Archive of Our Own

Lambert was full of shit, Geralt decided. Relationships were not that hard. Geralt didn’t know why he had avoided them for so long. Yes, there had been the minor difficulty in having no home to share and yes, he had had a dangerous calling that had left him with little time for people and yes, there hadn’t been many people who had shown interest in a relationship as opposed to seeing if the rumors about witchers were true. But none of that mattered with Emhyr. Everything with Emhyr was going so smoothly that Geralt was clearly excellent at being part of a couple. He must be a natural.

Geralt made a mental note as he ducked under the kikimore leg to tell Yennefer that during their next argument.

“And she’s trying to get me to the tailor,” Lambert bitched, hacking open the side of another of the kikimore swarm with broad swings. “Do you know how much that shit costs? Not all of us have an imperial sugar daddy to pay for frilly outfits.”

“You a woodcutter or a witcher?” Geralt said before rolling under his kikimore and using his momentum to slice open its belly. He paused to shake ichor off his sword as the monster collapsed behind him. “Vesemire didn’t raise you to be an amateur sword-swinger.”

Lambert dodged a bite and ducked around to the side to continue making his hole in the insectoid’s carapace. “Papa Vesemire appreciated my special techniques.”

Geralt grunted and turned to face the monster coming up behind him. No one appreciated Lambert’s ‘special techniques.’ Except perhaps Keira which continued to surprise them all.

“Anyway,” Lambert continued, no matter how little Geralt wanted him to, “she wants us to match each other at the ball next week.” Lambert’s kikimore finally fell over, gore fountaining out of the hole carved in its side and splashing across Lambert’s legs and boots. Lambert didn’t notice.

“Can’t you focus on the business at hand?” Geralt didn’t want to think that living with Emhyr was making him soft but the ripe, rotting smell of the swamp mixed with the reek of guts and venom was making him miss the imperial baths. He wanted to soak in hot water for an hour while Emhyr petted his hair. The sooner they finished, the sooner he could be home.

“I can multi-task!”

“Since when?

Geralt vaulted onto the back of the kikimore and dug the point of his sword into the leg joint closest to the body. It was the most vulnerable point aside from the mouth and hard to get to from any other angle. But it was worth it as it took only the smallest amount of pressure to sheer off its leg from its body. It was a clean and elegant move, much better than Lambert’s graceless chopping. If only it hadn’t led to him being pitched head first into the muck when the monster wobbled and tipped forward.

He was going to have to burn his gambeson and breeches when he got back to the palace. There was no way that the servants would be able to get the sulfurous stench of swamp out of his clothes, and there was no point in trying when anything with the slightest wear disappeared from his closet. He would fight to keep the boots, though. He finally had got them broken in the way he liked. Maybe if he hid them.

Geralt made short work of the wounded creature then scanned the area to confirm that it was the last one. He brushed the worst of the goo off the front of his armor and wandered toward the sheltered hillock where they had left their gear and horses. From the grumbling and the squelching footsteps, Lambert wasn’t far behind.

“If Keira is making me go to that party, then I’m making her pay for the outfit,” Lambert said. “That seems only fair. Don’t you think?”

Every witcher from the School of the Wolf had learned the hard way that there was nothing that could stop Lambert when he was on a roll. Geralt sighed and sat down on a rock, dragging his pack closer to him so that he could dig out supplies to clean his sword. The ritual was soothing and Lambert’s complaints and rhetorical questions soon became familiar background noise. It wasn’t until a specific phrase caught Geralt’s attention that he lifted his head and blinked. “What?”

“I said,” Lambert repeated with unnecessary irritation, “what ridiculous outfit is the emperor cramming you into?”

“For what?”

“For the party. The party, Geralt. The one I’ve been talking about for the last half-hour?”

“Why would I need to go? I’m not trying to make nice with any of the sorceresses.”

Lambert threw a rock at Geralt’s head and Geralt moved only enough to dodge it. “First of all, ass, I’d like to hear you say that to Yennefer’s face. Or Triss’s for that matter.”

Geralt grimaced. Triss wasn’t handling his new relationship very well.

“Secondly, of course you have to go! You’re the emperor’s recognized mistress.” Lambert gestured broadly toward Geralt, incidentally spattering Geralt with unidentifiable goo. “You have an official court function.”

Geralt mouthed the words ‘recognized mistress’ and wasn’t sure how they tasted. Mistress? Really? “I hardly think our personal relationship matters to anyone.”

“Keira said--”

“Oh, this is going to be rich.”

“--that Imperial Consort is a real position and that Emreis is clearly positioning you--.” Lambert paused then snorted. “Positioning. I’m sure he has lots of positioning for you.”

“Lambert!”

“Look, I have to know.” Lambert leaned in. “Does he ever let you top? A guy like that has gotta have control issues on top of his control issues. So does he like giving up control in bed? Or keeping it?”

Geralt never thought anything could embarrass him after the time with the succubus, the red corset, and the snake but he felt himself flushing from head to toe. “Lambert!”

“Okay, okay!” Lambert sat back with a disappointed expression, his hands held up in a half-assed placating gesture. “No need to get your panties in a bunch. You can’t blame us for being curious--”

“Us?”

“But fine. I won’t ask. Though I don’t know when your sensibilities got so delicate.”

Geralt looked around for the rock to throw back at Lambert. It was that or the sword.

“Anyway,” Lambert continued, wisely returning to the prior subject, “you know Yennefer will literally kill you if you don’t come and show your support of the emperor’s agreement with the Lodge.”

That... was possibly true. Geralt frowned. “If Emhyr wanted me to go, he would have said something.”

“Or maybe he would assume that you would want to attend a party to honor the ones who helped save Ciri’s life.”

That sounded even more likely. And worse, Geralt didn’t see a good way out of it. Fuck. He hated parties. He shoved his sword back into his scabbard and pushed himself to his feet. “Did you collect the trophies? Imperial patrol won’t pay without them.”

Lambert scoffed. “No fucking kidding.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and rolled himself onto his feet. “Come on. Let’s go.”

It was a two day ride back to the palace and it was going to be like this the whole way. If Lambert hadn’t been so desperate for gold -- and if Geralt hadn’t owed him for his ‘help’ with Emhyr -- then Geralt never would have come. A week in Lambert’s company was a lot for anyone to handle. He didn’t know how Keira did it.

Sooner started, sooner done. And at least he had a hot bath, clean clothes, and a warm lover to look forward to.

Geralt stood still as Emhyr’s gaze travelled from the mud streaks in Geralt’s hair to the venom damage on his padded jacket. The gore on his pants got a frown while the filth encrusting his boots got an especially lingering look as Emhyr paused to consider the swamp weeds caught in the metalwork. Geralt followed his gaze down and noticed that they were a dark green that contrasted with the steel in an almost festive way.

The look told him that he might not be saving the boots after all.

Geralt coughed and brushed at the mud caked on his arms. Dried flakes fell onto the silk carpet. Both of them watched them fall. Geralt coughed again. “I didn’t have time for a bath.”

