier had. And he had whispered truths about himself, unprompted, just to comfort her in her personal hell. And then he had promised her she would get her magic back. Of that much I am certain. With that impossible conviction and an indulgent smile.
She aches.
Oh, and how she aches. Even when he doesn’t whimper. Even when he is back to his talkative shadow of the past, when he laughs and grins with a hint of sincerity. When those smiles meet her eyes and they lose a layer of masquerade, always lingering. When he hums a tune under his breath, as though he can’t help himself, as though he is tentatively trying it out again.
It doesn’t matter what he does, it always leaves her with an ache. With the memory of the ship. With the phantom sensation of her heart skipping as he filled the air between them with promises and left her no air to breathe.
She doesn’t know what it is, or how that ache could be soothed, but she knows already that closing her eyes and picturing him only makes it worse. Not worse enough to stop her, though, because it always brings a smile to her lips, miniscule as it might be, and life back into her heart.
The bard lives there now, the steady beat creating a perfect rhythm for his next song if only he could hear it. But it’s her secret and she will keep it like that. Keep him like that. In her mind, in her heart, consumed by the ache to have him here, to make those whimpers stop, to hold him until he falls asleep, to listen to him until she falls asleep.
It is on one such night that the whimpers coming from the bard’s room turn into sobs, and she hears her own name fall from his lips. Small and scared and panicked, and it’s like a hairline fracture coursing through her entire being. The ache now is stronger than ever, and Yennefer is already getting up from her bed. It’s not a hard decision to abandon her room and face the torches on the walls down the hall, the cackling fire not enough to stare her down. Not tonight.
But before she can even make it out the door, there is a weak and hesitant knock against it. More like a rasp for how weak it is. She opens it with a flick of her wrist, and comes face to face with red-rimmed blue eyes and an expression so wrecked and apologetic that she can’t even make out the weak smile on his lips.
“Jaskier,” she breathes.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your… witching,” he says, voice hoarse and wet, but all Yennefer notes is how he keeps his hands hidden from sight. Hidden even from her, the only one who knows what happened. The only one who heard his agony, who bore witness to his strong resolve and loyalty to Geralt, Ciri, and even herself.
It hurts that he feels like he has to hide from her. She wants to pull him against her chest, wants to be the one he hides behind. Not from.
“But, uhm. I don’t… I don’t know what– who…” He swallows his pathetic attempt at an explanation, but he doesn’t even need one.
She shakes her head and takes one step closer to him, watching how the tension falls from his shoulders when she says, “Come here, Jaskier.”
With a sigh of relief and possible embarrassment, Jaskier steps in properly and closes the door behind himself. She watches as he stands there, in the middle of the room, hands still hidden despite how she knows he would usually fiddle with his rings now. Yennefer doesn’t mean to stare, doesn’t mean to make him fidget and feel like he’s bothering her, but she really can’t stop looking at him.
Words have escaped her.
The words that would tell him there is no shame in nightmares. The words to make him believe he is welcome here, those to invite him into her open arms and cry so long as he just holds onto her and doesn’t let go.
She swallows and breathes out, meeting his anxious eyes again. Her arms open up in silent invitation, and when he furrows his brow, all she utters is, “Come here, Jask.”
And he does. He all but crashes into her with a choked sob and clings to her, holds her like she is something precious and he is a man robbed of all things good. And she? Well, she holds him in much of the same way.
That night, all they do is hold each other until the winter sun rises late in the morning. Jaskier leaves her then with a grateful smile, his hands still hidden. The ache in Yennefer’s chest doesn’t cede, and neither does the smell of Jaskier on her skin.
It turns into a bit of a routine then. He comes to her after a nightmare, and she will be there, waiting for him. Thinking of him, needing him even when he tries not to need her in return. He doesn’t try very hard, sometimes doesn’t even try to sleep before he comes here.
Yennefer never tells him she knows. Doesn’t dare to do anything but look at him until he winds his arms around her, and then all she does is hold and be held.
She knows that if she opened her mouth, she would drive him away. With snide remarks or with heavy truths. And if there is one thing on this Continent that Yennefer of Vengerberg doesn’t dare, it is just that: running the risk of losing the bard.
Not when he needs her like this. Not when she needs him even more.
So, they don’t talk.
Even if it becomes increasingly harder when he looks at her like that, like she is the only thing he knows, the only thing he wants, the only thing he could possibly need. Like he sees her. Like he knows. Yennefer finds that she would burn the world again for him to smile at her the way he does.
But she can't tell him. She can’t talk. They can’t talk.
And then, one night, they kiss instead. Gentle lips meeting desperate ones, and the fire that once was extinguished is set alight again, but this time it brings warmth where once there was destruction.
So she kisses him again and again, leaves them both breathless because where there is no breath, there can be no words.
It all crumbles when Jaskier comes to her, but lingers by the door he’s shut gently by leaning against it. He keeps a firm hold on the door handle, doesn't meet her eyes, and Yennefer holds her breath.
“I… I don’t mean to be a burden. You get to send me away, you know this, right? I don’t mean… I– I’m sorry.”
Yennefer frowns at her bard, wondering where the hell he got that impression from. His hands are shaking, fidgeting again where they have long-since stopped hiding from her. She wants to go to him and take them between her own, press kisses to the knuckles and take him to bed.
But that’s not what happens.
Instead, Jaskier opens his mouth again and instead of making Yennefer’s world crumble, he reveals the shambles of his own. “It happened before. I don’t mean to be too much, I know that can happen, but you’re not responsible for me, and you can– I can leave, I don’t want to burden–”
Before she knows it, she’s wiping his tears away gently and the breath she has been holding for weeks finally gets released. The entire world could be burning right now, try to suffocate her in thick smoke, and all she would care about is to make sure those red-rimmed blue eyes meet hers and realise they’re safe.
“You are the furthest thing from a burden I could ever imagine, bardling. You were the first to make me smile, the first to treat me like myself after everything. You were there. You are here. Nobody else is. You’re not a burden, Jaskier, you’re an anchor. You’re a raven’s wings.” She pulls his head down and rises to her tiptoes to press their foreheads together. “You’re everything, Jask. But never a burden.”
This time, when they kiss, it feels different because it leaves her a different kind of breathless, and Jaskier finally dares to whisper his adoration into her skin. In fact, it feels like a burden has been lifted off her chest, a heavy weight that made itself a home in a world without the bard. But now it’s gone, replaced by gentle kisses and affectionate whispers.
“I would burn the world again,” she says when they’re lying in each other's arms, because words are allowed to fall from her lips now when he looks at her like that. “If it meant I could have this.”
“Don’t.” His eyes turn impossibly gentle again and his lips twitch with a thousand emotions. A smile. But, most importantly, another promise. “You already have it.”
She smiles and runs her hand through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes to watch them shine with honesty. She has it. Right now, she feels like she has everything.