Chapter Text
Jaskier had been about to start recording his latest poem-turned-song when the sound of a knock rang through his flat. The microphone stood, tall and proud and a little crooked- the mark of an amateur. Blankets pinned to the wall acted as amateur sound proofing and his mother’s old cam-corder sat on the desk, wired up to the computer as it passed across all of the footage he’d amateurishly recorded for the video he would eventually upload to youtube.
The musician’s finger was hovering over the record button and he was tempted to ignore the knock. It couldn’t be anybody other than his landlord, surely, and he didn’t have the money for his rent just yet. But then the knock came again and Jaskier supposed he was obligated to answer. If he didn’t, the sound could come through on his recording… He reluctantly stepped around the wires on his bare wood floor and headed down the stairs.
A third knock. This guy must really be desperate to talk to him.
It wasn’t his landlord on the other side when he opened the door. Instead, a man in a neat, tailor-made suit stood there, briefcase in hand. Did real people still use briefcases? Jaskier had begun to believe that was something that only happened on TV. Or in the seventies.
“Can I help you?”
“Julian Alfred Pankratz?” The man looked uncertain, in a disgusted kind of way.
“Most people just call me Jaskier.” The musician smiled in response- amiable as always. Usually, this simple smile would win people over, but the man in the suit didn’t seem to be having any of it.
“Right… Well, Mr Pankratz, I’m Simon Beltrami, your grandfather’s lawyer. My condolences for his death. His passing has brought up some things I need to discuss with you- do you have time now?”
Jaskier blinked. First of all, nobody had called him Mr Pankratz since… well, since he was in school. And it had only ever been in that faux-respectful way that teachers have. Secondly, Jaskier hadn’t even been aware that his grandfather was still alive. He’d only met the man once and the interactions between them had been… unsavoury.
“Uh I was actually in the middle of-” He cut himself off, looking at the stern man in front of him. A small war waged in Jaskier’s mind for a couple of seconds. “Sure, come on in.” He stepped back, letting the lawyer into his small flat.
They made their way back up the stairs to the kitchen, where Simon Beltrami laid a handkerchief on the scruffy plastic chair before he sat on it. Jaskier simply leaned against the counter, waiting for his decades-old kettle to boil. They sat there for several minutes, listening to the rumble of the thing, hearing the water rattle around inside it.
When he could wait no longer, Beltrami lifted his briefcase onto the plastic table and opened it. He pulled sheets of documents out and began to read. Jaskier turned around to pour water and poke tea bags around two mugs while he listened.
Two hours later, Jaskier was throwing several belongings into a bag. He lovingly placed his guitar in it’s case and then booked a train ticket to Glasgow, and then a taxi from the station to the manor. His grandfather had left just about enough money to cover the cost, and then a little to spend on the house. To restore it to it’s former glory, whatever that meant.
While Jaskier sat on the train, he wondered what the fuck he was doing. He hadn’t even recorded his song, his microphone was still stood waiting to be sung into. His blankets were still pinned to the wall. The train journey stretched ahead of him for the next seven hours. But it wasn’t like he had a day job he’d be missing out on. He scraped by on his music, playing the odd gig in the back of a smelly pub, playing endlessly on rainy street corners, composing shitty jingles for advertising companies. He could do all that in Scotland too. And maybe, just maybe, his Grandfather’s run down manor would give him some inspiration- or at least a break- for him to write some new songs and finally cobble an EP together.
Or maybe he was just running away from his real life, like he always had been.