All things considered, Jaskier thinks he has a very good hold on his temper. He hasn't killed a human in damn near a hundred years. As he looks down at the man in the torn armor with a chicken on his helm, he's willing to admit that he might have overreacted.
A throat is cleared behind him and his shoulders hunch because he knows that throat-clearing, knows it as well as all the other non-verbal cues. Jaskier is officially in trouble. He doesn't turn.
"Why?"
"Because," Jaskier answers succinctly. He has his arms folded over his chest and his chin jutted out, but he refuses to turn and face his witcher. He doesn't want to see that face, the stupid face that has no emotion to it but still manages to make him feel like the absolute biggest twat in existence. That face.
"Jaskier, why?"
"He was going to step on Scratch." There's no sound behind him and the silence grows to be too much for him to take. Jaskier reluctantly turns, finding his lover there with Roach's reins in hand and their cat sitting near his feet. There's no blank expression, but there is a bright fury that sets his gaze on fire.
"He what?" A rumble, nearly a growl, all of Jaskier's instincts flaring to life and urging him to make himself smaller. He knows that the growl, the real violence, isn't directed at him, but he shrinks just the smallest amount. "I'll kill him."
"Too late." Geralt really does growl now, staring down at the dead man with such hate that Jaskier is partly surprised the corpse doesn't catch fire. He's a little disappointed that it doesn't to be honest. "I killed him and now he's dead and our cat is safe." There's a definite slur to Jaskier's words, a sway in his legs.
"Are you…. Jask, are you drunk?"
"No." But the sway is more pronounced now and his tongue feels thick. "Maybe." He's rapidly losing feeling in his nose. "Yes." The anger floods out of Geralt, replaced by something like a smile. No, that's a smirk. The little fucker is smiling at him. If Jaskier had any grace left in him, he'd smack him. "Shut up."
"I forgot this happens when vampires drink blood." Jaskier knew this would happen when he drank human blood, but the chicken man's boot was far too close to Scratch and the familiar was distracted by a worm. Jaskier was not about to let the cat get stepped on because of an asshole and a fucking worm. "Are you able to ride?" Jaskier doesn't try to talk, too busy concentrating on making it to the horse. He takes one step and then he's on the ground, Geralt outright laughing somewhere above him.
"We're not talking about this ever again."
The year is 2021, snow is falling, and there's a vivid splash of red puddled around Jaskier's boots. The human the blood belongs to is lying a few feet away, haphazardly concealed between two dumpsters. Jaskier is swaying on his feet, already at blackout levels of drunk.
Yennefer pinches the bridge of her nose because she absolutely did not sign up for this shit. It's bad enough that Geralt gets murderous when he's drunk, but it's even worse that Jaskier gets drunk when he murders. On a funnier note, drunk Jaskier loves to sing. It's not the usual alternative folk or punk-rock, no this is Broadway songs. Occasionally he'll forget the lyrics and slip in that stupid song about teapots.
"Do I even want to know," Geralt asks. He's a little tipsy, three pints of Sam Addams and a shot of Vodka will do that to a person. He's staring at their boyfriend with a vague sort of annoyance, like cleaning up a crime scene is no worse than taking out the trash.
"The human was stalking a teenager," Yennefer answers.
"Then I have no complaints." Yennefer agrees and it's a damn good thing that Jaskier got to the human before she did. She would have taken her time, broken him down into little pieces until he begged her for death. Just because the man was human, doesn't mean he wasn't a monster. "Let's get him home."
"Time to face the brutal truth," Jaskier sings, voice ringing out loudly in the alley. "We're all on a hitlist, might not live till Christmas, choked to death on Triscuits…. Uh, I'm a little teapot, short and stout."
By the time they make it home, they've cycled through Beetlejuice twice and Jaskier's stuck repeating the teapot song like a broken jukebox.
Jaskier is twelve the first time he tastes human blood, his mother and father watching him with an eagerness that borders on creepy. He takes small sips from the wine glass his mother had pressed into his hand, his head feeling lighter, his tongue heavier.
"Not too much, Julian," his grandfather warns. "Take breaks." Jaskier nods, licking his lips and savoring the taste of rich copper and strawberries. They feed their humans well, nothing but delicacies to better flavor their blood. His grandfather is a stern man, a hard man, but his edges seem to soften whenever he shares old traditions.
"That's enough for now," his mother says, laughing. "We don't need our flower to get too drunk."
"Nonsense, Elżbieta, let the boy have fun. It's nearly Christmas, after all." Elżbieta rolls her eyes at her father, but she's smiling still and Jaskier's smile matches hers. He loves his mother and she loves him, that's all that really matters.
"I think I've had enough," Jaskier says. He sets the glass on the table, careful not to spill a drop of blood on the pristine white tablecloth. It's been a good night so far and he isn't going to ruin it by being clumsy. "Can I tell the human thank you?" Father and Grandfather share a confused look, pity souring Elżbieta's smile. "What? What's wrong?"
"Did you think they survived the blood-letting?"
"Well, yes. Why else would they stay here?" Grandfather lets out a boisterous laugh, his cheeks turning bright red. Jaskier turns to his parents, but Mikołaj and Elżbieta have lost all traces of merriment. "Mama?"
"They give their lives for this, Dandelion," Mikołaj explains softly. He places a sturdy hand on Jaskier's shoulder to keep the boy upright, concern pinching his brows. "The humans we take in, they trade their lives to ensure their families are taken care of."
"But why can't we just take what we need and still take care of their families?"
"There are so many of us, too many for one human to feed." Jaskier can feel the blood sloshing in his belly, thick and hot, and he has to clench his teeth to keep it from making a reappearance. "It's alright, Julian—"
"It's not! It's not right!" He tries to stomp out of the room, but his legs have turned to jelly and his mother has to catch him. "It's not right, Mama." There's an entire lifetime of sadness in his mother's blue eyes, pools of it that Jaskier feels like he's drowning in. He doesn't want to be like that when he's older, filled with regret and agony and guilt for taking lives just so he can live.
"I know it's not right," Elżbieta says, brushing her fingers across his cheek. "It's not fair, but we have to survive."
"This is ridiculous," Grandfather booms. "They're just humans, boy. Little better than the cattle out in the fields." Jaskier's head snaps in the old man's direction, eyes blazing with a fury so intense that it should have turned Grandfather to ash.
"They're alive just like we are, they have families just like we do. Are we cattle, Grandfather," Jaskier demands.
"To some other monsters, yes." They glare at each other from opposite sides of the grand dining table, Jaskier's nails digging into his palms. "We do what we have to in order to survive. We feed on people, people feed on the cattle we raise, and eventually we'll be put in the ground and grass will grow over us to feed the cattle."
"I'm not going to be a monster."
And, for close to a hundred years, Jaskier keeps that promise. It's only broken because of a worm and a man with a chicken on his helm.
