Chapter Text
This is not what Jaskier had in mind when he was promised a new cellmate.
Sure, ending up in jail wasn’t really what he had planned anyways, just to start. Neither was surviving several world-shattering natural disasters, leading to a military coup, or quickly learning how to smuggle newly illegal goods such as “baby formula” and “coffee” to poor, random citizens like himself caught up in this ugly world. Resisting arrest wasn’t his brightest move either, but hey, could you blame a guy? And in the end, that didn’t make much of a difference.
Thus, a seven-year jail sentence. And a new cellmate. All according to plan.
His old cellmate hadn’t been too terrible of a roomie. An older man, he rarely spoke to Jaskier in the 7 months they had been assigned to the same cell. Jaskier still has no clue what the man was convicted of. But he’d always been semi-polite to Jaskier, at least to the extent of never threatening him or even getting in Jaskier’s (limited) personal space. It had been a peaceful cohabitation. Gold star of a cellmate, by all measures.
But the man had been moved to a different block - something about rearranging the attendance rosters, some bureaucratic bullshit - and Jaskier had been left in uneasy bachelorhood for two full days before he was informed a new cellmate was to be dropped off later that morning.
“Make sure your undies are off the floor!” the guard had barked at him through the door.
“Excuse you, it’s spick-and-fucking-span in here,” Jaskier had called back, sitting up on his mattress. The guard, predictably, doesn’t respond. Jaskier sighs, and looks around the concrete cell. It’s not like he had much after the apocalypse had begun anyways, and even less that came with him to prison. There’s a calendar of “The World’s Most Beautiful Beaches of 2002” (mostly useless and only for decor), a single paper cup on the edge of the sink, a small desk surface bolted into the wall and covered in various papers, and a boring paperback Jaskier had read three times already. The cover was so worn, the title was very legible on the spine.
But it was clean. Jaskier looked over at the bare mattress where his old roommate used to sleep. He mourned the loss of his solid 8 hours of sleep. His old roommate had never tried to jump him in his sleep. Two in a row was probably too much to hope for.
Down the hall came a familiar jingling of keys and echoing footsteps. Jaskier scrambles to his feet, then sits back down on his bed. Was there a protocol to meeting a new cellmate? Was it more polite to greet the person eye-to-eye? Or was it better to act casual, aloof, lounging on his mattress? He settles for sitting upright on the bed, eyes locked on the door.
A key rattles in the lock. The top third of the door is bars, and Jaskier can only see the faces of two guards.
“Heads up! We’ve got someone new for you, pretty boy!” one sneers as the door swings open. Jaskier knows better than to try and use the opening to make a run for it. He’s watched a few attempts from other prisoners. They never went well.
Jaskier steels himself for whatever threatening figure may come through the door. But when someone is shoved inside the cell, tripping over the hem of their uniform pants, something in Jaskier’s stomach plummets alongside his gaze. The figure is small - no, the figure is a child! His new cellmate is a girl, in fact, who could not possibly be older than ten or eleven…What the fuck?
“What the fuck?” Jaskier asks aloud as the girl is roughly handed a bundle of clothes and toiletries, and the cell door swings closed once more. Something has gone horribly wrong here. Nothing about this situation is computing. “No, wait, hold on. There’s a mistake here. What is a little girl doing here?” The guard merely whistles blithely, and the jingling of keys begins to head back down the hall once more. Jaskier stands, blinking at the girl, who blinks back.
“One moment,” he apologizes to her, then strides to the door, pressing his face to the bars. “Very funny!” he calls after the guards, who have long since disappeared around a corner. “I get it! Make fun of the new guy! Hilarious, even. I’m laughing right now: ha ha ha! Now come back and bring my real roommate, you pedantic, sadistic comedians!”
“Shut the fuck up!” someone down the hall shouts, and Jaskier quickly pulls back from the bars. Maybe, if he takes three deep breaths and turns around really slowly, the preteen girl will have been a simple hallucination. A mere figment of his stressed imagination. That’s got to be it.
Jaskier takes three slow, even breaths, and turns around to see…yep, there is still a preteen girl standing in the middle of his cell, looking at him like he’s lost his mind. But through the amusement and confusion, Jaskier can see the traces of real fear in her eyes. A closer look at her hands, and her white knuckle grip of her bundle is shaking.
Damn. For a kid to end up here…for a girl to be placed in a men’s prison…she’s probably more terrified of him than he ever was of any imaginary cellmate he dreamt up. She’s frozen in terror, watching him with wide eyes and a chest that rises and falls far too fast.
Alright Jaskier, damage control. Even if she is in here for some sick, temporary prank, you might as well make the best of it, eh?
