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Despite the pain and trauma they’d all experienced at Kaer Morhen, how much they’d resented what had been done to them without any say in the matter, forced into a life they’d never wanted, the Witchers always returned home for the winter. They needed to, almost. Needed somewhere safe to shelter and recover and rest from their year on the Path. Needed to be around people who cared about them and trusted them and loved them for who they were, not those who shunned or feared or hated them, or only wanted them for their work.
Of course, not every Witcher returned to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Sometimes they were too far away to make it back in time before the pass snowed over, or they were too busy or injured to travel. Sometimes they sheltered somewhere else for the season.
Sometimes they never made it back at all. If they were lucky, somebody out there knew what had happened to the fallen Witcher, and that knowledge made it back to the other Witchers. Sometimes they were even able to recover the Witcher’s medallion and add it to the memorial tree. More than likely though, the Witchers would never know what happened to their missing brother.
Most Witchers, along with their heightened senses and strength, their healing, and their signs, ended up being betas. Whether that was merely a coincidence or whether betas were more likely to survive the mutations, no one had ever worked out. There were a few alphas and omegas amongst their number. Eskel and Vesemir were both alphas. Aiden, the only Cat Witcher allowed into Kaer Morhen, was one as well. There had been other alphas, Remus among them, but they had all fallen on the Path. Omegas were fewer still, Lambert and Geralt being the only two most of the remaining Witchers had ever known.
(Rarer still were mated Witchers, no matter how they had presented. But this was a topic that none of them ever broached. They all knew nobody would want to mate a Witcher, monstrous and mutated as they were. Especially since their mate would likely have an extended lifespan to match the Witcher’s own.)
Most Witchers made it home that year. One more had fallen, the medallion brought home by a brother who’d passed through the same town not long after the death. Another was stuck on the other side of the Continent, not able to make it back in time before the snow became too much. And Vesemir, good old reliable Vesemir, basically never left the keep now, choosing to remain and prepare it for his younger charges.
Eskel was one of the first to return home that year, desperate to escape the fearful, disgusted eyes of the humans he came across. Coën was mere days behind him, reporting that a few others were not far away. Lambert returned home rather late as always. The youngest Witcher always hated Kaer Morhen, haunted by the torture he was forced to endure there. This time he returned with Aiden, grumbling that the goddamn Cat had attached himself to him at Kaedwen’s border and refused to leave. (Despite the anger on his face, Lambert seemed surprisingly okay with this fact.)
The most surprising arrival was Geralt; not the fact that he was there, but that he was the last to arrive that year, arriving mere days before the pass snowed over. He had his cloak pulled tight around himself, little flecks of snow falling off where he stood. He looked on edge, like something wasn’t quite right. Like something was missing. But he looked… good. Really, really good.
“Wolf,” Vesemir said, voice low and full of relief, stepping forward to embrace his charge. He rested his forehead against Geralt’s, breathing in his scent, assuring himself that the younger Witcher was safe and whole. Geralt’s scent smelled different, this time. There was something different about it, a floral, fruity scent that Vesemir didn’t recognise. But he could tell that Geralt was well and uninjured and content, so he let it go. For now. “It’s good to see you home. I thought you weren’t going to make it this year.”
“I was… delayed, right before I crossed the border into Kaedwen,” Geralt admitted, pulling his cloak even tighter around him as he spoke, lifting his head away even as Vesemir continued to hold onto him. “Wasn’t well enough to travel for a few days. It was obviously unexpected, because it nearly stopped me from making it through the pass in time. But I’m here now.”
“Weren’t well enough to travel?” Vesemir repeated, tightening the grip he had on Geralt’s arms. “Were you injured? Were you sick?”
Geralt hesitated, biting his lip but making no move to pull away from Vesemir. “In a way,” he admitted finally. “But it was alright. Nothing important damaged, no permanent injury. Just needed time to recover before I could travel.”
“If you’re sure…” Vesemir backed away from Geralt, allowing his brothers to greet him.