Emhyr turned his head to look at the faint black streaks left by Geralt’s boots in a path from the door into their quarters. Geralt hoped it was mostly mud. He was fairly sure that the kikimore blood had gotten washed away in that last river they crossed.

“I was in a hurry to get home,” said Geralt.

Emhyr turned his attention back to Geralt, his expression flat. The silence dragged out and Geralt shifted his weight like a nervous horse.

“To you.” Geralt tried a smile, hoping to avoid being banished to the couch. Could he even fit on the couch? He was fairly sure that his old guest rooms weren’t in use. If worse came to worst, he could sleep there. And that would still be better than when Yennefer would portal him into a lake.

Emhyr sighed with a barely audible huff of air. That wasn’t the best sign but it wasn’t the worst. Geralt couldn’t be in too much trouble if Emhyr was only scowling instead of making scathing comments about his smell, his hygiene, or the state of his gear. Geralt stepped into arm’s reach and waited. His patience was rewarded by Emhyr relenting and touching his cheek with his fingertips.

“I did not expect you to be gone so long,” Emhyr said, his tone cool but not cold.

His touch was better than a glass of wine, and it made Geralt as dizzy. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed Emhyr until he was close enough to hear and touch and smell. And maybe Emhyr missed him, too. Geralt held that thought to himself in secret, sweetly shameful pleasure: he was someone who was missed. How many witchers ever had that?

“The kikimore nest was harder to find than we thought,” Geralt said, his eyes sliding closed. “There was a lot of tromping back and forth in the swamp.” He leaned into the light touch, imagining that he could feel each of Emhyr’s fingerprints, that Emhyr was leaving his mark on him. Perhaps later he would let Geralt return the favor.

“Did you have your injuries seen to?”

“It was only a few kikimore.” Geralt inhaled deeply and his nerves settled at the scent of spice-ink-iron. It meant he was home. “The worst of it was a few bruises when I was thrown off one.”

“I would like to hear the story over dinner.” Emhyr stroked his fingers down Geralt’s jaw. “I understand that you went with Lambert.”

“Mm.” Geralt didn’t want to nod in case that dislodged Emhyr’s fingers. “It was his idea, really. He needed the gold. Something about new clothes.”

“Is he still in a relationship with Keira Metz?” There was an odd tone to Emhyr’s question. Geralt opened his eyes and couldn’t help a frown.

“Yeah?”

“Is that an answer or another question?”

Now that was normal. Geralt rolled his eyes, making sure Emhyr saw him. “Yes, your majesty. It’s the answer. Yes, he’s still with Keira. Somehow. I thought she had better taste but I guess it’s true what they say. There’s someone for everyone.”

“Amusing.” Emhyr pressed his thumb against Geralt’s bottom lip. “And she is not discontent with his week-long disappearance?”

“She was probably glad of the break.” Geralt licked the pad of Emhyr’s thumb and shivered when Emhyr dragged a damp line to his chin. “Lambert can be a bit much for anyone.”

“You did not seem dismayed at the time in his company.”

“Well, I’m not sleeping with him.”

Emhyr’s expression shifted. Or perhaps there was a difference in the set of his shoulders or the tension in his jaw. Geralt couldn’t put his finger on exactly what changed but something had. He had no idea if it was good or bad or some inexplicable Emhyr thing but before Geralt could make up his mind, Emhyr spoke and he lost his chance to ask.

“I never did believe that you’ve had intercourse with every person to trip in front of you.”

“Ha, ha.” Geralt’s hands twitched. He wanted to grab Emhyr for that crack and kiss him until his mouth softened but Emhyr’s clothes looked more formal than usual and Mererid would probably stab him with a letter opener if he got them dirty. “You shouldn’t listen to Dandelion’s songs. He’s full of shit. And don’t listen to the sorceresses gossip, either. Philippa likes to stir up trouble.”

“I am aware of her tendencies. And of your numerous affairs among the sorceresses.”

Geralt worried briefly about Triss. He needed a new topic immediately. Risking Mererid’s wrath, Geralt caught Emhyr’s hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. “What I’m thinking about now is my affair with you.”

“Are you.”

“All I’ve been thinking of for the last two days was getting into a hot bath with you.”

“Time with me is making you self-indulgent.” A corner of Emhyr’s mouth tipped up; he seemed quite satisfied with that state of affairs. He curled his fingers around Geralt’s and gave a light squeeze before pulling his hand back. “Sharing a bath is not out of the question. However, you should have a few buckets of water dropped over you beforehand. Otherwise I shudder to think of what type of soup you will make. And what I might catch.”

Geralt sniffed at his sleeve and had to admit that Emhyr had a point. His nose was deadened after spending days like this, and he could still smell himself. “I can clean up and send my clothes to the laundry--.”

“To be burned.”

Geralt ignored the correction. “And get clean clothes and arrange dinner for when you return. And after dinner, we can go to the heated pool that overlooks the east gardens and drink chilled wine and see where the evening takes us.”

“Hmm.” Emhyr’s expression softened, the way it only did for Ciri or Geralt himself. “I see you are finally learning how to plan.”

That was a yes if Geralt had ever heard one. He didn’t try to hide his triumphant smile. He was great at being with Emhyr. Someone for everyone, indeed.

When Geralt woke the next morning, Emhyr was already gone. It wasn’t a surprise, though it was disappointing. If Geralt got his hands and mouth on Emhyr before he had had fully awakened, he could sometimes convince him to delay the start of his day by an hour or so.

He would have to content himself with the reminders from last night. He pressed a finger into one of the bruises scattered across his shoulders and neck and shivered. The pressure was an echo of Emhyr’s mouth and he pressed harder. Arousal was a dull warmth in his belly and he turned his head into Emhyr’s pillow, inhaling Emhyr-and-Geralt. The smell went straight to his cock.

He rolled onto his belly and shoved his hips into the mattress, surrounded by the mingled scents of him and Emhyr and sex and sleep. He inhaled again and groaned; it was a drug. He rubbed himself against the sheets in a full-body grind then flipped onto his back and took himself in hand.

Emhyr, Emhyr, Emhyr. Geralt thought of his hands, his mouth, his heat, his hip, his throat. He thought of the dip at the base of his spine, of the weight of his palm, of the tender crease between his buttock and the back of his thigh. He thought of burning, biting kisses and hot, heavy eyes. He thought of soft touches and softer words. He thought of Emhyr looking at him as if he were a gift, and he whined and twitched and spilled over his fingers.

Breathing heavily, he wiped his fingers on the sheets and opened his eyes. Maybe he could pry Emhyr away from his work for lunch.

Levering himself out of bed, he cleaned up and stepped into the closet to grab clean clothes. It was odd to have a new outfit every day instead of picking up yesterday’s clothes from the floor and shaking them out. When he had moved into Emhyr’s rooms, it was with three outfits. Now he had a rack, and any one of them would have cost more than a good silver sword. Many of his new shirts had low collars and the pants were fitted tightly. Geralt never complained. The heat in Emhyr’s eyes when he looked at him in them made wearing them a gift back to Emhyr.