The first thing he does is make himself smaller by slumping down comedically against the door in mock defeat. He rests his elbows on his bent knees and loosens up his posture, keeping his hands where she can see them.
The second thing he does is smile. It’s the sort of smile he hasn’t had the chance to use in a while, and it feels rusty around the edges. But it seems to do the trick. The girl’s shoulders come down from her ears, and her quick gaze assesses his position. Jaskier goes for calm and kind, rather than his usual overwhelming cheer.
“Tell it to me straight, is this a prank concocted by the bastards up in admin?” Jaskier asks. The girl shook her head, her long, white-blond hair falling over her face.
“Fantastic. That means some introductions are in order. My name’s Jaskier. What might be your name, my lady?” The girl, despite her terror, cracks a small grin that quickly disappears.
“Ciri.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ciri.” Jaskier uses his hands to talk, keeping his movements easy to track. “Now, as you can probably tell from my gobsmacked reaction, I did not expect to share a cell with a kid barely bigger than my big toe. Apologies for the shouting.” Ciri smiles for a split-second once again, gripping the bundle close to her chest.
“‘S fine.”
Jaskier gestures grandly around the small room. “I’ll give you the official tour. That mattress is yours, I suppose. It’s multi-functional, it works as a chair, a table, and a bed. The feds are economical like that.” Ciri’s gaze darts between her mattress and the one clearly claimed by Jaskier, then hesitantly sets her bundle of belongings on the bed. Jaskier nods encouragingly.
“There’s the toilet and sink, feel free to drink from the tap anytime. That leaves about…a handful of square feet that’s both a hallway and a recreation area. And…yeah. That’s it.” Jaskier lets his head rest back against the steel door. Ciri looks marginally less likely to tip over from fright. She even takes a small step backwards, then hops up onto the bed to sit, keeping her eyes on him.
It’s been far too long since Jaskier had to deal with kids, especially one this young. Especially one that’s probably traumatized, either by this new, ugly world or the circumstances of how she ended up here. Speaking of which, Jaskier is positively burning with curiosity, but he doesn’t want to overwhelm the poor girl, particularly if she doesn’t feel like sharing that story with him.
“Now,” Jaskier says gently “we hardened criminals in federal prison, we find it rude to ask a person what they were arrested for right away. It’s impolite, so I won’t ask you for your life story unless you feel like talking about it. But, how long would you estimate you might be here for?”
Ciri shrugs, “They said, ‘until I learn my lesson’.” Fucking hell. Jaskier’s going to burn this whole place to the ground one day.
“Well, my lady Ciri, seems like this wasn’t either of our first choices.” He sighs heavily. “I’ll make you a promise: I have no intentions of hurting you, or getting in your personal space, or anything of the sort while you’re here. I won’t even touch your bed. Here, we can even draw a boundary down the middle of the cell, your half and my half.” He traces an imaginary line down the center of the cell, scooting further to the right to avoid sitting on the line. He places a hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor.”
Ciri doesn’t look convinced. Knowing where her mind is at, and knowing that children of the apocalypse usually know how to use knives and sharp objects, she might just stab him in his sleep before he can try anything. Not that he blames her. Time to take a risk.
“Do you know what a pinkie promise is?” Jaskier asks. Ciri looks taken aback by the question. After a moment’s pause, she nods. “Do you want to make a pinkie promise with me? We won’t hurt each other, we’ll look out for each other while we’re both in here.” From his seat on the ground, he extends his right arm, pinkie outstretched. Ciri studies the offered hand, then slides off the bed to link her pinkie with his. Fuck, her hand is so small compared to his.
He cuts off the wave of protective endearment before it can fully form. No, no, Jaskier, you cannot get attached to random children thrown in prison with you. There’s no way he can protect her fully, or save her. Best he can do is make a shitty situation slightly more tolerable. Give her space and a watchful eye at most.
He lets go of her pinkie, and she sits back on her bed. For lack of any better ideas on how to end this conversation, he says,
“Well…any questions?”
“When’s the next meal?” she asks quietly. Right, she probably wasn’t fed this morning. Jaskier’s going to burn this place to the ground and piss on the ashes.
“In a few hours.”
“Okay.” That seems to be her only question. There are several long, awkward moments. Jaskier twiddles his thumbs.
“I guess I will…leave you to settle in on your own.” Jaskier climbs to his feet, dusting off his uniform pants. Ciri’s still watching him warily. He’ll have to prove he’s earned her trust, after all. A pinkie promise is a good start, but she doesn’t seem the type to trust easily.