“You always complain about me being late, you asshole, coming in after you’ve all settled and disrupting everything, making you all worry about my safety, and now you barely make it through the pass in time!” Lambert exclaimed, sounding annoyed. But he still stepped forward and gripped his brother’s shoulder, nodding his head in acknowledgement and relief that Geralt had survived another year. Lambert wasn’t a hugger. Never had been, probably never would be. The last time he’d hugged Geralt, they’d thought nothing of the white-haired Witcher would make it home but his medallion for the tree.
“At least I was delayed because I physically could not travel,” Geralt retorted, but he placed his hand on Lambert’s and squeezed it all the same. “It’s a lot better excuse then ‘I couldn’t be fucked’.”
“Now, now boys, play nice,” Eskel joked, stepping in between his brothers and pulling Geralt into a tight hug. “You’re supposed to kill monsters, not each other. Back off.”
Despite the apparent heat in their voices, the insults and barbs the Witchers were throwing at each other was a dance they had every year, their way of settling into the safety and comfort of winter, getting out the tension of existing in a world that shunned them for what they were forced to become. They were safe here, a place where only Witchers and friends of Witchers came. They could be themselves, get out their anger, in a way that wouldn’t threaten their safety or their lives. They needed that, desperately.
When Eskel pulled away from Geralt, he scented the air, a puzzled look on his face. “You smell different, Geralt,” he said. Clearly, he didn’t have the same reservations about the topic as Vesemir had. “Like flowers or fruit or something.”
Geralt’s expression was unreadable, deliberately blank in that practiced way of his. “I hadn’t noticed,” he said. “Too busy trying to make it through the pass in time.”
“Flowers and fruit? Probably spent too much time around that bard of yours, his perfumes and scent probably stuck to you like tree sap,” Lambert scoffed. None of them noticed Geralt pull his cloak even tighter around his body.
“Idiot keeps putting things in my bag and forgetting that they’re there until he’s fucked off to Oxenfurt or something,” Geralt muttered, sounding far less annoyed than he probably should be. “He was probably trying to mask the smell of monster guts and forgot the damn perfume again.”
The other Witchers looked at Geralt, to each other, and back again. Jaskier had definitely left belongings in Geralt’s bags before, and Geralt had complained about it often. He wanted to get going early in the mornings, Geralt had told them, and Jaskier would often just throw items in whichever bag was closest so he wouldn’t be left behind. If he didn’t need the item or didn’t miss it before parting from Geralt, or he’d used it for something of Geralt’s and forgotten about it, it would usually stay there until the Witcher came across the bard again.
Geralt’s explanation this time certainly made sense. If Jaskier had sprayed Geralt’s belongings with the subtle perfume, or had left it in the bags with the intention of doing so, or had even just forgotten the perfume, that would definitely track with what Geralt had complained of before. But something… something about Geralt’s explanation just felt off. Like he wasn’t lying, not really, but he wasn’t quite telling the truth either.
Lambert opened his mouth to say something else, probably to say something insulting to someone again, but Geralt spoke up first. “I’m gonna go put my stuff away, and rest. It’s been a long few weeks.” And before anybody could stop him or call him back, Geralt was gone.
The other Witchers looked between each other again, even more confused. “That was weird, right?” Coën said. “I mean, I didn’t grow up with Geralt like most of you did, but that felt really weird.”
“Aye,” Lambert agreed. “I mean, Geralt is the weirdest of all of us already, and not just because of his extra mutations. But that was definitely weird.”
***
Geralt was the first one to arrive for dinner that night (other than Vesemir who had been the cook), which wasn’t unusual. Having just made it back to Kaer Morhen he was ravenous, after surviving on meagre rations since the last town before the pass.
Eskel, Lambert and Coën arrived together after Geralt had already started eating, their fellow Witcher only giving them a nod of the head in acknowledgement.
“You still smell like your bard’s perfume,” Lambert said by way of greeting, as they all sat by Geralt.
Geralt merely stuck his middle finger up at Lambert without looking at him, finishing his mouthful before speaking. “Where’s that Cat of yours, Lambert?” he retorted. “You reek of his personal scent, if you haven’t noticed. You just been spending a lot of time together? Or is he your Alpha?”