Breakfast was waiting for him, and he scarfed it down as he planned his day. Ciri was away from the palace for a few more days, and he had had enough of Lambert to last him for the rest of the month. Or maybe the year. And who knew when Dandelion or Zoltan would show up? That was trouble he was unwilling to borrow, not yet.

It slowly dawned on him that he should talk to Triss. He had been putting it off and putting it off, and he had no good excuse for avoiding it any longer and every reason to get matters resolved before the party. A scene there would be... not great. So talking to Triss would be doing something for Emhyr. In fact, it would be a present, a sign of his devotion. It would be one more way that he showed that he was good for Emhyr.

Geralt finished breakfast with less enjoyment than he started and set out on his self-appointed mission. After the third odd look from a courtier when he asked after Triss, Geralt stopped. Instead he asked where the sorceresses were staying. Once he was in the right hallways, it was easy enough to track her down with a few discreet sniffs.

Geralt entered one of the small workrooms allotted to the magic users in the palace and paused. Triss was bent over a workbench, grinding herbs, locks of hair falling into her face. He suppressed an urge to tuck them back. “Hey, Triss.”

She didn’t look up and didn’t stop her careful grinding with the pestle. “What do you want, Geralt?”

“To talk.”

Triss snorted. “When did you become fond of talking?”

The bitterness in Triss’s voice made Geralt’s heart sink. He never wanted Triss unhappy. “Things change. People change.”

“I noticed.” Using more force than necessary, Triss tapped the pestle against the edge of the mortar to shake the end clean then scraped the powdered herbs out of the mortar and into a small metal bowl. “The whole palace has noticed.”

“Triss.” Geralt couldn’t think of anything to say beyond that. That was why he had put off this conversation. He didn’t know how to start it.

“What, Geralt? What?” Triss put her work down and finally spun to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. “What could you possibly have to say to me?”

He rubbed his face and sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Then why bother coming?”

“Because we’re friends, Triss. Before everything else, we were friends. I don’t want that to change.”

Triss’s mouth twisted. “People change, Geralt.”

Geralt stared at Triss and wondered how it had come to this. Could they no longer be in a room together? Had all their years of friendship turned too bitter for Triss to be around him?

Triss looked away, turning her face from him. Geralt considered leaving, going so far as to shift his weight back on his heels. The scuff of his boot on the floor drew Triss’s attention back at Geralt.

“You said Yennefer was the one you wanted,” she said quietly, “that she was the one you chose to make a life with. And you didn’t even last a year after the djinn’s wish was ended.” Her mouth twisted, the corners flattening. “I thought-- I hoped.... You chose her over me and then you left her, too.”

That was true in parts but not all of it. Geralt didn’t know how to explain and so he shrugged helplessly. “It was never me choosing her over you. It was me... not choosing you.” Triss flinched and Geralt rushed on, hoping to find the words to wipe the pain from her face. “We wanted different things, Triss. You had so much more you wanted to do and to see, and I was done with all of that. I wanted peace and quiet, and you wanted to be involved.”

Triss stared at him in disbelief. “Look around you, Geralt!” She spread her arms wide. “You’re the emperor’s lover! What do you think that means? How much more ‘involved’ can you get?”

It was Geralt’s turn to flinch. Triss wasn’t wrong. Embarrassed, he snarled back. “I don’t know! Is that what you want to hear? I don’t know. I just... wasn’t in love with you.” Geralt’s voice dropped and he looked away. He was an ass.

Geralt heard Triss’s gown rustle but he didn’t look up. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to hurt her but he couldn’t seem to stop. He couldn’t give her what she wanted. All he could give her was the truth. “You should be perfect for me,” he said, his voice quiet as he lifted his eyes to hers. “You’re smart, capable, self-sufficient, unafraid. Concerned with the means and not just the end. But we’re not perfect for each other and I don’t know why. I’m sorry, Triss.”

Triss slumped onto a stool, her shoulders rounded and her hands limp on her lap. “I am, too.”

The room was quiet for a long moment, neither willing to break the fragile truce. But Triss had always been the braver of the two of them. “Does he make you happy?”

“Yes. Very happy.”

She nodded then tucked the pestle under the foot of the mortar, starting to tidy up her work space. “Then I’ll try to be happy for you. And I hope you will understand if I occasionally struggle.”

“Always, Triss.” Geralt jerked forward, feeling more awkward and gangly than he had since he was a teenager in Kaer Morhen. He set his hand on top of hers and squeezed gently. “You’re my friend. That’s not going to change.”

She looked up at him then smiled, and it was more than Geralt could have asked for.

Geralt caught Philippa Eilhart’s scent a moment before her voice broke the moment. “Trying to cuckold the emperor, Triss?” Philippa glided into the workroom on a cloud of smug satisfaction, and Geralt wanted to put his fist down her throat. “Risky play. It was one thing when it was Yennefer but the emperor in the heart of his empire is another matter.”

“Fuck off, Eilhart,” Geralt snarled, pulling away from Triss and turning to face Philippa. “This is a private conversation.”

“And yet this is a public workroom. Perhaps you should consider your location before arranging your trysts.”

“What do you want, Philippa?” Triss’s question was more diplomatic than Geralt’s would have been, which went to show that she was a better asset to a royal court.

Philippa circled Geralt, staying out of his reach which was the smartest thing she’d done in the last ten minutes, and stopped at Triss’s side. She glanced down at the workbench in mild curiosity and poked at the crushed herbs in the bowl. “I wondered what the noise was about. It was enough to give me a headache.”

That sounded fair to Geralt since she gave everyone else headaches.

“Triss, my dear,” Philippa continued, demonstrating her inability to read a room, “we all know how much Geralt likes being bedded by sorceresses and how little he cares about how cold his sheets are between one person and the next, but the Lodge is on the verge of a safe haven, a school where we can teach and a court where we can work. Do not ruin that for us with your ill-advised liaisons.”

“We are not sleeping together!” Geralt’s words rang out into the hallway and the sound of passing footsteps paused. “Fuck.” He exhaled through his nose and glared at Philippa. “Look, we’re friends and I can spend whatever time with my friends that I want.”

“Are you?” Philippa arched a brow. “Friends?” She smiled. “As you say.”

Geralt opened his mouth to-- he didn’t know what. Tear out her throat with his teeth, perhaps. But he didn’t have to decide; an interruption snapped his mouth shut.

“There you are, Triss.” Fringilla Vigo swept into the room, followed by Margarita Laux-Antille. I’ve been looking all over for you.” Catching sight of Geralt, she paused and looked between Geralt and Triss. “Geralt, I had no idea that you had an interest in experimental research.”

Geralt sighed. “Hi, Fringilla. Margarita.”

Margarita smiled sympathetically at Geralt and he decided that she was his favorite of the Lodge.

Philippa opened her mouth, reminding Geralt that she was his least. “We were discussing Triss’s previous, hm, adventures with Geralt and the wisdom of continuing them. He does have certain tendencies, after all.”

