#then i thought of a burger split in half for marx and i was like I'm a genius

[pinkd3mon]

Magolor and Marx go to burger king

[brasskier]

Chapter 3 of my modern AU holiday fic series is up, and this one is the much-anticipated Jewish!Ciri chapter.

Hanukkah 2018, or The One Where Jaskier Conquers Judaism (A Year in Review):  When Jaskier discovers Ciri's birth mother is Jewish, he's determined to help her keep in touch with her heritage. He tries - and oftentimes fails - throughout the year to provide her this connection. Maybe he'll finally get it right for Hanukkah.

Find it on my ao3, or keep reading below the cut:

It all began with an offhand comment from Geralt not long before the new year. It was burger night, one of the few nights Geralt was actually around to cook. Most evenings Yennefer prepared dinner, or else they were left with one of the handful of dishes Jaskier could reliably not burn. And when he called into the living room for everyone's cheese preference - cheddar for Jaskier, pepper jack for Yen - Ciri had asked for a slice of American on hers. And Geralt had huffed a laugh, bemusedly muttered,

"That's not kosher." And for whatever reason, the statement attracted Jaskier like a moth to light. Before Geralt knew what was happening he'd flitted into the kitchen, pressed his elbows on the island counter and leaned forward.

"What's not kosher?" It sounded like an innocent enough question, but the shit-eating smirk on Jaskier's face said otherwise.

"Cheeseburgers," Geralt shrugged, returning his attention to the stove. Jaskier raised an eyebrow, dropped his chin into his hands. "Her mother was Jewish. Clearly not that Jewish, though." 

"Huh." And that was the end of the conversation, except the wheels were already spinning in Jaskier's head. He knew very little about Judaism, but he did know it was matrilineal, making Ciri, by birth, a Jew. And, just like that, Jaskier had found his new year's resolution. 

Jaskier was by no means a religious man. He loved his Hallmark holiday Christmas, but that was about the extent of it. He was certainly not a Jew. But how hard could it be, he figured. If he found a way to celebrate Christmas and Easter without really knowing what he was doing, he could surely find a way to give Ciri a slice of her heritage. 

Shabbat seemed like a reasonable place to start. Light some candles on Friday night, take a much-needed break from tech, have some challah. Except, Jaskier was no ordinary parent; he was going to go above and beyond for his lion cub and bake his own challah. 

This was mistake number one. 

The challah caught fire in the oven. He only had a split second to react before that godforsaken fire alarm went blaring, sending Yennefer trudging down the stairs to inspect the situation. Thank god Ciri's school let out later than the high school. He yanked the charred bread from the oven, sustaining a neat little burn on the inside of his wrist that he'd have to find an excuse to explain away later. 

"I'm going to try again," he declared, more to himself than anyone else, his wrist held under the running faucet. Yennefer shook her head, busying herself rummaging through their first-aid kit. 

"You're no cook, Jask." She turned the faucet, dabbed carefully at his arm with a paper towel. "Just go to the store and buy one. Ciri won't know the difference." His face fell, and he rubbed at his jaw with his free hand.

"But I will." She spread a glop of antibiotic ointment over the wound, trying her best not to scratch him with vampire-red nails. 

"You better not burn the house down," was all she had left to add, smoothing the band-aid over his skin.

The second challah (mistake number two), thankfully, did not catch fire. It did, however, refuse to rise, remaining a goopy mess in the bottom of the pan. Yennefer shuffled back through the kitchen again, presumably just to tease him further. A quick glance at the clock informed him he had just enough time for a third try before Ciri came careening in from the bus. Yennefer not-so-subtly recommended he go to the store yet again.

The third challah (mistake number three) did not catch fire. It didn't refuse to rise, either. Instead, it simply exploded, sending half-baked shards of bread splattering all over the interior of their oven. Geralt was going to kill him. Hell, he still didn't have a challah to show for his labors, and Ciri was going to kill him. With a beleaguered sigh, he shuffled on his coat, yanked his keys from their hook in the foyer, and called up to Yennefer that he was running to the store. 

After nearly wrecking his car in a race against the school bus and almost cracking his head open on the counter in a dash to make it to the kitchen, Jaskier finally had a beautiful, golden-brown challah waiting on the table. Well, actually, two challahs. He wasn't sure if he should get the regular one or the kind with raisins and, not wanting to mess up any more than he already had, he bought both just to be safe. 

He wasn't sure the hug Ciri flung herself into when she caught sight of the rolls waiting for her was well-deserved, but he found his voice wavering with the threat of tears anyway as he stumbled through the blessings over the candles. On the bright side, Kiddush was a fantastic excuse for a glass of wine. With a joyful b'tayavon, they tore into the challah. Yen was right; Ciri didn't know the difference.

