Chapter Text
“What in the name of all the gods have you done to these fucking chickens? They’re obese!”
Jaskier looked up from where he was mending the fence of his new vegetable garden to see Lambert standing in the middle of the yard, looking down at a plump hen incredulously.
“They’re not fat, you’re just not used to seeing them healthy. Hold this for me?” Jaskier asked, indicating the upright sapling he was trying to tie in place. This was his fourth fence, and third attempt at a vegetable patch since Jolenta had made her first visit after the thaw. She had been the one to provide the seedlings, the chickens and goat had made a joint taskforce to demolish the first two gardens. Hence the increased height of the fence; it turned out the chickens were not yet too fat to fly.
Surprisingly, Lambert obliged and held the wood in place without bitching about Jaskier’s construction skills. “I don’t know about the chickens, but you certainly look less like a scarecrow. Figured out the milking alright then?”
Jaskier sniffed as though offended but knew very well that he had regained some of his lost weight. He wasn’t yet back to the lean muscle that he had sported while walking the path with Geralt, but his bones were no longer distressingly visible.
“Yes, I did, thank you very much. It wasn’t that hard. I even make cheese, now.” Jolenta was largely responsible for the cheese, but Lambert didn’t need to know that. Finishing off tying the horizontal fence post in place, Jaskier pointedly looked the Witcher up and down. “You don’t look so bad yourself. Not a bad season for you either then, I take it?”
Lambert grunted and waved a hand vaguely. “There was a... complication. Had to stay at the keep longer than usual. ‘s why I’m late.”
Jaskier fought to keep his breathing and heartrate steady, studiously avoiding thinking about what that ‘complication’ could be, and if it involved Geralt. He walked briskly back towards the cottage instead, gesturing for Lambert to follow. “Well, if you aren’t too fattened up from lying about all winter, there’s some soup on. I’m having lunch anyway.”
Lambert was apparently hungry enough to eat several bowls of Jaskier’s eternal soup, which had become a staple of his diet since midwinter. After the incident with the wraith, he had finally acknowledged the death wish he had been carrying around and let it go. He had realized that if he wasn’t going to die, he should work on living properly, and eating better was one of the first steps he had taken. The soup was left over the coals of the fire at night, and he added more grains, water and vegetables as necessary every morning. The result was a nutritious and ever-changing meal, which the chickens seemed to enjoy as well.
Lambert shared the chicken’s opinion on the soup and kept his mouth occupied with eating while Jaskier chattered about the improvements he’d made around the place over the winter and early spring. He grunted here and there but didn’t make any complaints, not even about Jaskier’s choice to paint the shutters an eye searing shade of yellow.
He was halfway through an absent-minded rant about not having anything to read, especially poetry, when Lambert finally interjected.
“If you miss being Geralt’s barker so damn much you can always leave. You’re not a prisoner.”
Jaskier dropped the bowl he was rinsing into the bucket with a noisy clatter. He looked up to meet Lambert’s piercing golden gaze, his heart in his throat. “I don’t-- I’m not...” he stopped, knowing any further dissembling was a waste of time. Lambert was clearly done with pretenses.
Jaskier sighed. “When did you know?” he asked in a small voice.
“There aren’t many bards who know Witchers well. Only one that’s familiar with a Wolf. You think we haven’t been singing that fucking song at the big blonde fuck for years? You think I'm too dense to put two and two together?”
Jaskier winced, mentally adding that to the pile of shit he had unintentionally shoveled on Geralt for two decades. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lie to you. I just...” he paused, swiping a hand over his face wearily. “I didn’t want to talk about it.”
Lambert’s ire seemed to pass, satisfied with Jaskier’s honesty. “Understandable. That asshole doesn’t need more people talking him up anyway. If his head swells anymore it’ll explode.”
Jaskier had never known Geralt to be a vain man, except for the hair thing, but he wasn’t about to argue with the man’s brother. He clearly knew Geralt better than Jaskier ever had or would. Instead, he summoned the courage to ask the question that had been burning on his tongue since Lambert first mentioned the other Witcher.
“So he’s... alright then?” Jaskier wasn’t sure what answer he wanted, whether he would prefer to hear that Geralt was heartbroken and fallen into misfortune, or hale as ever.
Lambert snorted. “He’s fine. Busy,” he added cryptically, dumping his own bowl into the wash bucket and taking over the rinsing.
Jaskier hesitated, but could not resist pressing further, “Did you talk to him about me?”
Pausing, Lambert looked at Jaskier with an unreadable expression. “No. Did you want me to?”
Confused by a rush of mixed relief and disappointment, Jaskier shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. No. No, it’s probably for the best that you didn’t.”
***
Despite his suggestion that Jaskier could leave, Lambert made no further comments about the subject and instead helped Jaskier with small tasks that would set him up for the summer, as though he had every expectation that Jaskier would stay. And Jaskier did want to stay; this little life was never something he had imagined wanting, but since everything that happened with Valdo, he no longer felt like the person he had been and struggled to imagine himself back in his old life.
Here, with the company of his chickens and even Mean Goat, he felt comfortable. Safe. He had never realized how precious a thing it was to feel safe until he lost that feeling, somewhere in Novigrad. Now he wasn’t sure he would feel safe anywhere else ever again, which was a depressing notion he tried not to dwell on.