Jaskier goes to the small desk surface. It doesn’t have a chair to go with it; he sits on the edge of his bed instead. The guards will only give him pencils, since pens can be taken apart. From his sitting position, his back is half-turned to Ciri. He pretends to focus entirely on the page in front of him, picking up the pencil and tapping it thoroughly against his chin. He feels Ciri’s eyes on his back, continuing to monitor him for several minutes. But hey, archiving waits for no man, and Jaskier continues to write despite being stared at.
He wants to prove that he can be trustworthy. He wants her to feel safe in her half of the cell, and give her some much-needed time to process and decompress.
Eventually, Jaskier gets lost enough in his work that he loses track of the time, and when exactly Ciri stops her intense watch over his every move. After some time, he becomes aware of the sounds of the mattress shifting as Ciri moves around. He assumes she’s getting comfortable, laying down perhaps. The sounds only continue, as if she’s wiggling or bouncing her leg. Jaskier looks up from the paper to see Ciri shifting in her seat, a blush apparent on her fair skin.
“Ciri, do you need to…use the bathroom?” Jaskier takes a wild guess. The toilet is clearly visible, but maybe she feels like she needs permission? She opens her mouth, closes it, then braces herself to admit,
“I don’t think I can…go…if there’s someone in the room.” She presses her lips together, in clear discomfort. Jaskier sets down his pencil.
“I’ll keep my back turned like this, I promise. And no one can see you through the door if you’re sitting.” He waits, then listens to her stand and pad her way over to the toilet on the opposite side of the room. More rustling, and then another long stretch of uncomfortable silence.
“I can sing, if you like,” Jaskier offers. “Loud enough that I won’t be able to hear you. Would that work?”
“Sure.” Her reply is tentative, but it’s the only idea Jaskier’s got. He starts singing the first song that comes to mind, which happens to be “I Walk The Line.” He’s had a lot of Johnny Cash on the brain since landing in prison. It feels appropriate.
He sings through the whole song once, skipping over any long instrumental pauses, and starts at the beginning when he reaches the end. Some of the lyrics he has to improvise, if he’s forgotten the words, but it does the trick. He’s halfway through the second verse when the toilet flushes.
“I’m done,” Ciri calls. Down the hall, a few folks are whistling or calling for Jaskier to stop singing, but most folks are used to his habit of singing by now.
“You can use the bar of soap they gave you to wash your hands,” Jaskier explains, keeping his back turned. He hears more shuffling, then the sound of the sink running. He picks up his pencil once more, trying to remember where he left off.
A second later: “Thank you,” Ciri says quietly.
“Anytime.”
***
Everything remains…peaceful until midday, when a sudden, metallic grinding interrupts Jaskier’s train of thought. Ciri, unused to the sound, startles and jumps to her feet. Jaskier puts down his pencil and stretches. When the grinding noise cuts off, the door to the cell clicks and swings open an inch. Ciri stares at the door, through which the sound of a hundred other people can be heard moving around and talking.
“It’s just lunchtime,” Jaskier explains. “I’ll walk down with you. Stay close to me, okay?” Ciri hesitates once more, but nods. Jaskier leads them out of the cell and down the hall, slipping into the flow of the dozen or so inmates coming from this floor to the main hall. Ciri receives plenty of stares, ranging from curious to outright leers. She shrinks closer to Jaskier’s side, not quite touching him still, and Jaskier does his best to put his body between her and anyone who walks too closely.
Despite the fact she is a literal child, and a young girl to boot, Jaskier doubts the guards of this god-forsaken prison would step in if someone wanted to hurt her, or him by association.
They quietly get into the line for food, and Jaskier stands in front of Ciri, with her kept somewhat hidden between the serving counter and the rest of the room. He holds his tray just above her head, trying to look nonchalant.
“Tell them if you have any allergies and take a plate. Don’t make eye contact with anyone else,” Jaskier mutters. The men behind them in line are craning their necks, but Jaskier keeps them both moving. The inmate handing out plates raises his eyebrow at Ciri.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” he growls. To her credit, Ciri doesn’t flinch at his snarl.
“No allergies,” she informs him curtly. The man raises his other eyebrow, but hands her a plate despite his doubt.
“Thank you,” Jaskier says quietly as he takes his own plate. He herds them both along the outside of the main hall to a secluded corner of the room. They still garner a good amount of strange looks, and a handful of whistles and jeers. There’s a pillar that blocks them from the line of sight of both the lunch line and a good half of the tables. She’s still far too exposed for Jaskier’s liking, meaning there’s a target pointed on both of their backs. But there’s not much he can do: prisoners aren’t usually allowed to take food back to their cells. They settle into their meals - meager, but consistent and warm - with Jaskier keeping watch of the other half of the room.