Purim was early in 2018, on the first of March. This was, admittedly, something he knew very little about. But he did know that there were services for Purim, so he perused Google until he found a nearby synagogue that welcomed non-members. Perhaps it would've been better advised to reach out ahead of time, but Jaskier was never really one to plan in advance. 

This was mistake number four. 

He dug out one of the suits he reserved for parent-teacher conferences, enlisted Yennefer's help in wrestling Ciri into a sparkly yellow dress with more ties and zippers than Jaskier knew what to do with (mistake number five), and loaded her into the car before heading off. The first thing he noticed upon crossing the threshold was the costumes. A Batman sprinted past him, followed by an Optimus Prime, while a Princess Anna shouted after them. He glanced from the costumed children, down to his dolled up lion cub, and then back up. Fuck. A sympathetic father wriggled away from his wife and approached him, sticking out a hand for Jaskier to shake.

"You're new, aren't you?" He asked, and Jaskier nodded slowly.

"She, uh… her mom's Jewish," he muttered, tilting his head towards Ciri. She beamed up at the man.

"Papa is learning how to be Jewish for me because Momma celebrates Diwali and Daddy doesn't like holidays," she declared, and Jaskier tightened his grip on her hand. He was humiliated enough as it was; the last thing he needed was to explain his unusual family arrangement to a total stranger. The man quirked an eyebrow at her before returning his attention to Jaskier.

"She's a charmer, isn't she?" He laughed before gesturing towards a redheaded little girl around Ciri's age in a Wonder Woman costume. "That's my little girl, Eliana." Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief.

"This is Ciri." She waved up at them with her free hand. "And I'm Jaskier." 

"David." Jaskier shook his hand again, not really certain whether he'd already done so. "Well, I think it's awfully sweet that you're trying to learn for her. But for future reference, the kids usually wear costumes." Jaskier wanted to ask whether that applied strictly to Purim or services in general, but didn't care to embarrass himself further.

The service itself was not terribly long, which was a blessing, because it was entirely in Hebrew. Ciri, for what it's worth, seemed more entertained than him, enraptured by the opportunity to make as much noise as possible at the antagonist, Haman's, name. On the bright side, they got plenty of hamantaschen afterwards, and Jaskier was very grateful that he hadn't had the thought to try to bake them on his own.

Jaskier didn't know much about Jewish holidays, but he did know that Passover was pretty important, and that it was his opportunity to really test his mettle. It was perfect; he loved to entertain, and what was a Seder but one big dinner party. Valdo Marx, his distressingly put-together PTA arch-nemesis/band director of his biggest rival high school, had extended him an invitation to his massive yearly Seder, because "it's tradition to invite literally anyone ." Jaskier refused. 

This was mistake number six. 

The occasion started to unravel when he found out his parents couldn't make it, but he pressed on anyway (mistake number seven). He decided to cook for the occasion (mistakes number eight through twelve), but the matzo balls came out soggy and underdone, he cut himself slicing apples for charoset, the brisket ended up overcooked and rubbery, his potato kugel was a bland, tasteless mess, and he even managed to mess up hard-boiled eggs. No matter, he could surely just go to the store. But then Yennefer texted that she'd gotten caught up in City Hall and wouldn't make it back in time, and Geralt had work that night, and two did not a Seder make.

Jaskier tucked his tail between his legs and texted Valdo to belatedly take up his invitation. Along the way he ran in for a bottle of Manischewitz (mistake number thirteen). At least he'd checked the internet to make sure Ciri didn't need to be in costume for this holiday. Valdo leered at the bottle of wine he shoved into his hands as he shuffled through the door with Ciri in tow. Go figure, on the table sat an array of much more expensive (and tasty) wines. 

When it came time to recite the Ma Nishtana , Valdo scanned the room before his gaze settled on Jaskier and Ciri tucked away in the corner.

"Cirilla," he asked, "how old are you?" 

"Seven!" She provided eagerly, and Jaskier decided he needed to have a conversation with her when they got home about how it's sometimes okay to lie, actually. 

"That makes you the youngest child," Valdo continued. "Go for it." Ciri, very clearly, wasn't all too sure what exactly she was supposed to be going for, and Jaskier's heart sank. "The four questions?" Valdo elaborated, as if that would be of any help. At her continued and increasingly distressed silence, Valdo set his sights on Jaskier. "Tell me you didn't forget to teach her the four questions." (Mistake number fourteen.) Jaskier shrunk back in his seat, guilt drawn across his face. He leaned to the side and whispered into Ciri's ear.

