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Title: Blue Is Underrated
Show: Jane and the Dragon
Pairing: Jane/Jester
Summary: He's got a pocketful of freshly-baked bravery. He's no knight; yet there's a thumping in his head, in his heart, that assures him otherwise.
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He's no baker, but as his fingers knead the dough with fresh, dexterous movements, manipulating the concoction with concentrated precision, she can't help but conclude his hands are a gift from the gods.
They're buttery and dusted with flour, dough sticking to the crevices lining his palms, crusting from the heat. And they're quick. Everything about Jester is quick. Movements, wit, tongue, mind; they all follow an intricate pattern while she flounders about.
His hands are smooth, too, unlike her own. Hardened through years of training, they're far from the marble, almost feminine quality of his own. His labour is with his mind, after all. Only the nubs of his fingers seem to be harder, yellowed slightly from constant drumming on his instrument.
It all seems lost to him, though. He throws himself into the work, kneading with a vigor that would put any knight to shame. She almost fears for the dough.
"I have decided, Jane," Jester disrupts her from her peculiar train of thought, almost singing his words in the same leisurely way of speaking he has grown to be identified by, "that I have missed my true calling."
She isn't sure whether to agree, object, or abandon her own lumpy, misshaped blob of something to feel his hands for herself. She settles for a shamelessly neutral, "oh?"
He nods wisely, mutely, though she doubts it is wisdom that brings his face such gravity. False modesty seems more likely to fit the bill.
"I have spent the years under the impression my life would revolve around rhymes, riddles and verse."
She nods, to show she is listening, and to attempt to dislodge a wayward bit of dough that had latched itself in her hair. It is persistent, though, and the battle is only won after several attempts of swiping at it with sticky fingers.
Jester pays no attention.
"Yet now I find myself at the center of my very soul," he informs her solemnly, still kneading effortlessly. "And I owe it all to this lump of god knows what, Jane."
He leans closer to her to whisper conspiratorially in her ear.
"The lump and I are soul mates."
"Is that so?" She raises her eyebrows, amused.
He nods eagerly, the bells on his hat ringing.
Jane sighs. "And what is to become of your soul mate once Pepper comes back in here and prepares it to be baked?"
"She, Jane. Good heavens. Not it."
Jane sighs again. It happens often when Jester hovers near her. Not that she minds. She rather enjoys it, actually. "Forgive me. She, then."
Jester's eyes brighten a little, before returning to their mask of leisurely apathy. His grin widens a little. Two small dimple-like indents appear on his cheek, flashing once before abruptly fading away.
Jane is immediately on guard.
"What is it?" She hazards to ask. There's a niggling feeling in the pit of her stomach, not dissimilar to the poor dough being plied by Jester's capable hands. It's almost hypnotizing to watch.
"It's quite simple," he begins.
She highly doubts that. An eyebrow reaches up to grasp her hairline without her permission.
He continues, unfazed. "We become dough stow-aways. Live the high life. Endure countless trials as we set off on a daring campaign in honour of this dough here. Just think, Jane, we'll be known as the dough thieves for the remainder of our days."
The eyebrow seems to be permanently etched into her forehead. "We?"
"It's a multiple pronoun," he explains helpfully.
She sighs resignedly. Removing her hands from the deathly substance, she searches for a cloth to wipe them clean. The kitchen is already a mess. Jester seems to have a talent in leaving a destructive trail in his wake wherever he goes. The dough begins to drip from her fingers ominously on the stoned floor as she searches for the missing item.
"Looking for this?"
Jester's idle voice carries through the otherwise empty kitchen, the poorly suppressed triumph hanging from it tangible. He holds a used cloth in two now meticulously clean hands as if it were a trophy.
"Thank you," she says, but before she can snatch it from his grasp, it's behind his blue back. Jester takes a step back, a grin stretching his skin enough to ripple beneath his cheeks.
"Milady," he addresses her with his favourite title, and she can't help but allow a small smile to tug at the sensitive corners of her lips, "I regret to inform you that this very article must be the one used to wrap the dough in when we make our daring adventure."
Wiping her hands on her tunic (ignoring a slightly disgusted look directed from Jester) she tilts her head. "And when will that be?"
Pressing a finger to his lips, and mouthing a silent shh, he creeps toward her with comical exaggeration. His fingers curl around her elbow as he wraps up his dough (and Jane's slop) in the cloth with his free hand.
"Right about now, I think."
Yanking her unceremoniously by the elbow, he dashes for the door while she stumbles to keep up.