Geralt scowled at the unfairness of it all. “I didn’t cheat with Triss,” he gritted out. “I had amnesia, so it doesn’t count as cheating.”

“Triss didn’t,” Fringilla pointed out.

“He and Yennefer weren’t together!” Triss protested, color rising to her cheeks. “It’s not like when Fringilla slept with him.”

It was Fringilla’s turn to flush. “We weren’t like that. It was hardly anything to speak of.”

“That’s not how you told the story last night.” Margarita told Fringilla before winking at Geralt, and he started to have second thoughts about the favorite thing. None of the sorceresses could be trusted to not gossip. For the first time, he wished Dandelion was there. At least he knew that Dandelion wouldn’t talk about the size of his cock over an ale.

The bickering sorceresses didn’t notice Geralt edge toward the doorway and make his escape. He and Triss had ended on a good note and he didn’t dare risk backsliding by lingering to hear the rest of the argument.

And speaking of arguing, he had damage control to do if he wanted to avoid having another one.

“I’m not cheating on you with Triss.”

Emhyr didn’t look up from his writing. “Thank you for sharing that news. Is there anything else? Perhaps that that the sky remains blue.”

Geralt grinned, relaxing. A snide Emhyr was an Emhyr that would accept kisses, and that boded well for his afternoon. Not that he thought he would believe malicious gossip. They knew each other better than that.

“I brought myself off this morning while thinking of you.”

Emhyr’s quill paused mid-word and Geralt gloated over his victory. The day was looking better and better. He shoved a pile of papers to one side and hitched himself onto the edge of Emhyr’s desk. “Lambert reminded me that there’s the party for the Lodge coming up.”

Emhyr placed two fingers on his inkpot to keep it from oversetting then returned to writing. Geralt wasn’t expecting a reply, not yet. He hadn’t said anything for Emhyr to reply to.

“And I was thinking that you and Ciri would want me to be there.”

That earned Geralt another brief pause in writing and a raised brow. “I was under the impression,” Emhyr said, putting his quill into the inkpot then turning in his chair to face Geralt, “that you had no interest.”

Damn it, Lambert, Geralt cursed to himself. If only he had kept his big mouth shut, then Geralt wouldn’t have said anything. Now he’s going to be stuck going.

“Well, I wouldn’t say I had no interest.” That could be counted as true. Geralt had actively negative interest.

“Hm.” Emhyr reached out and gripped Geralt by the hips, shifting him along the edge of the desk until he was between Emhyr’s knees. “If you’re willing to go, you will need an appropriate outfit.”

“I thought you might get one for me.”

Emhyr’s eyelids lowered and Geralt could read his satisfaction. It sent a thrill down Geralt’s spine. Triss might care that Emhyr made Geralt happy but Geralt was able to make him happy, too.

“That can be arranged.” Emhyr pressed his fingers into the places where bruises were already fading on Geralt’s hips. “How did your conversation with Triss Merigold go?”

“Uh--.” Geralt froze as he forcibly switched mental tracks from sex now to conversation about exes. “Uh?”

“The conversation with Triss Merigold that you are plainly fresh from.” Emhyr’s voice took on that impatient edge that said that Emhyr had asked once and that once should have been enough. It meant Geralt had to cough up an answer without delay.

“Fine?”

Emhyr could say so much without a word. Geralt twitched and coughed up a bit more. “It was fine. We’re good. We made up and now it’s all fine.”

Emhyr slide his thumbs under Geralt’s shirt and stroked them in slow arcs along Geralt’s skin. “You made up?” he prompted.

“Uh....” Geralt blinked a few times. The only words that were coming to mind were thumbs, skin, more. Not particularly helpful in describing his conversation with Triss. “Yeah, uh... she was mad about... you know. Us. So I talked to her and I said I’d always be her friend.”

“You have been friends a long time.” There was little emotion in Emhyr’s voice. He could have been commenting on a bottle of wine. If he ever bothered with ‘inane chatter’. Alarm bells started ringing in Geralt’s mind but it was hard to hear them over the pounding in his ears. Emhyr’s fingers had hooked under Geralt’s waistband and tugged it down, the cloth biting into his skin.

“Yeah.” Geralt reached for Emhyr, his palms aching. He needed to touch skin, not silk, no matter how fine and rich. “She spent a lot of time at Kaer Morhen. She helped with Ciri when she first arrived since none of us had any experience with girl children.”

Emhyr’s shoulders tensed and Geralt didn’t like it. The past was the past and they had both agreed to leave it behind. He stroked Emhyr’s neck, trying to soothe away the tension.

“We’ve been through a lot,” Geralt continued, moving the topic away from the child Emhyr hadn’t been allowed to know, “so I want us to stay friends. I don’t want anything to change that.”

Emhyr’s posture didn’t relax. With Yennefer, that was often a prelude to an argument. The thought reminded him of the diversion that had always worked on her, so Geralt slid to his knees and opened the fly of Emhyr’s trousers. He would avoid an argument and make Emhyr happy in exchange for something he wanted to do anyway. It was a great idea.

“No, you need to keep your head back.” Daan sipped his tea and watched Geralt walk back and forth across the room where he entertained his clients. In the time since Geralt met him during one of Lambert’s ill-advised anti-matchmaking attempts, the room had gotten nicer: better quality rugs, softer bedding, better smelling tea. Geralt liked to think that his help in polishing Daan’s Emhyr impersonation had contributed to Daan’s rising fortunes. “Imagine a string that runs from your tailbone to the top of your head.”

Geralt paused and tried to picture that. It didn’t seem right but Daan was the expert here. Geralt took another pass and stopped at Daan’s wince.

“No, no. You look like a puppet.” Daan set his teacup down and rose to his feet. “You need to be relaxed, not stiff. Poised and confident.”

Daan crossed to Geralt and stood behind him. “Here.” He placed one broad hand on the dip of Geralt’s lower back and one just above it. Keeping the first hand anchored, Daan slid the other up Geralt’s spine, firmly pressing in and up with the heel of his palm. Geralt could feel his chest press up and out and his chin lift as Daan ended with his hand cupping the base of Geralt’s skull. “Like this.”

“Oh.” Geralt shifted, testing his muscles and his position. Now that Daan had put him where he wanted him, Geralt could feel the difference. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“Now, move like that. With that sense of center. It’s like dancing. Or fighting, I presume. You need your weight balanced properly.” Daan took a few steps back from Geralt. “Try again. Remember, move with calm purpose.”

“Move like a jackass,” Geralt muttered.

“You’re the one who wants to fit in better at court.” Daan smiled and returned to his seat by the window.

“Yeah, well.” Geralt took a few steps, readjusted his posture, then took a few more steps. “I don’t want to embarrass Ciri. Or Emhyr.”

“They like you as you are, Geralt. I doubt either of them want you to change.”