“What are you scared of?” Ciri asks.
“A fight,” he tells her honestly.
“With me?” she asks. “I can fight.”
“No, with me ,” he says, delicately ignoring that concerning statement. “And while I can hold my own in the occasional bar scrap, there’s no option to ‘run like the wind’ in here. People like to fight dirty.”
“I can defend myself,” Ciri insists, taking another large bite of her…mystery casserole? Thank the gods she’s not a picky eater.
“True as that might be,” Jaskier says, “it wouldn’t be a fair fight. A seven year old girl is going to lose to a 200 pound grown man every time.”
“I’m nine,” Ciri retorts. She’s small for her age, then. But then again, it’s not as if many children of the apocalypse get consistent, balanced meals. Jaskier holds up his hands in defeat, and they return to their meal in silence.
He takes the opportunity to study the girl. She’s small but not malnourished. Wherever she came from, someone had been feeding her. While her face and hair are superficially dirty, she’s obviously been clean at some point recently. Her hair isn’t matted, and someone has given her bangs that she keeps brushing out of her eyes. Under her nails are clean, no dirt and gunk built up. There are no obvious or recent bruises or scars on her face, neck or arms, though there could be under her baggy uniform. She hasn’t carried herself like she’s injured, though..
If she had a guardian, someone who gave her food and cut her bangs for her, then how the hell did she end up here?
“What do we have here?” demands a greasy voice nearby. Jaskier is abruptly shaken out of his reverie as he twists to see the speaker. A large man sneers down at the pair of them, lip curled and hands rolled into two cruel-looking fists. Jaskier tenses, fear curdling in the pit of his stomach.
“She’s the daughter of one of the guards,” Jaskier lies. “She’s just down here for lunch today. In a couple hours, she’s gone.”
“Nah.” The man spits on the ground next to the table, scowling at Jaskier. “They wouldn’t let her down here with us criminals. I think she’s gonna be here for a while, huh?” He leers at Ciri, who stares resolutely down at her mystery casserole. The hair prickles on the back of Jaskier’s neck.
“Let’s let the kid enjoy her meal in peace, alright?” Jaskier tries. The man, uncaring of Jaskier’s pleas, takes a step closer. Jaskier prepares to rise from his seat - to do what exactly, he doesn’t know, but he needs to do something - when a third voice cuts through the rising tension.
“Afternoon, gentlemen.” Both Jaskier and the sneering man turn to see a taller man with dark shaggy hair leaning against the nearby pillar. Neither of them had seen or heard him approach, as the sneering asshole seems equally as surprised. “What seems to be the issue?”
“Fuck off,” snaps Asshole Man. “None of your concern.” The newcomer pushes off the wall and takes a couple steps forward, subtly angling his body to stand between Jaskier and the other man. Jaskier’s never seen or spoken to this guy before, but he’s just glad the aggression seems to be off him.
“It might be my concern,” remarks the new guy, officially nicknamed Tall, Dark, and Handsome. “I think you were asked to let the little lady eat her lunch unbothered.” Under the table, Jaskier grabs hold of Ciri’s sleeve, ready to pull her out of her seat if the conflict escalates. He’s not sure why Tall, Dark, and Handsome is defending them from Asshole Man, but he’s not curious enough to want to stick around and find out.
“Back off. Don’t start a fight you can’t finish,” growls Asshole Man. He moves to stand chest-to-chest with Tall, Dark, and Handsome; the intimidation effect is ruined, as Tall, Dark, and Handsome is at least half a foot taller, and simply looks down at the man.
“Oh, can’t I?’ drawls Tall, Dark, and Handsome, sounding very relaxed for someone about to get into a fight. He shifts his weight ever so slightly, and Asshole Man freezes. Jaskier can’t see it, but he’d be willing to bet Tall, Dark, and Handsome has a knife or something sharp pressed to the man’s ribs or thigh right now.
“Why don’t we all just simmer down,” growls Jaskier and Ciri’s new hero, “and we’ll forget this little inconvenience ever happened. With no reruns of this little problem here now, huh?” The man flinches, as if Tall, Dark, and Handsome has jabbed the knife harder into his side.
“Problem? There isn’t a problem. I was just leaving,” the man insists. Tall, Dark, and Handsome jabs him once more, then allows Asshole Man to hurriedly turn tail and run. Once the other man has disappeared back into the crowd, Tall, Dark, and Handsome turns to smile at Jaskier and Ciri.