"Jester," she half-laughs, half-chastises.
"No time for chit-chat, milady," he calls over his shoulder as they dash past Smithy, who looked no more than momentarily distracted at their sudden appearance and disappearance. The sound of his clanging grows fainter as Jester heads directly for the castle entrance. "It distresses my poor dough. She's quite sensitive toward mindless blabbering, you know. Never one for tea parties."
"However do you ever manage to get on, then?" She cried, willing her voice to carry against the wind whipping her face.
Jester let out a barking laugh, the kind which would send his hat tipping over his eyes. Jane was satisfied.
Well, she would almost be if she weren't being dragged outside the castle at full speed by an exuberant boy in blue.
She almost tripped multiple times, and was thankful to the stars Gunther wasn't around to see it. She would never hear the end of it. But every time, Jester stumbled only a little from her clumsiness, then quickly pulled the weight in his direction, forcing her to her feet again. She would have to warn Sir Theodore of the dangers of being dragged while running. It was near impossible to keep momentum.
He led her against the outer stone wall, flopping her and himself down onto the grass that grew a peculiar shade of blue-green. The wrapped dough was still in his hand, seemingly unharmed by her odd master. Jane wish she could say the same for herself.
"No more running," she panted, trying uselessly to fan her red face with her hand. Perhaps the severity of the statement was a little impaired by these factors. "I'm a knight, not an overzealous delivery boy."
Jester shrugged, a little coloured in the cheeks himself. "Same thing, really. Knights and delivery boys. Like cousins."
It was then that Jane discovered she couldn't laugh and breathe in deeply at the same time. What sputtered out of her mouth was some form of dying pig-snort.
"I quite agree," Jester panted.
They were quiet for some time, waiting for their breathing to slow, listening to the other's pulse return to the normal thump-thump-thump of everyday. It was always calming. From the outer wall, the hustle and bustle of the castle was little more than a droned out hum from beyond the thick stone. The grass was soft, the day was nice, if not a little overcast. She decided she was enjoying herself.
"This is an excellent place to hide in shame for the rest of a life, I think," she said conversationally, gesturing to the cow paddocks a little while away.
"Certainly. We could set up a tent in this very spot. Our little family – you, me, and the dough. Splendid."
Jane couldn't help but smile at the idea. It almost seemed, well, not nice, but something different entirely. Familiar, perhaps. Or a rare experience of contentment. The smile grew. Then she frowned. "She's been demoted to 'the dough,' has she?"
Jester's pale hand fluttered in midair as if chasing away a fly. "It could never have lasted. She lacked the substance the makes good dough, good dough. And I know good dough."
There was no point bothering to ask what he meant by that. She doubted even he knew. She herself was certainly never familiar with the art of differentiating one good dough from the other.
He sighed a little and sat up a little straighter, before apparently changing his mind and shifting to recline on his side, propped up by an elbow. He sought her face. Her eyes. "No. I'm afraid the dough and I have agreed to go our separate ways."
"It's still next to you," she pointed out, pointing at it with one finger for good measure.
He sighed tiredly. "Metaphorically speaking, of course."
"Of course," she replied automatically, suddenly feeling the tired heaviness herself. Perhaps feelings were contagious. She wouldn't be too surprised if they were.
She shifted onto her back to gaze up at the sky, glad she didn't have to squint on such a cloudy day.
"Jane?" His voice drifted back to her, sounding distant but so terribly close. It was soft.
"Hm?" She answered half-heartedly, keeping her eyes steadily trained on a cloud that look alarmingly like a cross between Sir Ivan and Pig.
"I wouldn't think any less of you if you admitted you were a tiny bit jealous of the dough."
He said it with such solemnity and sincerity that Jane couldn't help but glance over. But his face gave him away. A small, barely there smile was hatching at the right edge of his lips.
"I'm perfectly aware that the dough is, in fact, dough. Thank you, Jester," she clipped, turning back to the unfortunate-looking cloud.
"There's no shame, Jane."
She ignored him.
"Jane."
She sighed indulgently, letting the air tickle the very pit of her lungs.
"Jane."
"Yes?" She signaled for him to continue. Which was a mistake. Because she didn't want that.
She was met only by silence. Resisting the urge to fire him with a mighty glare, she resorted to glaring at the cloud above her. It had now caught up with another cloud that looked like a certain blue boy's hat, complete with puffy bells. Ivan-Pig-Jester. Her glare became ferocious.