"I'll do it with you, okay?" She rubbed at the tears forming in her eyes with a small fist.

"You're not a kid," she argued back.

"Your Dad begs to differ," he laughed, tracing the transliterated text with his finger. "Come on. Let's do it together." She nodded meekly, and let her voice fall under his as they stiltedly recited the four questions.

Valdo was onto him and his abject failure as a parent, and if he hadn't been already, Jaskier was sure of it when Valdo interrupted himself just towards the end of the Seder and gestured to him.

"My dearest Jaskier here is an esteemed colleague of mine." His words dripped with sarcasm, and Jaskier felt very small. "A fellow music educator." He raised his glass as if making a toast. "Jaskier, why don't you treat us to that impeccable voice of yours and lead us in Dayenu?" He tried to escape, he really did.

"My concentration was in trombone, you know. Not choir, like our marvelous host." Oh, but Valdo insists he has a beautiful voice (which he does , thank you very much.) "I haven't gotten to warm up." No matter, Valdo assures him. Take your time. "I think I might be coming down with something." Well then he should be in bed, shouldn't he, the poor dear, Valdo interjects. Finally, Valdo's uncanny ability to shoot down every last excuse outpaces his capacity to wrack his brain for them. Thank god for the musical notation printed with both Hebrew and transliteration, and thank god for years of sight-reading practice. He hobbles his way through it, and Ciri buries her head in his side. 

The Seder is not a total bust. For one, if someone had told Jaskier a minimum of four glasses of wine were in order, he would've converted a long time ago. Second, Valdo is actually a good cook ( damn him ), and his matzo balls are round and fluffy. Third, Ciri found the afikomen and all of Jaskier's transgressions were swiftly forgotten. She was asleep in her car seat before he'd even pulled out of Valdo's driveway. He decides to write the evening off as a wash and vows to do better next year.

Rosh Hashanah is the next holiday to roll around that he thinks is significant enough to bother with. And it's simple enough, right? Some challah, apples and honey, a few blessings? He can surely do that. Hell, how could he mess it up? 

He entirely writes off the prospect of baking his own challah and picks up one of those beautiful, braided loaves the day before. Unfortunately, no one at the kosher bakery thought to warn him that Rosh Hashanah challah should be round, so he has to run back to the store and get another one the next morning (mistake number fifteen). 

He cuts himself slicing the apples. Again. (Mistake number sixteen.) Perhaps, Geralt warns him, his knife privileges should be revoked. Except, this time, the cut won't stop bleeding. Spending Rosh Hashanah in the ER with Yennefer mercilessly teasing him the whole way through had not been part of his plans. Six stitches later, Yen swings by the grocery store and picks up a pack of pre-sliced apples on their way home while Jaskier slips in and out of sleep in the passenger's seat, and prays Geralt hasn't put Ciri to bed yet.

Ciri is wide awake when he sheepishly steps through the front door, curled up with Geralt on the couch and already in her pajamas. He leans over the two, plants a kiss on each of their foreheads. 

"Sorry, princess," he muttered, slumping onto the couch next to her. She smiled, wriggled free from Geralt's arm and pressed against his chest. "So much for Rosh Hashanah."

"It's okay." She tugged at his hand. "Can I see it?" She asked, gesturing towards the bulky bandage wrapped around his left hand. He held it out for her to inspect while Geralt reminded her to be gentle. "Did it hurt?" He couldn't help but laugh.

"It did. Which is why we don't let you use the big knife." And why Jaskier also probably shouldn't be allowed to use it either. 

"Who said Rosh Hashanah had to be cancelled?" Yennefer emerged from the kitchen with a plate full of sliced apples, round challah, and honey, shifting onto the couch next to Geralt. Ciri leapt up, elbowing both Geralt and Jaskier in the process, and devoured the plate eagerly. Maybe it wasn't entirely a bust, after all. Just no more apple slicing moving forward.

Yom Kippur is a big deal. Like, a really big deal, and very serious. Jaskier knows it's not exactly the holiday Ciri is looking forward to, but he has to prove he's serious. It's very important. So, he decides they're going to services.

This was mistake number seventeen.

Step one is waking up at the crack of dawn, dragging himself out of bed, and making an entire pot of coffee before he remembers he's supposed to be fasting (mistake number eighteen) and can't actually drink it. Step two requires digging the suit up again and stopping Yen on her way out the door so she can fix his tie. Step three is to rouse Ciri, singlehandedly deal with the inevitable meltdown that accompanies waking an eight-year-old early on a day off from school (mistake number nineteen), and enviously watch her devour breakfast before the inevitable battle of getting her into a dress. 