“I’m sorry your lunch was interrupted. Some folks just never learn their manners.” He holds out his right hand to Jaskier, his knife having disappeared back onto his person.
“Thank you,” Jaskier thanks him gratefully. “I don’t know what I would have…Thank you.” He’s still not sure why this man would intervene, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“It’s no trouble. Just keeping the peace. I’m Aiden,” the man introduces himself.
“Jaskier, and this is Ciri.” Ciri gives Aiden a shy smile. Aiden gives a surprisingly gentle smile back.
“How’d you end up here? In his cell, I assume?” he asks her, gesturing to Jaskier.
“I got caught,” she says.
“Got caught doing what?”
“Hiding,” she explains, which doesn’t explain much at all. “My dad and uncle told me to hide while they were gone, but the soldiers found me.” She looks at her plate. “I think they put me here to hurt my dad.” Jaskier and Aiden share a look.
Ah, that might clarify things. If her father is someone important in the rebellion, the government may not want to kill her yet in case they need her as leverage. But rumors of her imprisonment in a men's prison would certainly terrify a father into possible compliance.
“Well, little miss hostage, and her caretaker,” Aiden says, “if any more men are rude to you, rest assured I’ll take care of it.”
“Why?” blurts Jaskier. “What do you want? I can’t trade for much of anything.” Aiden gives a one-shouldered shrug.
“There needs to be some goodness left in the world. Might as well be this.” Jaskier can’t argue with that. Aiden takes a seat at the bench across from Ciri, resting his elbows on the table. Ciri, hilariously enough, copies his posture immediately, staring quite seriously up at Aiden.
“Will you be honest with me, little miss?” he says, in a soft voice that contradicts his rather menacing physique. Ciri nods solemnly. “Has Jaskier made you feel unsafe or uncomfortable in your cell?” Jaskier would protest against these sorts of allegations normally, but there is nothing normal about this entire situation. He understands why Aiden needs to ask, and it’s not personal.
“No,” Ciri tells him. When Aiden raises an eyebrow, she adds, “He made me a pinky promise not to hurt me, and he sang so I could use the bathroom.”
“I see,” says Aiden, leaning back in his seat. “You better hold him to that promise.” He stands from the table. “I’ll be seeing you around, little miss.” He nods at Jaskier as he takes his leave.
“Do you know him?” Ciri asks.
“Not in the slightest,” Jaskier says. “But I think we’ve got a friend in our corner now.”
***
After that, no one bothers them for the rest of the meal or during dinner. Jaskier still tries to keep Ciri out of sight as much as possible. There’s letting some of his guard down knowing Aiden is running interference, and then there’s tempting fate. And Jaskier’s in no position to be tempting fate much anymore.
Before lights out, Jaskier and Ciri brush their teeth and wash their faces. There’s no soap, but Jaskier tries to get her as clean as possible.
“They’re going to shut the lights off soon,” he warns. “There’s still light that comes in from the hall, but it’s very sudden.”
“Okay,” Ciri says. She’s been more chatty as the evening has gone on, at least from her initial terrified silence. They’re both sitting on their respective beds when the lights cut out. Jaskier hears Ciri jump, though she doesn’t make a noise.
“That’s bedtime,” he announces, trying to make light of the situation. “Are you ready to sleep?”
“Yeah,” comes Ciri’s small voice out of the darkness. With the hallway lights, he can just see her outline laying down on the cot. Jaskier lays flat on his back, tapping his fingers on his chest. Is she going to sleep? How the fuck do you put a kid to bed?
“Goodnight,” he offers, after several moments of awkward silence. Ciri doesn’t respond. Well. Jaskier guesses she wants alone time, or to actually go to sleep.
Jaskier’s almost dozing fifteen minutes later, when Ciri’s whisper wakes him up.
“Jaskier?”
“Yes?”
“Can you sing a song?” Oh, and why doesn’t his heart squeeze at that?
“Of course. Any requests?” She takes a minute to think.
“Do you know the song that goes ‘he’d like to come and see, but he thinks he’ll blow our minds?’ My uncle sings that one when I can’t sleep.” Jaskier closes his eyes and exhales a laugh. Ciri’s uncle has good taste if he’s singing her Bowie.
“Absolutely I know that one.” He starts to sing quietly, not wanting to bring attention to them from the other prisoners. He doesn’t remember all the words to “Starman,” so he makes up the words as he goes. When he gets to the end of the song, he extends the “la la la’s” for longer than the song’s real length. Eventually he trails off, listening in the darkness of their room for Ciri’s breathing. From the sounds of it, she’s fast asleep.
Huh. Maybe comforting kids enough to sleep isn’t so hard after all.