“You take that back!” Lambert exclaimed, getting as close to Geralt as he could, his dinner knife held tightly in his hand.
Eskel stared between the two, not sure how or whether to intervene. Was it merely going to be a verbal scrap? Or would this turn into a full-on fight? Coën however, laughed, and laughed hard. Lambert had always been the easiest of the Witchers to rile up, long before Coën had ever set foot in Kaer Morhen.
Eskel turned to look at Geralt again, and saw the smallest of grins on the long-haired Witcher’s face. Ah. He was just trying to rile Lambert up, then. Trying to deflect attention off himself. And it had worked.
Well played, Geralt of Rivia. Well played.
Shoving Lambert to one side, fixing his younger brother with a pointed glare, Eskel resolutely planted himself in between Lambert and Geralt. “You keep falling into his traps, Lambert,” Eskel pointed out. “Both in swordfights, and with words. He’s baiting you, man.”
Lambert glowered at Geralt, but before he could open his mouth, Eskel spoke again. “Aiden’s in the library, reading. Apparently our library is more extensive than the Cat one has ever been. He was in the lab with Lambert earlier, though.” Lambert stuck his finger up at Eskel, but perhaps wisely decided to start eating. He’d give Geralt and Eskel this battle. Just this one.
As Coën and now Lambert continued to eat, the former chuckling to himself at the other Witchers’ antics, Eskel turned his attention back to Geralt. “Are you prepared for your heat, Geralt?” he asked. “You know I’m willing to help, as always. Keep you as comfortable and calm and pain-free as possible.
Geralt shifted in his seat, working his jaw over even though there was no food in his mouth. Knowing him well, the other Witchers could see the flashes of anxiety that Geralt was fighting furiously to hide. “There’s no need, this year,” he said finally.
“Do you want one of the betas to help you, instead?” Eskel asked. Sometimes omegas got weird about alphas helping them through their heat. Geralt hadn’t been before, but things could change. “Maybe Coën? I promise I won’t be offended if that’s the case. Your heat is about you, not anyone else.”
“It’s not that,” Geralt said, studying his dinner like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
“Well, out with it, Geralt,” Lambert demanded. “We can’t all read your mind like that sorceress of yours.”
“She’s not my sorceress,” Geralt responded automatically. “And don’t ever let her hear you say that. She’d probably kill you.” When the other Witchers continued staring at Geralt, waiting for an answer, Geralt sighed and set down his fork. “I don’t need help with my heat because I’ve already had it. Bit more than a month ago.”
“You’ve already had it?” Eskel repeated, nonplussed. “You’ve had it during winter every year since you presented.” Eskel wasn’t offended or affronted that Geralt’s heat had passed without him there; they weren’t each other’s mate, merely there for convenience because they knew each other best. But Eskel hadn’t been exaggerating. Even before they’d headed out on the Path for the first time, Geralt’s heat had come on during winter. Every single year. Not once had it occurred out of time.
Until now.
Geralt merely shrugged. “I was recovering from an injury to my sword arm, so I couldn’t travel or take contracts,” he explained. “Dunno whether it was because I was in the same place for a while, not in danger. But it came on.”
“You had to ride out your heat on your own? That sucks,” Lambert sympathised. He’d certainly been there. Heats were far more painful and long without a partner to ease them through it.
If it was possible for Geralt to look even more uncomfortable and anxious, he did now. He was practically radiating stress. “Well, um, no,” he said, shovelling several mouthfuls of food into his mouth at once to cut off any further explanation.
But the other Witchers were never going to let this go, and really, Geralt should’ve known that would be the case. “You found a heat whore willing to bed a Witcher?” Lambert exclaimed. “Tell us more, please.”
Geralt merely shook his head, continuing valiantly to try and eat finish his meal before too much information could be coaxed out of him.
Alas, it wasn’t to be. Lambert yanked Geralt’s food away the moment he had an opening. “If it wasn’t a whore, who was it?”