The service is long . It is boring. It is entirely in Hebrew. And it is certainly not designed with hyperactive elementary schoolers (or their starving, restless parents) in mind. After the third time he thinks it's finally ending, only for the Rabbi to launch back into prayer again, Ciri starts to get especially antsy.

"I need to use the potty," she tells him urgently in that whisper-shout that is a trademark of youth. Fine, he can handle that. He shimmies her through rows of enraptured attendees, waits like a sentinel outside the door to the women's room, and then tiptoes back in. 

"Papa, I'm hungry." Not exactly something to announce to a room full of people who can't eat, but so be it. Another hushed escape, a quick munch on the Goldfish he'd been smart enough to pack, and then their cautious reentry. 

"Papa, I'm bored." There's not exactly much he can do about that, so he shuffled his phone out of his pocket as discretely as possible, makes absolutely certain the volume is off, and passes it off to her. Unfortunately, this is only a temporary solution, and she's squirming in her seat before long. "Papaaa, I'm reeeally bored." 

"Just a little longer, lion cub," he assures her. He should've fled while he still had the chance to do so with dignity and grace, but he's sure it must nearly be done, and they can brave it out (mistake number twenty). This is, apparently, the very worst decision he could make. It is not, in fact, nearly done.

"Papaaa!" She's getting increasingly louder, wriggling around with increasing intensity. That heart-melting, will-bending pout of hers is drawn on her lips. This is decidedly not good. "I wanna go home!" That one was loud enough to turn a few heads, which means it's definitely time to go.

"Okay, okay," he attempts to placate her, "we're going now." But it's too late. The tears are coming. 

"Now!" That one's nearly enough to grind the whole service to a halt. He does the only thing he can think to do: tuck her under his arm, scurry through the aisle, and run. 

He feels dizzy and especially winded by the time they reach the car, and he's not exactly sure why. All he knows is that Ciri needs to please stop crying for a moment so he can catch his breath. It must be a Yom Kippur miracle (do those exist?) when she relents, jerking a hand free and placing it against his cheek.

"Are you okay?" Her voice is so tiny he nearly doesn't hear it.

"I'm fine, kiddo, just gimme a sec." He leans heavily back against the car, Ciri still clung around his chest. The dizziness passes just as quickly as it came on, and he hurries home eagerly, relieved when Ciri dozes in the back seat. 

They cozy up on the couch while Geralt mows the lawn outside, and spend the rest of their day off watching a movie - Ciri's choice, which is Moana, no surprise. He's sick to death of the movie but he sings along with every last song anyway. Damn that Lin-Manuel Miranda can write a catchy tune. 

Jaskier has all but forgotten about the earlier dizzy spell when the front door clicks open and a very sweaty Geralt parades inside, Yennefer, fresh home from work, on his heel. Which is why he really doesn't understand what's happening when he rises to greet them and the whole room tilts with him. He wavers, eyes squeezed shut and hand pressed against his face in a desperate attempt to will his head to stop spinning. It's no use, and before he can even go to sit back down he's careening forwards. 

His eyes fluttered open to a sharp prick on his hand, a high-pitched beep, and a total stranger hovering over him. He startled, fighting to prop himself up in a sitting position, but a firm hand he recognized could only be Geralt's forced him back to the ground. 

"The fuck's going on?" He managed to ask, and his own voice sounded oddly far away. He scanned the room for clues as to what could possibly be happening and settled on Yennefer's face just as she shot him a glare that he knew translated to watch your language. 

"You passed out, Jask." Geralt, somewhere overhead and out of view. "Hit your head good on the coffee table." Well, that would explain the pounding headache.

"And he is…?" He gestured vaguely at the stranger only visible in his peripheral.

"An EMT, sir," the man supplied, shifting back into view and shining a flashlight in his eyes. 

"Ah." He blinked reflexively, wincing at the fingers that firmly held his eye open. "You didn't have to call an ambulance, you know." 

"I didn't." Of course Geralt didn't, the man would probably gladly perform an appendectomy in the back of the bar at which he worked. It had to be Yennefer.

"Wasn't me." He considered for a moment if she could read his mind or if he was accidentally saying everything aloud before shakily remembering that he had a betrayingly expressive face. Well, if it wasn't Geralt, and it wasn't Yennefer…

"They taught us at school to call 911 if there's ever an emergency," Ciri casually explained. He couldn't help but smile. His little lion cub looking out for him, it made him feel warm.

