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Jaskier hisses when he spots the sorceress in the crowd, the darkly dyed silk of her gown standing out in the ballroom. Even amongst this gathering of too-rich and too-powerful nobles, her finery is a cut above.
“I beg your pardon, bard?”
He quickly redirects his attention back to the Marchioness he had been in mid-conversation with.
“So sorry, Your Excellency,” he rushes to soothe her ruffled feathers. “I’m afraid I wrenched a muscle in my arm the other day and shifted in such a way as to irritate it. It’s a small thing, but such a story! You see-“ He watches the woman’s mildy vexed expression ease as he chatters out some nonsense lie about his bravery in evading some fictitious bandits on his way to this appointment. He pays little mind to his words - his concerns lie with a certain violet-eyed mage.
What is she doing here? He knew she had parted ways with Geralt after the dragon hunt, but he would not have expected her in attendance at a small court function such as this.
Although, now that he thinks of it, he’s never really considered what it is Yennefer of Vengerberg does when she’s not tumbling his ex-traveling companion into bed for truly impressively loud sex. Terrify small children? Castrate hapless troubadours? Hang from the ceiling of stolen manor houses like a bat? Who can say, really?
What possible business could she have at his old university friend’s birthday party?
“Jaskier,” her voice cuts through his chatter, sharp and abrupt enough that he swallows whatever words were about to spill off his tongue.
“Ahh, Lady Yennefer,” the Marchioness greets her. “You are already acquainted with the Marquess’ favorite bard?”
Jaskier blinks as Yennefer flawlessly glad-hands the woman, facial expressions arranged far more pleasantly than he’s ever seen in close proximity. They… know each other? Yennefer’s had business with his friend’s household? What… What in Melitele’s name?
“We’ve traveled together, from time to time. Mutual interests that have since... expired,” Yennefer says, more polite than he'd ever have expected. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather like to borrow him for a dance and a chat before he takes the stage.”
“Of course, I don’t mi-“ the Marchioness interrupts herself “-Oh, but your arm! Will you be able to dance?”
Oh, thank the gods for terrible lies and convenient excuses.
“I’d love to, Yennefer, but alas,” he bemoans, pouring on a touch of drama, “an injury to my arm means that I will not be a good dance partner this evening. I won’t be able to lead well enough to make the showing you deserve.”
One of Yennefer’s eyebrows twitches up minutely, but very, very dangerously. How she manages to express so much with so little, he’ll never know. Perhaps she learned it from Ger - their “mutual interests that have since expired.” It doesn’t really matter. He knows she doesn’t believe him.
“Oh, dear.” The concern in her voice is hammed up just enough that he knows it to be insincere. “I was so looking forward to a dance with you, though.”
Jaskier does not breathe out a sigh of relief. Her gaze meeting his is too pointed, and he knows that infuriating upwards curl at the corner of her lips. He’s seen it every time she’s delivered particularly scathing jabs over the years. It's the look she wears when she believes she is about to be clever at his expense.
“I’m a fair lead, myself, though. I know it’s less than traditional, but I could lead from the front foot so that we might have the pleasure of a turn around the dance floor without aggravating your-“ her pause is minute, but Jaskier feels the derision in it nonetheless “-injury.”
The Marchioness beams at the two of them. Hmph. She’s clearly more fond of the mage than she is of Jaskier.
“Oh, but the man taking the lead is a somewhat arbitrary tradition!” She leans in with conspiracy winking in her eyes. “A small, harmless scandal such as that will only make for an interesting evening.”
Jaskier’s stomach plummets down somewhere into his toes. Yennefer’s smile in turn at the Marchioness seems soft and fond, but he knows that there’s something smug behind it. He’s in a corner, on the back foot, and the only way out without offending one of their hosts is to play along with whatever game the sorceress is spinning.
So when Yennefer sweeps aside her skirts for a gentlemanly bow, her hand extended to him, palm upwards in invitation, Jaskier can only place his hand in hers.
When she guides him out onto the dance floor as the local musicians strike up an easy tune, he can only hope that whatever she wants of him…. Well, hopefully it will not leave him too devastated.
“What do you want?” he demands of her, under his breath.
Her reproval feels palpable to him in the tilt of her chin and the sweep of her eyebrow.
“I did say. A dance, Jaskier.”
He’s almost taken aback when she tugs him into a closed position, deftly arranging his arm onto her shoulder and supporting it from underneath with her own. She is suddenly very, very close. He can feel the stiff stays in her bodice brushing against the fabric of his doublet and the soft caress of her breath against his cheek. Against his own inclinations, he finds himself caught in the color of her eyes.
He should… He should be saying something witty here, yeah? Something truly scathing.
But… Oh, to what end? What is the point? She’ll tell him what she wants soon enough, or she won’t, and, either way, why fight with her? The keystone of their animosity over the years has been a companion that discarded both of them in the end, and a knife against his genitals that he has come to remember more as a thrill than a threat.
She smiles at him as she feels him relax. A true smile, small, but undeniably sincere.
And then she steps forward into the dance, leading him into the pattern of the music with her.
Although Jaskier is unaccustomed to taking the back foot part, he finds that she is extremely easy to follow. Her grip on his hand is firm without being crushing, and her palm on his back is warm and steady. She is sure and certain with every step, guiding his body back just enough that he never fears for his toes beneath her impressively pointy shoes. When she initiates turns, he feels her light pressure at his waist, reinforcing the elegant arch of her arm, telling him the direction he should go. Every time she pulls him close again, she settles him back into position precisely on beat.
He finds himself becoming absorbed in moving with her, falling in sync with her sure and steady hand. He almost - almost - forgets who they are to each other. He is there to follow her, there to catch breaths of her floral perfume as she pulls him close, there to feel the cool softness of her cheek and the easy certainty as her shoulders rise and fall with the steps.
And her eyes…. Oh, Jaskier understands now. When her eyes are soft like this, crinkled oh-so-slightly at the corners with enjoyment, it would be so easy to fall into her, to trust that she wants nothing more than his company.
But Yennefer of Vengerberg has never wanted his company.
It is that thought that tenses his shoulders again, causing him to miss a step, throwing off their collective rhythm as he stops following her expert lead.
Her eyebrows quirk downwards and the easy joy leaves her eyes. He’d say she was disappointed, but, well.
“What do you want?” He asks again, still moving in time, but now terribly stiff and stilted.
He feels her shoulders sag underneath his palm.
“I meant it, Jaskier. I wanted a dance. I wanted to see-“ She breaks his gaze, looking past his shoulder as she sighs.
“You. You wanted to see…?”
When her gaze returns to his, her lips are twisted in a rueful moue.
“I wanted to see if you might trust me.”
She breaks position, and with another gentlemanly bow, exaggerated with irony, leaves him standing alone in the middle of the dance floor.