Geralt sighed heavily, seemingly resigning himself to the fact that he would have to share this information. “Jaskier was with me,” he said finally. “When it… when I went into heat. He knew what I was already, and I knew he was alpha and that he’s safe, so he- well, he kept me company.”
“You finally fucked your bard?” Lambert exclaimed, gesticulating so wildly he tipped a drink straight into Coën’s lap.
“You fucking idiot,” Coën muttered, stealing Lambert’s drink in retaliation. Lambert either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. Considering how Lambert enjoyed his drink, it was almost certainly the former.
“I didn’t fuck him,” Geralt said, taking the opportunity to get his dinner back. “He just held me, and- what do you mean, ‘finally’?”
It was Eskel who answered instead of Lambert, putting his hand on their younger brother’s arm and squeezing to shut him up. “Geralt, you’ve been pining after that bard since you first met him. We’ve all noticed.” His voice was kind, but Lambert was leering beside him, his gaze like daggers digging into Geralt.
“I have not been pining after Jaskier,” Geralt muttered, but he sounded entirely unconvincing. “But no, I did not sleep with him. He kept me calm. Stopped me from being in pain. That’s it. Now can I please go back to eating? I was injured, then I had my heat, then I had to head up the mountain. I’m famished.” Geralt started shovelling food back into his mouth again.
Put out, knowing that Geralt was keeping something back but that they wouldn’t get it out of him, Lambert scowled and reached for his drink before finally realising it wasn’t there. “Hey!”
“You knocked one over,” Coën told him. “It’s your own damn fault.” And with that, Coën sculled his ‘replacement’ drink and walked away, before Lambert could retaliate.
***
Geralt had always been the strangest of all the Witchers. Whether that was his extra mutations or his personality (or both), no one had ever been sure. Either way, that strangeness was nothing compared to the way Geralt was acting now.
It wasn’t that Geralt didn’t want to be at Kaer Morhen. He very clearly did, desperate to shake off that bone-deep exhaustion that every Witcher felt at the end of a long year. And he very clearly had missed his fellow Witchers, jumping at the chance to train with them or to do chores with the others rather than on his own, even at times that made the chore more difficult. But as soon as the hard work was done, or they were resting or had free time, Geralt was jittery, desperate to get away, hand twitching as if wanting to reach for something that wasn’t there, or mouth open in a silent whisper as if speaking to himself or a nonexistent companion.
He’d been acting so much like himself when around other people, so normal, that it took the others a while to realise anything was wrong with Geralt. It wasn’t until Eskel had gone to Geralt’s room to ask him something, and Geralt had growled at him, actually growled, snarling and baring his teeth before he realised who was there. As soon as he saw it was Eskel he apologised profusely, guilt rolling off him in waves, promising he didn’t mean it. Eskel understood completely (Melitele knew he’d done it himself before), but then he knew that something was wrong with Geralt. Geralt had never snapped like this before. Never like this. Not to Eskel, anyway.
“You’re not okay,” Eskel said, but Geralt shook his head.
“’M fine,” he muttered. When Eskel didn’t look convinced, he added, “I can get… testy after my heat sometimes. Normally it’s at its worst after I’ve already headed back down the pass in the spring, but since my heat happened early, well…”
“If you’re sure…” said Eskel, still sounding entirely unconvinced, but it was as plausible an explanation as any. “Probably doesn’t help that your heat partner isn’t here. Where is your bard, anyway?”
“In Oxenfurt, teaching,” Geralt explained, visibly relaxing. “Pays well, and keeps him safe from monsters and vengeful cuckolds for a season. Well, most vengeful cuckolds, anyway. There was one time…” Geralt shuddered slightly, relieving a memory that must not have been good, before turning to look at Eskel again. “What did you want to ask me, anyway?”
***
Geralt was… somewhat better, after that. He was very careful with his behaviour around the others when they weren’t doing anything, when he was at risk of getting lost in his thoughts. It was like he was in a constant state of almost-meditation. The other Witchers were careful of sneaking up on him, both worried about him accidentally hurting someone next time, and worrying about Geralt’s reaction if he snapped again, no matter how badly. Geralt kept himself busy, constantly training or working or doing chores with the other Witchers. Anything that would keep him tired and less likely to agitate.