"Alright," the paramedic commandeered his attention, helping shift him upright and propping him against the couch. "You're not diabetic, correct?" He nodded, which was a mistake, because silver stars erupted in his vision. "Your blood pressure is a little on the low side and you're pretty hypoglycemic. When did you last eat?" Oh, yeah. Fuck .

"Last night? It's Yom Kippur, I'm fasting…" He felt thoroughly, indescribably humiliated. He tries to be a good dad/surrogate Jew, and this is what he gets. As they say, no good deed goes unpunished.

"Happy new year," the EMT offered earnestly. A bottle was pressed into his hand, and he shakily raised it to his lips and drank without even questioning it. Whatever it was, it was incredibly sweet. "Some fast-acting carbs and a good meal should sort that out, but I'd still recommend you go in, just to rule out a concussion." He sipped some more on the mystery beverage and was fully prepared to politely decline when he felt small arms wrap around his shoulder.

"Fine." The second Jewish holiday in a row spent in the ER, just what he wanted . He was going to start racking up frequent flier miles if he kept it up. And all three of them accompanied him, evidence enough that he'd clearly rattled them. At least the doctor was sympathetic, suggesting he eat a bigger meal later at night next year. (Which was giving Jaskier a lot of credit, assuming there would be a next time.) He typed out sub plans on his phone while he waited for the discharge paperwork, knowing full well he wasn't making it to work the next morning. On the bright side, he didn't have a concussion after all.

Hanukkah was his chance to finally get it right. It was Jewish Christmas, right? And he'd always been pretty good at Christmas, so surely he'd nail this one. He dug around a few shops until he found a menorah he was fond of - cast in gold and decorated with music notes and a big treble clef - and proudly set it on the kitchen counter. He even bothered to watch a few YouTube videos of the blessings over the candles, so he'd nail the melody. Finally, he had to buy gifts. Eight of them. For three people. So, twenty-four gifts. He perused the dollar store, the budget section at Target, and every clearance section he came upon until he'd collected every last gift. Even wrapped them in paper adorned with little menorahs and dreidels.

The first night finally rolled along, and he could hardly contain himself. Ciri, too, was bursting with excitement; apparently Hanukkah was the one holiday her mother ever really bothered to celebrate with her. He wedged the first candle in place, carefully lit the shamash candle, and managed to return it to its spot without burning the house down. He led them in the two blessings without so much as a crack in his voice - plus shehecheyanu, which was reserved for the first night only (if reformjudaism.org was to be trusted, which he was sure it was) - and breathed a sigh of relief when even Geralt knew better than to blow out the candles. 

Gift-giving was always one of his favorite aspects of Christmas, so watching his family tear into his tiny presents and enjoying a warm embrace from each was easily his favorite part of the evening. They played a rousing few rounds of dreidel, in which Ciri inevitably won every last piece of gelt. The latkes he'd picked up at the kosher market were delicious, and this time it didn't even take Yennefer to convince him not to try cooking them from scratch. The final piece of the puzzle was the box of jelly donuts he'd hidden away from Geralt all day. 

And yet. Something was wrong, he felt like something had to be missing. It made him uneasy. So he finally did what he probably should've done to begin with; he reached out to a Rabbi.

"Are you looking to convert?" He was not prepared for the first question from the Rabbi - an older fellow named Levi with a gentle smile and kind eyes. 

"I don't think so. I'm not really sure what I'm looking for. Just to give my daughter a connection to her heritage, I guess." He'd been caught up in the personal mission of it all, but that was truly all that mattered. "We've always kind of been the spiritual-not-religious type, Christmas-Easter only. I was hoping there was something like that in Judaism, but there's so much history. It's hard to keep track." Levi nodded sympathetically.

"Judaism is beautiful because we are more than a religion - we are a people." He smiled fondly. "If you ask me, I don't think there's a wrong way to be a Jew."

"Then how do I know I'm doing enough?" That's all he really ever wanted, was to be enough. For Ciri, for Geralt and Yennefer, for his parents, for his students. "Which holidays do I celebrate? Is it okay if I can't bake my own challah? Do I really need to drag her to Yom Kippur services? Should she be Bat Mitzvah'd?"

"You ask a lot of questions, young man," he chuckled,  and Jaskier felt his cheeks flush. "Is she happy?" 

"Yes." That was at least an easy question to answer. Every step of the way, as overwhelmed and harried as he was, she was always a constant source of joy (or, at least, most of the time).

"Then there's your answer." There's his answer. Ciri is happy, and that's all that matters. Hanukkah 2018, it seems, was a success.