"Jane, if you keep that up the poor cloud will burst forth with rain."
"Let it rain," she grumbled.
"I'm afraid that will not do. My hat always takes days to dry. Cow's skin, you know," he commented lightly, seemingly unruffled.
"Then take off the hat and store it somewhere dry."
What came next was a suspicious choking noise, though it morphed into a dry cough when she dared to look over. He sounded hoarse when he spoke.
"No."
Jane wondered how someone could sound so hoarse when speaking only one syllable. It didn't seem possible, yet, here he was, sounding so hoarse, without uttering more than a word.
"No?"
"No."
"Ah."
He was immediately worried by the knowledge that was packed into that 'ah.' He shifted uncomfortably.
"Ah?"
"Ah." The grin could be heard, even through the gap between them.
"I see," he struggled, though in reality the opposite was the case.
"Jester."
The voice was terrible. Calm, sweet, lovely; everything Jane wasn't. Well, except for lovely, maybe. And sweet, at times. More than at times, perhaps. But calm was an adjective that would never hang above the young knight's head. He felt doom approaching swiftly, with a handshake reserved for him, personally.
"I wouldn't think any less of you if you admitted you were a tiny bit embarrassed about your hair."
It seemed doom not only had a handshake, but an entire elaborate introduction planned.
"I am not embarrassed," he countered automatically with a blink.
He could hear her disbelief in the silence she gave him as an answer. He was sure there was a measure of smugness hidden in there somewhere, too.
"I am not," he insisted, willing his voice to project as strong, fierce, and dare he think it, manly.
Right, he mused to himself briefly, as manly as a squirrel.
"Let me see it, then."
He could see her smile, barely visible, hidden beneath what surely was a terrible impersonation of indifference.
"I will do anything for you milady," he returned grandly, hands encompassing great hunks of air to add to the effect, "but that."
He heard a rustling at his side as she propped herself on one elbow, mimicking his position. Their eyes met. And at that moment she had looked at him, really looked at him, paused, smiled her devastating smile, and shrugged as if it didn't matter to her.
"Alright then," she conceded quietly, as if the trees dare not hear them.
It was a blow. He felt terrible instantly, as wave of remorse crashed over him. It was not easy being the cheating, playful, irresponsible fool while the best friend had to be so darn noble all the time. He felt terrible. Again. While Dragon followed Jane, Pig followed Smithy, Rake followed Pepper, Inadequacy always seemed to follow him.
She began to rise, muttering something about duties and studies and time and responsibility. He stared ahead, burning holes into the horizon, into the world.
Jane got to her feet, but felt him catch her wrist in a tight grip. He tugged the wrist down, making her back bend uncomfortably so she could reach his level again.
Slowly, meticulously, without a word, only a slight frown, he guided her hand to the base of his neck, where she could feel his blood moving beneath the skin. With a sigh that sounded far too old for him, and far too deep for a court jester, he placed his hand on top of hers and guided it under his hat, which jingled at the sudden additions under it's unswerving shelter and protection.
He brought her hand over to graze his scalp, letting her fingers run through the hair, catching occasionally on the odd knot or tangle. Soft from years of constant protection, the hair somehow held a brittleness to it. Or bitterness.
"Long," she murmured, untangling some strands beneath his hat.
"Hm?" He asked, distracted, internally trying to decide whether the feeling running from his fingertips to his toes was dangerous. Probably dangerous. The way his luck went, probably very dangerous.
"Nothing," she muttered, lips curving down.
Finally her hand slithered out from beneath the hat, as if sheepish, a few stray strands caught in her fingernails.
"Blonde," she decided after close inspection of the culprits.
"More or less," he tried to shrug indifferently, but found his shoulders to be too tense, too wound tight. He winced slightly. "It would make sense, with the jokes I manage to entertain with."
"Your jokes are funny," she defended lightly, then pulled a face. "Most of the time."
He laughed, yet the uneasy quality in the air remained, making it thick to breathe in. Suffocation was never a concept he particularly cared for, what with it's blue face and tight lungs. But there was a pleasantness to this. A sweet drowning. A poetic end. He suddenly understood masochists.
"Come on," she smiled, pocketing a hair, "duty calls."
Her smile was returned, yet he wondered if she saw the burning on his lips.
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I never intended this one-shot to go anywhere much, let alone Jester's hair. I think an obsession started when we first get a glimpse of him without his hat on in the episode "For Crying Out Loud." That was a good image.
Reading is good for you, chickens.
(So is reviewing.)