Now that Geralt’s behaviour towards the other residents of Kaer Morhen had started to improve, said residents started to notice other strange things he was doing. Normally Geralt would keep his hair back somewhat, occasionally in a half-ponytail but usually just enough to keep it out of his eyes. But not lately. No, right now Geralt had his hair completely unbound, cascading to his shoulders and hiding any bare skin from view. Not even when they were training, and his hair got in his way and blocked his vision somewhat, did Geralt tie his hair.
Geralt was still able block the Witchers’ moves, still beat them rather soundly (and also rather more instinctually than usual). But he was slower, more defensive, and even Lambert nearly beat him at one point. The others were concerned. Of course they were.
Witchers never retired. They fought and fought until they slowed too much and were killed.
“I promise you, when I head back down the mountain and I’m back on the Path and taking contracts again, I will tie my hair back,” Geralt vowed. “Until then, I will leave it unbound. Unless one of you is planning on killing me in training?” His voice lifted into a joking tone with that question, and even Vesemir snorted behind his hand. “I didn’t think so. My hair is the one vanity I allow myself. Please just give me that.”
When nobody else spoke, Geralt grinned, flashing the very sharpest of his teeth. “Good. Now who’s next? I’m not done.”
While the others let Geralt’s unbound hair go after that, they began to notice other things. Geralt appeared to me more… comfortable with himself, despite how cagey and anxious and unsettled he still was. Geralt had always been the least comfortable with his secondary, hating how reacted when they found out, how they treated him differently, like they needed to walk on eggshells him, or that they could control him and force him to do things he didn’t want to do. Some even saw him as even more of a freak than he already was. An omega Witcher was an anomaly, after all. Even Lambert, the only other omega Witcher didn’t care as much as Geralt, already as angry with the world as he could possibly get.
But now, it was almost like Geralt had accepted it. Accepted who he was, those parts of him that he was born with, not given to him by mutations or by choice. Accepted that no matter what, he couldn’t change that he was omega. He was living with it, rather than supressing it.
When talk turned to secondaries and heats and ruts, Geralt used to walk away, change the subject, sometimes even storm off angrily. He still didn’t contribute to conversations, but he would sit and listen, clearly paying attention while not wanting to join in. Only tried to change the subject when it drifted towards him personally. And again, he seemed relaxed. At peace. It was… strange. A happy and welcome change, yes. But strange. It was such a complete turnaround from how Geralt had always felt about being an omega, and so seemingly sudden, it was almost jarring.
And then there was Geralt’s clothing. Similarly to a lot of other Witchers, Geralt favoured looser, less stifling clothing when he didn’t have to wear his armour, particularly when back at Kaer Morhen without the danger of the Path. Normally, anyway.
They were running the Killer the day the other Witchers noticed. It was safer and easier to not run the course all at once, Lambert, Eskel and Coën were at the start of the course, waiting for Geralt. Some of the Witchers had already made their attempts earlier that day (or were still trying to complete it), and some would run it later or in the coming days. They all had to run it before the snow became blizzards and became to hazardous, or they wouldn’t get a chance.
Geralt was late, having been waylaid by Vesemir as he’d walked past the kitchens. When he arrived, the first thing the others noticed was the irritated look on his face. The second was his what he was wearing. Geralt would normally wear his favourite loose black tunics all the time at Kaer Morhen, but particularly running the Killer. Having looser clothing, not being completely covered up or restricted, meant more breathability when navigating the treacherous path. Made it easier to regulate body temperature and prevent them from overheating, which made running an incredibly dangerous path a hell of a lot easier. But not today.
Today Geralt was wearing a tight black top that absolutely clung to his skin, highlighting every curve of his muscles. The sleeves were a lot looser from just above his elbow, giving Geralt at least some comfort for the task ahead. But the shirt went all the way up past his collarbone, even providing a skin-tight cover for the bottom of his neck. It was nothing the other Witchers had ever seen him in. Nothing they’d even imagined Geralt ever wearing. And yet here he was.