Lambert was a welcome distraction, often hunting or fishing during the day to supplement the ever-present soup, and ruthlessly critiquing Jaskier’s knitting attempts in the evenings. They often played Gwent long into the night, swapping stories like old drinking buddies until Jaskier was tired enough to fall asleep without his anxious thoughts keeping him awake.
He still didn’t sleep well or much, often disturbed by nightmares and startled awakenings. Lambert did not complain about the bard’s noisy night habits, though whenever Jaskier wandered into the main room in a fit of restlessness Lambert’s eyes were already open and alert. He even took care of feeding the animals if Jaskier overslept as a result of an especially rough night and didn’t even rib Jaskier about it later.
As the season warmed, they settled into something of a routine. Lambert would go off on contracts for few weeks, then return for a handful of days rest at the cottage. Jaskier was always pleased to see him, and he felt reasonably certain that the Witcher returned the sentiment. It was hard to tell under all the insults and swearing, but there was a certain affection hidden in the barbs, the insults never close enough to the bone to sting.
Jaskier didn’t want to call it a friendship, he never wanted to overestimate his value again – but he thought they were at least amicable acquaintances. In his darker moments he felt certain the Witcher was only doing any of this out of pity or obligation, but most of the time he was willing to allow that Lambert was getting something else out of their companionship too. Perhaps he simply liked talking to someone who didn’t hate or fear him, rare enough for a Witcher, or maybe he really was trying to resolve his own issues retroactively. Either way, Jaskier was simply grateful to not be alone.
He was doing a fairly good job of pretending he was nothing more than a hermit and never had been, concerned only with his hens and the progress of his vegetable crop. He carefully kept his mind off the future and the past, living as much in the day-to-day details as possible. This was working out well for him until the day Lambert rode up with large package strapped to his saddle. The Witcher tossed the package to Jaskier as he dismounted and set about untacking his horse.
Catching the surprisingly heavy, square parcel in his arms, Jaskier stared down at it in bewilderment. “What’s this then? Very big soap?”
Lambert shrugged off the question, busy with the horse. “Open it and see.”
Intrigued, Jaskier took the package inside and cut the twine holding it closed. He was still staring at the contents a good half hour later when Lambert finished brushing down his horse and ambled inside.
“That good, huh? Stunned you silent. I knew you’d like it, after all that whining about poetry--” Lambert cut himself off as he rounded the corner of the table and could see Jaskier properly.
Tears poured down the bard’s face, his expression not pleased but devastated. He knew he looked terrible but couldn’t even bring himself to wipe his eyes, frozen in a sort of numb shock. Lambert immediately looked contrite and no small amount of panicked – it was clear that this was not at all the reaction he had anticipated.
On the table in front of Jaskier sat a pile of books, poetry, songs and history by the titles, a variety of writing implements and sheath of creamy paper. There was even a small travelling kit with inks. It was beautiful, a treasure beyond measure in this remote rural setting, but Jaskier could not contain his despair at the sight.
“Fuck,” gasped Jaskier, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me... this was so thoughtful, I should be happy, I should be thrilled-”
“Fuck ‘should’,” said Lambert emphatically. “There’s no right way to feel your fuckin’ feelings. I should have asked if you wanted it first.”
He made to sweep the books and paper off the table but Jaskier grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“I do want it. Or at least, I want to want it. I just... I don’t know how to be that person anymore.” Sighing, Jaskier released Lambert’s arm and stroked the cover of the topmost book, a beautifully bound volume of Kaedweni folklore.
“It was all I ever wanted to be, a bard. Jaskier the bard, famed throughout the whole continent. But I’m different now. So much has happened.” He gestured to himself, indicating his pathetic lack of composure. “I don’t know how to get back to that from this.”
Lambert sat heavily in the other chair, frowning. “You don’t have to. I’m sure as fuck not gonna make you.”
Jaskier leaned against the table and cradled his head in one hand. “But I want to, I think. Maybe. Eventually. I really loved it, you know. I was good at it, it’s the only thing I’ve ever been any use at really.”
Lambert huffed. “You’re pretty good at making chickens overweight. The knitting isn’t the worse I’ve ever seen either.”
Despite himself, Jaskier laughed. “Liar. I may be a mess but I’m not an idiot. My knitting is an abomination and a stain on the entire textile industry.”
“Alright, yes, it’s fuckin’ terrible. But your determination to keep working on it in the face of complete failure is inspiring, at least.”
Jaskier swatted Lambert’s arm playfully but was quietly grateful for the lift in mood. Sniffing, he wiped his face roughly and looked at the unwrapped package again. “Well, I could at least put this away for later. I don’t want it gone. I’m just... not ready yet. If that’s alright?”
Lambert rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s all-fucking-right, it’s yours. I’m certainly not about to start writing my autobiography.”
Jaskier's eyes lit up with interest. “But surely that would be a best seller! I don’t think a Witcher has ever recorded their life before, certainly not in first person!”
“There’s a fucking good reason for that too. A Witcher’s life can be summed up in one word; bullshit.” Standing up, Lambert walked away from the table, clearly done with this line of conversation.
Before he made it to the door, Jaskier stopped him by speaking his name quietly. “Lambert. Thank you for the gift, even if I’m too fucked up to use it yet.”
“I thought we agreed no thanking me for any of this. Remember, I’m not doing it for you--”
“--you’re doing it for yourself.” Finished Jaskier, nodding. “I know, I know. But still. It was kind.”
Lambert harrumphed and stalked out the door, but Jaskier thought he caught the tiniest hint of a smile on the Witcher’s scarred face.