Jaskier drummed his fingers against the edge of the wooden table, the rhythm uneven as his patience frayed. The cabin was small—too small for his liking—and the single window did little to brighten the dim interior. Outside, the woods whispered with the soft rustle of winter wind, their skeletal branches clawing at the pale sky. Inside, the air was thick with awkward silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire and the occasional thud of boots against the floor as the teenager paced back and forth.

“I’m not babysitting, you know,” Jaskier said, breaking the quiet and throwing a pointed look at the youth. “This is... an exchange of mutual survival skills. You, uh, learn to sit still and not set things on fire, and I, in turn, preserve my sanity. Everyone wins.”

The teenager, a wiry thing with a perpetual scowl, snorted. “Geralt said to keep an eye on me. Sounds a lot like babysitting.”

Jaskier leaned back in his chair, clutching his lute like a lifeline. “Geralt also said not to get into fights..." He nodded to their bruised knuckles. "and yet here we are. You’ve got an interesting interpretation of ‘obedience.’”

They smirked. “You’re just mad because I’m better than you.”

“Better than—better than me? At what?” Jaskier spluttered, clutching his chest in mock indignation.

“Combat.”

The bard groaned dramatically, sliding lower in his chair until he was nearly horizontal. “I should’ve gone with Geralt and Yennefer. At least monsters don’t talk back.”

“Geralt doesn’t trust you to fight monsters.”

“Geralt doesn’t trust me to be left alone with a loaf of bread, but that’s beside the point.”

The teenager grinned, clearly reveling in the bard’s exasperation. Jaskier, meanwhile, stared at the ceiling and prayed to Melitele—or any deity that might be listening—for Geralt’s swift return.