“Sure, but if I was going to kill a few drowners with another witcher, I wouldn’t send them out there with only a steel sword. You’ve got to prepare with the right weapons. Same thing with court. Going out there unprepared is dangerous. And I don’t want to be a weakness for Ciri or Emhyr.” Not more than he already was.

Geralt continued his laps of the room, getting more comfortable with each step and more pleased with himself, especially when he pictured Emhyr’s surprise. Geralt might even get compliments whispered in his ear while Emhyr pressed himself against Geralt’s back. He might get told that he had done so well as clever fingers slide down the line of his hipbone then cup--.

“Geralt...” Daan’s voice broke into Geralt’s daydream, which was probably a good thing.

There was an unusual note of hesitance in Daan’s voice that caught Geralt’s attention. He rarely seemed off-guard or uncertain. The man had an enviable grace. It was why Geralt was in his room in the first place.

“What?” Geralt glanced over his shoulder at him.

“Do you... Is the emperor aware that you spend time here?”

“Probably.” Geralt shrugged. He was used to the idea of having no privacy where Emhyr was concerned. And maybe he liked it a little. Maybe.

Daan winced and looked down at his teacup. “He knows that you are not... that we are not...” He carefully adjusted his cup on its saucer. “Of course, it is understood that my work is tacitly allowed as long as all parties are discreet. I would hardly be allowed to stay in the city if the emperor expressed an objection. But if something happened which required the emperor to officially take notice, it might become uncomfortable for my clients.”

“Like what?” Geralt walked to the table and dropped into the seat opposite from Daan. “What could happen?” he clarified, picking up his half-empty mug of ale and taking a drink.

Daan looked at Geralt and for a moment, his expression reminded him of Ciri when she was despairing over Geralt’s life choices. “If the emperor’s chosen was seen choosing someone else. If it led to gossip in his court or in his city.”

Geralt snorted. “He doesn’t care about that kind of thing. Anyway, he knows better. He knows that witchers’ reputations are mostly bullshit. He knows that I’m not fucking around.”

“Didn’t you tell me about the one sorceress you were sleeping with while in a relationship with another?”

“I had amnesia!” Geralt scowled. He always got shit about that and it was unfair. How could he be expected to be faithful to someone he didn’t remember? “Besides, Yen’s and my relationship was complicated, and we were apart a lot. Hell, half the time we had broken up. She never expected us to be monogamous.”

“So she didn’t mind that you would sleep with others when you were away?”

“Look, Emhyr is different. We’re different. And even if I was cheating on him -- which I’m not -- I would hardly do it in his city with someone I know he keeps an eye on. I’m not an idiot!”

Daan glanced out the window then gave a small shake of his head. “All right, Geralt. I did not mean to upset you.”

Geralt turned his head to stare out the windows, at the banners with golden suns and the bright flowers. He was starting to get used to the city, starting to think of it as home, and was getting used to the rhythms and patterns of it. He would hate for anyone to be forced from it. Maybe he should talk to Emhyr. Communication was important in relationships.

“I hear you have been to that courtesan again.”

“Fuck!” Geralt tripped over his own feet and only good reflexes prevented him from taking a header into the marble floor. “Damn it, Yen.” He glanced around quickly; she must have picked her spot carefully as there was no one around to see her ambush, not even a single palace guard. “What do you want?”

Yennefer turned on her heel and walked away. Geralt knew her well enough to know that he was meant to follow her. He considered not, but his curiosity wouldn’t leave him alone if he didn’t. She led them to a small receiving room of some kind without a door.

She stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips, tapping one foot, waiting with as much patience as she ever showed.

“What now?” Geralt asked.

“Geralt, I’m happy that you’re happy and it can only be good for a smooth transition of power for the emperor to have something to look forward to after his abdication, but that means you need to be more careful, not less.”

Geralt lifted both brows. He didn’t have any idea what Yennefer was trying to say. “Okay?”

She exhaled in that way she had to communicate how very disappointing she found him. It was a familiar sound. “The courtesan, Geralt. Even you cannot be that naïve. You must know that it looks bad that you visit him.”

“I don’t know any such thing. You’re being paranoid.” Geralt found a chair to drop into and crossed his legs at the ankle.

“Paranoia will keep you alive.” Yennefer remained standing, the better to loom. “The imperial court is a pit of vipers. You think Philippa is bad? She’s a babe in the woods here. You’re in a position of power now, Geralt, and that’s going to make you enemies. People will want to use you, or hurt you to hurt the emperor. You’re a target, and your swords and witcher tricks won’t help you.”

Geralt could hear the concern buried in Yennefer’s voice. It was the only reason he didn’t get up and leave. “I’m not stupid, Yen. I know that. That’s part of why I’ve been visiting him.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I know I need help with court manners and the like. Who else could I ask?”

Yennefer blinked, surprised, and Geralt tried not to take it personally. “The emperor would have found you someone. Or Ciri, if you had asked. You could have shared her tutors.”

Geralt had started shaking his head before Yennefer had finished. “No. No, that wouldn’t work. That would look wrong, like I had pretensions above my station, like I was trying to put myself on Ciri’s level or that Emhyr was.”

Yennefer slowly sank into a chair and studied Geralt in silence for a long moment. “You really have given this some thought.”

“I want this to work.” Geralt sighed and ran a hand over his hair. “This is it for me, Yen. I don’t want it to fall apart because I didn’t try.”

Yennefer looked at Geralt as if she had never seen him before and he looked away, dropping his gaze to his feet. Faint sounds filtered through the open doorway: the clang of a passing patrol, the rushing footsteps of a messenger or a servant. Geralt sat and listened to them, and listened to Yennefer breathe.

At least five minutes passed before she broke the silence. “Why, Geralt? Why would you do it for him and not for me?” She laughed and the pained sound made Geralt wince. “You wouldn’t wear black and white in Skellige so that we would be obvious partners, but look at you.” She gestured to his silk jacket. “You’ll wear black and red to match him. You’ll wear his house colors.”

There wasn’t a good answer to that. He didn’t know why it was yes to Emhyr and no to everyone else. It just was. Geralt shook his head and shrugged. What could he possibly say?

“I did love you.” He dug the shiny toe of his black boot into the floor then looked up to meet Yennefer’s eyes. “I did want to make you happy. I don’t know that I ever managed it. I don’t know that I could ever make myself be what you wanted, even if I had wanted to.” He looked away again, his throat tense. “Maybe that was the problem. Neither of us should have to force ourselves to be something else for someone else.”

A strange smile curved one corner of Yennefer’s mouth. “When did you get to be so wise? Careful, Geralt. You’ll ruin your reputation.”

Geralt laughed, relief making his shoulders limp. “I think I’m safe. Who would believe it?”

“Well, I won’t spoil your surprise.” Yennefer rose to her feet. “Just... be careful.”

“I will.”

Yennefer nodded and left the room, and left Geralt to his thoughts. He would do better this time. He would.

Geralt was running late for dinner which... wasn’t great. It was one of the nights that Emhyr didn’t dine with his court and so they had an unspoken agreement to have dinner with each other. Ciri had laughed when she heard and called them date nights.