Eskel and Coën just stared at Geralt confused, as Geralt mumbled something about Vesemir asking him for help unnecessarily.
“Okay, I’ll say it,” said Lambert suddenly. “Geralt, what the fuck? What are you wearing?”
“It’s nothing,” Geralt said, entirely unconvincing. “It’s just a black shirt. What’s the problem?”
“The problem, is that we’re about to run the Killer, and that’s the literal tightest fucking thing I’ve ever seen you wear. You’re going to sweat yourself to death in that thing!”
“No I won’t. I’ve worn this before and been fine, Lambert. The sleeves help, anyway. Besides, why do you care?”
“The problem is that I have literally never seen you wear that, or anything like it, any winter since I’ve known you!” Lambert retorted. “You never wear anything that tight! It looks like your bard chose it for you.”
If any of the other Witchers noticed Geralt freeze, opening and closing his mouth like a gaping fish, they didn’t point it out. Instead, Geralt said, “The injury I got to my sword arm… it was my shoulder. Like I said when I arrived at Kaer Morhen, no permanent damage, nothing important injured, everything healed, but… it was bad. Thought I might bleed out for a while. Thank fuck Jaskier was there. He patched me up, made sure the wound healed properly. If I was still here without him, I don’t know how my shoulder would be. Would’ve had to learn how to fight properly with my left hand, at the very least. So while I can afford to be wary and protect it, holed up at Kaer Morhen, I’m going to be. And that includes wearing clothing that keeps my shoulder safe and protected. The cold is fucking shit for it.”
All the other Witchers just stared at Geralt, not quite sure what to do next. They knew Geralt’s injury had been bad, if it had delayed his travel, but the fact that they might have lost him over it…
“Fuck, Wolf, I had no idea,” Eskel finally said, his voice barely there, a thick note of anxiety and sadness to it. “We might have lost you this year.” He stepped forward, gripping Geralt’s left arm tight and pulling his fellow Witcher close. He rested his forehead against Geralt’s, breathing in the other’s scent. Geralt may not have been his omega, but he was still family. Still pack. More than friends, and more than brothers. Just the thought that he may have nearly fallen on the Path made Eskel, or any other Witcher feel sick. They’d lost many a brother over the years, and all had nearly died many times themselves, but it never got any easier.
“Maybe I’ll finally do better than you this year, Geralt,” Lambert joked, breaking the moment. His go-to way to cope with emotions and fear had always been humour.
Geralt chuckled and pulled away from Eskel, the moment gone. “In your dreams, Lambert,” he laughed. “An outfit change isn’t going to change how easily I beat you. I could overheat so badly I feel like I’m on fire and still smoke you.”
With all the Witchers glad that the heavy moment had passed, and that they were once again surrounded by levity (and making fun of Geralt’s outfit choices), Coën stepped forward. “Since I know how competitive you three are with each other, I’ll count you off. Give you a head start, so I don’t get all tangled up in you lot. Ready? Three, two one, go!”
***
The last, and perhaps strangest thing about Geralt’s behaviour at Kaer Morhen, was his lack of presence in the hot springs. They all loved the hot springs, couldn’t wait to get in them when they arrived at Kaer Morhen… but nobody was drawn to them like Geralt was. Like a moth to a flame, as soon as the carrot of the hot springs was dangled in front of Geralt’s face, he was there.
There had never been anyone who’d enjoyed baths as much as this man.
It was weeks into the winter now, and none of the other Witchers had seen Geralt in the hot springs. Not even once. Coën had come closest, arriving just as Geralt was walking out, already fully clothed and with a towel draped over his shoulders. Geralt had talked to Coën about their plans for the day, completely normally, before walking off and leaving Coën behind.
Not once did he remove the towel from his shoulders, even though he was completely dry.