The main room of the imperial suite was empty and dark so Geralt moved through the rooms until he ended on the balcony. On a sunny day, he could see all the way down to the harbor, the palace grounds and the city spread out like a carpet below. The view was even more beautiful at night with the lights of the city gleaming like a reflection of the stars.

This particular night found the balcony lit by dozens of candles, illuminating a small table set for two, and Emhyr leaning on the rail and staring out over his city.

“You’re late.”

Geralt twitched. It was never a good sign when Emhyr made an obvious statement. Even worse was his tone of voice: flat and terse, each word bitten off. Geralt had seen a crowd of courtiers scatter like a flock of parrots at that tone and seen generals stiffen to living statues. A small part of him considered fleeing, though the thought made shame bite like acid.

He was a witcher, he reminded himself and stepped forward. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time.”

Emhyr’s shoulders did not soften but Geralt didn’t expect them to. If he were genuinely angry (and all signs pointed to yes), then Geralt had his work cut out for him.

He made his second attempt. “Should I let the servants know that we’re ready for dinner?”

Emhyr didn’t reply and Geralt decided to take that as a yes. Food could only soften his temper; it had always worked wonders on Yennefer. He touched the summoning stone on the table and it glowed blue. The servants would arrive soon and so Geralt went back into the suite to wash his hands and face. Cleanliness was important, after all.

Geralt heard the servants arrive and headed back to the balcony in time to see them place a heavily laden tray on a stand next to the table and depart, leaving the two of them to enjoy their date night. Geralt looked at the food, looked at the table, and looked at Emhyr then sighed.

“I’m starting to get the feeling that you’re angry with me over something more than dinner.”

Emhyr’s fingers tightened on the rail. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

“My impeccable instincts.”

Not even a smile in response. Shit. Geralt abandoned any hope of dinner and moved to stand next to Emhyr, though he didn’t try to touch him. Emhyr was close enough for Geralt to smell spice-ink-iron and it settled something in his chest even as his stomach started to churn. He had promised himself he’d do better this time, and Emhyr wouldn’t even look at him. Fuck. Fuck.

Desperation made his hands clammy in a way not even Eredin and his Wild Hunt had managed. “Tell me. Please.”

“When we agreed to be a couple,” Emhyr began, turning his head to catch Geralt in his peripheral vision, “I understood that it was unlikely to include monogamy, especially if you continued on the Path. I had resigned myself to sharing you when you were away. I did not think I would have to do so when you were within the bounds of my own city.”

“What?” Geralt reached for Emhyr’s wrist and was stung when Emhyr moved away. “I told you -- the rumors are wrong! I didn’t sleep with Triss! Philippa is full of shit.”

“I am aware. Of both counts,” Emhyr said. “Not least of which is that the Lodge of Sorceresses have a great deal to lose if they earn my disfavor and they are watching Triss Merigold more closely than any other.” Emhyr arched a disdainful brow. “Unless you think it coincidence that three members of the Lodge appeared in her workroom not long after you did.”

His jaw hanging, Geralt stared for a moment before snapping his mouth shut. “Well, not now.”

Emhyr snorted and turned away.

“If not Triss, then who do you think...?” Geralt didn’t want to finish the sentence. He didn’t want to put it into words, in case that made it too real.

“Have you so many liaisons that you cannot keep track?”

“No!” Geralt scowled back at Emhyr, offended and hurt. “The opposite. There are no liaisons. None but you. Not that you’re a liaison. You’re... you.” With each word out of Geralt’s mouth, Emhyr’s expression became more and more unimpressed. Geralt didn’t blame him. He sounded like a gibbering idiot.

“He was touching you,” Emhyr said, and the rage in his voice made the hair lift on the nape of Geralt’s neck.

“Who--?” Geralt stopped himself short; he didn’t need to ask. He had had his nose rubbed in it more than enough today. “Daan.”

Emhyr snarled and turned away. Geralt’s stomach sank and he grabbed Emhyr’s arm to keep him from leaving.

“You can’t believe that,” Geralt said. “You know me. You know I wouldn’t do that.”

Emhyr turned back, both brows raised. “Is that truly the argument you wish to present? When you have sorceresses squabbling over who was having sex with you when and with how much overlap?” He paused and added, his voice snide, “Note that no one disputes that there was overlap.”

“To you!” Geralt clarified. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Emhyr stared at Geralt, his chin lifted, his head back. After a moment, he yanked his arm free from Geralt’s grip. “Why would I know that? You’ve done it to everyone else.”

Geralt stood frozen as Emhyr’s gaze swept over him. “If you will excuse me,” Emhyr said, each word icily precise, “I have business to attend to.” He pivoted on his heel and swept off the balcony and out of the suite.

Geralt slumped against the balcony rail and closed his eyes. “Fuck.”

Geralt lay awake in bed all night but Emhyr never returned. At dawn he gave up on sleep and crawled out of bed. Morosely, he dug through Emhyr’s clothes but couldn’t find anything to wear that smelled like him; the laundresses were too good at their jobs. Without even that comfort, Geralt bypassed the breakfast laid out in the sitting room and headed directly to the sparring ring. He would find someone to fight even if he had to start making threats.

It was nearly noon by the time Geralt staggered out of the ring. Behind him, he left several exhausted squads, dozens of burned and shattered straw dummies, and a few nobles with horrified expressions. None of it soothed the hollow ache under his breastbone.

Returning to their rooms would mean having lunch alone and Geralt refused. The gardens were lovely that time of day, he decided, and found a quiet bench tucked under an oak tree. At least it was quiet until Lambert found him.

“There you are,” Lambert said, plopping down next to him and making a bad day worse. “I heard about your temper tantrum in the ring and came to see what’s wrong. Did the emperor not put out last night? You know that sometimes humans aren’t interested in sex. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Geralt turned his head to stare at Lambert, incredulous. “Are you giving me relationship advice?”

“Why? Do you need it?”

Geralt scowled, his shoulders stiffening, and looked away. “No. Nothing’s wrong.” And nothing would be wrong as soon as Geralt could pin down Emhyr long enough for him to listen. If Geralt could just make him listen, everything would be fine.

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” Lambert asked, ignoring Geralt’s pique. “Because Keira says that it’s worth your life to be a problem for the emperor today so all of the sorceresses are scattered into the city.”

A thought occurred to Geralt and he tipped his head to squint at Lambert. He looked a little shifty. More shifty than usual. “Did Keira send you to ask me about what’s wrong with Emhyr?”

“No,” Lambert said unconvincingly.

“She did!” Geralt punched Lambert in the shoulder hard enough to bruise. “What the hell, Lambert? We’re supposed to be brothers!”

“Yes, but Keira asked me and... you know. She’s my partner. We’ve got each other’s backs.” Warming to the subject, Lambert shifted to face Geralt, pulling one knee up on the bench. “For example, Keira and I talked about it and agreed that she would pay for my party clothes since it’s for her. So now I can spend the money from the kikimore on taking her out someplace nice. Hey, the emperor's chamberlain has to be nice to you -- ask him for a suggestion. Maybe a spa or fancy restaurant.”

Something didn’t seem quite right but Geralt couldn’t put his finger on it. There was something... He shook his head once to shake off the creeping feeling of unease. “Sure, I’ll get right on that.”

Lambert sat back, satisfied. “Keira’s great. She deserves all the nice things I can give her.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. Keira never had a problem finding ways to get herself nice things.

“Look, Geralt.” Lambert eyed Geralt sidelong and Geralt got the sinking feeling that Lambert was trying to be serious. “Witchers don’t do relationships. Everyone knows that. We kill monsters, collect money, fuck around, and leave for the next village where we can kill monsters, collect money, and fuck around. We don’t have relationships to learn from growing up -- we had Papa Vesemir and his best relationship was with a bottle of whiskey -- and we never get a chance to figure it out for ourselves because everyone knows that we can’t be trusted so no one ever gives us a chance.

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t learn. You just have to...,” Lambert makes a vague gesture with his hands, “talk to the other person. You have to trust them enough to be vulnerable.”

It was the longest bout of sincerity that Geralt had ever heard from Lambert. Usually, it was a muttered and truncated attempt that quickly reverted to type. It almost distracted Geralt from a slow, terrible realization which was perhaps the worst thought he’d ever had: Lambert was better at relationships than him.

He groaned to himself and buried his face in his hands. Maybe it was a sign. Emhyr was his third try at a long-term relationship and he couldn’t even do as well as Lambert was doing with Keira. Maybe he should pack up his bags, move back to Corvo Bianco, and tell Barnabas to refuse all visitors. He was obviously not fit for human interaction.

“Where did you...?” Geralt can’t even ask the question.

Lambert shrugged, a flush rising in his throat. “After about a month on the road, Keira and I were fighting a lot. I was planning on leaving but we got stuck in a bad storm and took shelter in a barn. An older couple heard us yelling over the thunder, and they invited us into their home and fed us and gave us dry clothes. And they talked to us about being in a couple. I guess it was clear that both of us were amateurs at this relationship thing.”

Geralt lifted his head and blinked at Lambert, his mouth open on words that he didn’t have.

“Look.” Lambert rubbed the back of his neck and wouldn’t meet Geralt’s eyes. “You seem serious about the emperor. Fuck knows you wouldn’t be putting up with bullshit from Triss or Yen just for Ciri’s sake. So... I don’t know, Geralt. You have to talk to him.”

“He won’t let me find him,” Geralt admitted, miserable. “I waited up all night and he didn’t come back, and when I tried to follow his scent, it was all muddled.”

“Are you a witcher or not?” Lambert asked. “You telling me that you can track a leshen in its own forest but you can’t find the man you’ve been sleeping next to? Vesemir would be embarrassed.”

Geralt huffed a laugh, feeling marginally better. Vesemir would be embarrassed. Witchers don’t give up. As long as he was on his feet, he would keep fighting. It took him twenty years to get here and he’d be dead before he gave up. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but... thanks, Lambert.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m gonna go. This is enough talking about feelings and shit.” Lambert rose to his feet and clapped Geralt hard on the shoulder. “Good luck. This never happened. If you tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”

Geralt rose to his feet, as well. He had someone to find and he knew where to start.

“Ciri.” Geralt walked through opened glass doors that led from the balcony into the sitting room of her suite. He knew that she was here. “Ciri!”

“Geralt?” Ciri came into the room, dressed for dinner with the court. She looked elegant and confident, and Geralt’s chest swelled with pride. His little girl was all grown up and soon she would be empress. She was going to do more good than a thousand witchers could, and she would do it her way. “What are you doing here? I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I climbed onto the balcony.” Geralt pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.

Ciri lifted both brows. “Oookay. And why did you do that? You know the guards will let you through at any time. Through the door,” she added with unnecessary emphasis.

“I don’t want anyone to know I’m here.”

That cleared up nothing for Ciri. A look of suspicion started to creep over her fine features. “What did you do? If you got into a drunken brawl in the city with Lambert, I don’t want to hear about it.”

Geralt took three steps forward and swept Ciri into his arms, hugging her tightly. It barely appeased the sudden surge of utter adoration that he had for her.

“Oof!” Ciri squirmed to free her arms then hugged him back, patting him a little awkwardly on his back. “This is very nice but what brought this on?”

Geralt rested his cheek against her hair and sighed. “You’re the first person in days whose first question wasn’t to ask if I was cheating on Emhyr.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t!” Ciri sounded indignant on his behalf. “You wouldn’t do that to him.”

Geralt pushed back enough to meet her eyes. “That’s what I said!”

Ciri smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling with her delight. “I’ve got time for a drink before dinner. Have a seat and tell me what’s going on.”

Geralt settled into a chair and took the glass of red wine that Ciri handed him. “Sangreal,” Geralt realized with a bit of surprise. “Isn’t it treason to sell it outside of Toussaint’s ducal family?”

“Her Illustrious Grace Anna Henrietta sent a few cases to celebrate my investiture.” Ciri’s dry voice gave Anna Henrietta’s title an ironic twist.

“Hm.” Geralt hadn’t much to say about the duchess. She was a spoiled child who never had to grow up, and had more wealth and power than experience or sense. He liked Toussaint and liked his little vineyard and villa so he kept his thoughts to himself.

“So?” Ciri prodded. “Why are you climbing the palace walls like a burglar?”

“I need to talk to Emhyr but he’s avoiding me. I need your help to get him alone in a room.”

Ciri stared at Geralt then sighed and set her wine glass down. “You’re going to need to explain that a little more, Geralt. When I left, the two of you were nauseatingly affectionate. I was only gone for two weeks!”

Geralt shifted in his seat, keenly aware after hours of reflection that he doesn’t come off very well in the story. “Emhyr thinks I am cheating on him with Daan, that look-alike in the city. And maybe that I was going to cheat on him when I went with Lambert to kill some kikimore. Though he said that he knows I didn’t sleep with Triss so that’s something.”

Ciri’s eyebrows pinched as if she were fighting off a headache. “That’s... a lot to unpack. Didn’t you guys talk about monogamy?”

“Not in so many words. It was more of an unspoken agreement.”

“Perhaps you should have spoken about it,” Ciri said, exasperated. “That would have saved you a climb, at the very least.”

“Well, I know that now.” No amount of love or money would ever convince Geralt to explain how he knew. He took a gulp of wine, feeling rather beleaguered. Fucking Lambert.

“Geralt...” Ciri’s voice took on the tone that let him know she was about to say something he wouldn’t like. He braced himself. “How many relationships have you had before this?”

Yes, he wasn’t going to like this. “Just Yen and Triss.”

“I’m starting to see the problem.” Ciri picked up her glass and took a deep drink. “Okay.” She set the glass back down and clapped her hands together. “You do need to talk to him. Though he’s not great at talking, either. He hates telling people what they’ve done wrong. He says it’d be a waste of his time. ‘Someone who can’t figure out their own mistakes can’t be trusted to fix them.’” She deepened her voice in mimicry of Emhyr’s and wore the same frown that he would. Geralt laughed.