After that, the other Witchers kept trying to catch Geralt in the hot springs. Previously they’d thought he wasn’t going there at all, now they all realised that he was. He was just avoiding them. Whether Geralt was going into the springs before the others woke up, waiting until they went to bed, or even waiting until they were busy with chores or outside the keep, the other Witchers didn’t know.
They’d even tried asking Vesemir. The mentor Witcher had noticed Geralt’s strange behaviour same as the rest of them, but he was refusing to get involved. Geralt wasn’t currently injured, and he wasn’t sick. If something was going on, Geralt would tell them in his own time. He’d told them about the Law of Surprise when he’d claimed it after all, and he’d brought Ciri to them. Whatever it was, Vesemir wasn’t going to help them find out.
Not that that stopped the other Witchers, though. It had become their life’s mission to figure out why Geralt was behaving so strangely. Exactly what he was hiding from them. Because while Geralt was good at keeping the actual secret hidden, he wasn’t exactly subtle that he had one.
It was one very cold morning in Kaer Morhen, when Lambert and Eskel finally got lucky. They’d both separately woken up early, much earlier than normal, before running into each other in the halls and deciding that this was a perfect time to check the hot springs.
The pair were as quiet as possible on their way down, lest Geralt’s Witcher senses pick up their approach. When they reached the doorway, they stopped and listened. They could hear something… Water dripping off of someone, and steady, slow breaths.
Geralt.
Lambert and Eskel entered the room, as silently and quickly as they dared. Geralt started, turning towards the noise, his long white hair sticking to his skin. Realising he had no chance of escape, Geralt instead lowered himself into the water, so only his head and part of his neck were showing. “What do you want?” he hissed, refusing to look Lambert and Eskel in the eye.
“We know you’re hiding something, wolf,” Lambert said, walking towards Geralt and kneeling down beside his chosen pool. “Your behaviour is too strange, too different from the usual, for just a wounded shoulder and an early heat. And we wanna know why.”
“We’re worried about you, Geralt,” Eskel added far more kindly, also kneeling down beside Geralt. “We just… wanna know you’re okay. I’m just a lot more obvious about that than our dear brother is.”
“Speak for your fucking self,” Lambert muttered, but his expression softened.
Sensing his fellow Witchers were not going to back down, Geralt sighed, pressing his hands onto the floor beneath him. They could see how tense his body was, smell the fear rolling off him. But they could tell by the look in his eyes- he wasn’t scared about what was going on with him. He was scared about the others finding out.
Finally, Geralt sighed. “I knew you were going to find out eventually. We were going to tell you next winter, do something about this next winter, but then that got thrown out the window…” Geralt’s eyes took on a faraway look, as if imagining he was somewhere else. “He’s going to be so pissed that you found out when he wasn’t here. He was so excited to tell you.”
Finally, Geralt pushed himself out of the water.
The first thing Lambert and Eskel saw was the scar on Geralt’s shoulder, as if something had tried to take a giant chunk out of him. It had to have been painful, considering how close it was to his scent gland and his neck. No wonder Geralt’s left arm had been out of commission before-
Wait, his left arm?
“I thought you injured your right arm,” Lambert spluttered, nonplussed.
“I did,” Geralt sighed, massaging said shoulder, almost on instinct. “This isn’t an injury. Not one that I didn’t welcome, anyway. Not one that I didn’t want.”
It hit Lambert and Eskel like a rampaging rock troll, the relationship of what Geralt was talking about. The delayed travel to Kaer Morhen. The early arriving heat. The agitation and desire to be somewhere else. Be with someone else.
It was a mating bite. Jaskier hadn’t just helped Geralt through his heat. He’d fucking mated with him.
“I knew you’d always wanted to fuck your bard!” Lambert exclaimed, which seemed to surprise Geralt. Definitely not the reaction he was expecting.
Eskel glowered at him. “Yes, thank you Lambert, for that very insightful piece of commentary,” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes before turning his attention back to Geralt. “It’s no wonder you aren’t settled, Geralt,” he said kindly, putting his hand on Geralt’s shoulder to comfort and ground him, carefully avoiding the mating bite. You’re a newly mated omega, and your mate isn’t here. I’m surprised you aren’t more out of control.”
Seeing nothing but warmth and kindness (and a desire to tease in Lambert’s case) in his fellow Witcher’s eyes, Geralt answered. “We talked about it. After. What we were going to do. Jaskier already had a job lined up teaching at Oxenfurt for the winter, and he couldn’t back out. He- we- needed the money. I nearly went with him, but with my injury… we both thought it was safer for me here in Kaer Morhen, away from the outside world, rather than in Oxenfurt and Redania where anyone could try and get at me.”
Geralt shuffled uncomfortably as if imagining he was back in that conversation with Jaskier, reaching out for a mate that wasn’t there. He wished Jaskier was here with him, perhaps easing his muscle aches as he relaxed in the hot springs, pressing soothing kisses to his mating bite.
Geralt’s mating, and said mate’s absence also explained the presence of Jaskier’s scent everywhere, and his perfume likely being left in Geralt’s bags. The Witcher wanted his mate’s scent around him, especially since he wasn’t there. It helped him feel more comfortable. Safe. Helped him feel like Jaskier was there.
Geralt jolted further upright suddenly, glancing between Lambert and Eskel and back again. “I wanted to tell you,” Geralt promised, suddenly frantic, begging Lambert and Eskel to understand. “I didn’t want to keep it from you. I just wanted him here when I did, and since our actual mating plans were thrown out the window, I wanted to keep to that one.”
“What plans?” Lambert asked, ever the direct one.
“He was going to come with me next winter. Here. To Kaer Morhen. So we could mate on my next heat. But then I went into heat early, because I felt safe and he was there, and we weren’t exactly going to wait when we knew we both wanted to mate anyway.”
What Lambert did next surprised everyone- including Lambert. He surged forward, grabbing Geralt in a bone-tight grip and hugging him hard. “I’m happy for you,” he mumbled, something he’d probably deny saying later, but Geralt and Eskel would never forget. “You spent so long hating being what you are- what we are- and then you’re the one who finds the one human fucker willing to put up with a Witcher. You’re a lucky bastard, Geralt.”
Geralt and Eskel could hear the hidden meaning behind Lambert’s words. Being the only other omega Witcher left, Lambert had had many of the same thoughts that Geralt had, just not as intense. He saw a kindred spirit in Geralt. With Geralt finding his mate, it gave Lambert hope for himself. Gave him hope that one day, he and Aiden could get their act together.
A small, soft smile spread across Geralt’s face. “Yeah, I am. Fuck me, I still don’t understand why he picked me. But he did, and I will never stop showing him how happy that makes me.”
“He picked you because he loves you, Geralt,” said Eskel, shifting into a kneeling position, leaning back on his feet beside Geralt. “Because he’s seen you, knows you, and loves you for it.”
None of them really knew what to do or say after that. Feelings were not something that they talked about often, and most of the time it had the threat of death hanging over at least one of them. The period immediately following the discussion was always an awkward one.
“I’ve got a question,” said Lambert suddenly, startling them all out of their thoughts. “You said you didn’t fuck him. That can’t be true, can it? No way you could go without for an entire heat. I’ve tried. It’s freaking impossible.”
“Technically I didn’t lie,” Geralt admitted. “But it was just the first wave. I was still so tired, still recovering, and the mating bite… well, that was enough. The second wave, however…”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry I asked!” Lambert exclaimed, holding his hands up in surrender. “I don’t need to know exactly what you and your bard did in bed, thank you!”
Geralt laughed then, well and truly, and the emotional spell over all of them was broken. Now that Geralt wasn’t hiding anymore, Lambert and Eskel quickly undressed, slipping into the hot spring beside him. Water fights would soon follow, but for now, they could relax.
“Hey, Geralt?” Eskel spoke up, chuckling as Geralt opened one eye to look at him.
“What?” Geralt’s voice was wary, and rightly so.
“You’re still the one who has to go tell Vesemir one of his Witchers has a freaking human mate.”