Ciri smiled back at Geralt. “I’m working on him to do better. And he can’t get rid of me so he has to put up with my attempts. You have a similar advantage; he’s not going to get rid of you.”

“You don’t know that.” The humor drained from Geralt, leaving him tired. “I’m not good at relationships. Everyone is waiting for me to fuck up. Even him, apparently.”

Ciri slid out of her chair and knelt in front of Geralt, resting a hand on his. “Just because things didn’t work out with Yen and Tris doesn’t mean they won’t work with Father. You’re different people and what you need from each other is different.”

Geralt dropped his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see the compassion on Ciri’s face. “I don’t know why my other relationships didn’t work so I don’t have any idea how to make this one work.” Geralt’s voice was as raw as his heart. “I just know that I need to.”

She squeezed his hand. “You’re good at being a friend. Start there. And move on to all of the things that you have in common, all of the things you share.”

“I don’t remember what they are.”

“Geralt!”

Geralt laughed at himself, hating the bitterness in it but not knowing how to fix it. Being with Emhyr was so much harder than he had expected. No, that’s not true, he realized. Being with Emhyr was as easy as breathing; it was everyone else around them that made it hard.

He looked up to meet her eyes. “We know what it’s like to have someone look at us and see something inhuman. To have to fight to be human. To have to fight for what we love.” He reached up and touched her chin. “And we both love you.”

Her impatience faded into warm affection. With Ciri looking at him like that, he knew that he could do anything.

“Remember that,” she said, “and you’ll do fine.” She rose to her feet and brushed at her dress. “I’ll ask Father to come back to my rooms after dinner. You can ambush him then. It will be a few hours so make sure you don’t drink too much while waiting.”

Geralt rolled her eyes. “I’m sure I can keep myself entertained without drinking.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” Ciri grinned and headed out, leaving Geralt to his thoughts.

“We have to talk.” Geralt pivoted on his heel and paced back in the other direction. “We have to talk.” Fifteen paces, pivot, fifteen paces. “We have to talk.” Pivot, pace. “We have to talk.”

Court dinners lasted for hours, leaving Geralt too much time to think and pace and plan. It was with a rush of gratitude that he finally heard the sound of the door opening. He turned to face the door and took a deep breath. If Lambert could do this, then so could he.

Geralt heard Ciri’s voice before seeing her. “Eilan aep Dahy’s interest in the highway expansion seem to be at odds at her investment in the harbor.”

“Indeed.” Emhyr’s voice sent a shiver down Geralt’s spine. “We shall have to investigate--.” Emhyr walked around a corner and caught sight of Geralt laying in wait in the sitting room, and came to an abrupt stop. “What is this.”

“This is an ambush, Father.” Ciri patted Emhyr on the shoulder as she swept past him. “Now both of you play nice. I don’t want to have to repair anything when I get back.” She pressed a kiss to Geralt’s cheek and squeezed his bicep hard enough to ache, then turned and left her suite. The door closed with a firm thud behind her.

Geralt stared at Emhyr who stared back. Seeing him was like having a glass of cold water on a hot day, like having a bite to eat when hungry.

“Want a drink?” Geralt figured that alcohol could only help at this point -- soften the edges a little and let them say what they might not otherwise. That in mind, he didn’t wait for a reply. He crossed to a small table where he had placed a bottle of wine and two glasses, and poured wine for them both. He didn’t bring it to Emhyr, instead holding it out to him in the same way he’d hold out an apple to coax a horse closer. “We have to talk about it at some point. Might as well be now.”

Emhyr stared with thinned lips and narrowed eyes then exhaled roughly and crossed the room to collect his glass in tacit agreement. He took a seat next to the table and balanced his wine glass on the arm of the chair. “So? Speak.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and sat in the other armchair. “I’m not one of your soldiers. Don’t bark at me.”

Emhyr glared but didn’t argue the point. “You’re the one who went to the effort of suborning Ciri to force this conversation. I assume you have something to say.”

That was probably as good as Geralt was going to get. “I’m not cheating on you, not with Triss, not with Daan, not with anyone I meet while on the Path. Not with anyone. You’re it for me and I don’t want anyone else. Maybe I wasn’t clear before, maybe I thought you already knew but I’m not going to have sex with anyone else while we’re together.”

He couldn’t be more clear than that, Geralt thought. If Emhyr misunderstood now, then it was a willful misunderstanding.

Emhyr didn’t look like he believed Geralt but he didn’t look like he disbelieved, either. He looked thoughtful if anything, with a frown wrinkling his brow. “I would not ask it of you. Fidelity is not a natural state for you. I would not want to put undue stress on you.”

“That’s bullshit.” Geralt’s tone was harsh but conversely, his chest felt lighter. “Maybe I just never wanted it enough before now.”

Emhyr glanced down then took a sip of his wine, seemingly reminded of its existence. Thoughts churned behind Emhyr’s eyes and Geralt wanted to shake them loose. This wasn’t going to work if Emhyr wouldn’t talk.

“Evidence suggests that your relationship with Lady Yennefer was important to you,” Emhyr finally said. “And yet.”

“And yet,” Geralt agreed. “But at the risk of sounding cliché, that was different. I was never sure if we were together or not. I was never sure if she wanted me or if I wanted her or... anything. And mostly, it’s different because you’ll bend for me and Yen never would.”

Emhyr’s eyes flashed up to meet Geralt’s and Geralt smiled. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. I keep having to remind people that I’m not an idiot.” He ticked off his points on his fingers. “You’ve let me move into your space when you’ve never shared since you’ve been emperor. You don’t make me go to court dinners or balls or audiences even though it gives you no advantage to let me choose when to appear. You don’t try to force me into Nilfgaardian clothes or Nilfgaardian manners. You don’t try to change me.”

“That would defeat the purpose of being with you.” A faint smile surfaced in Emhyr’s eyes.

“Yeah.” Geralt smiled back. He always wanted to smile back when it was Emhyr. “Here’s the thing I figured out in the last couple of days: you have to trust me and I have to trust you. We have to act like it.”

“Fair enough.” Emhyr firmed his jaw and met Geralt’s eyes. “I apologize for my jealousy. It was poorly done.”

Geralt had had enough distance. He set aside his untouched wine and slid out of his chair, going to one knee in front of Emhyr. He took Emhyr’s wineglass from his fingers and placed it on the floor before clasping both of Emhyr’s hands between his.

“I think you’ve been angry about a few things lately. I think it wasn’t just being jealous.” Geralt rubbed his thumb over Emhyr’s knuckles, his voice quiet. “If you’re going to fight with me, fight with me. You’ve never had a problem with yelling at me before.”

“What you thought of me never mattered before.” Emhyr’s voice was as quiet as Geralt’s, low and intimate.

“If I matter to you, you have to tell me when I’m doing something wrong. I’ve had enough of guessing and wondering and storming away.”

Emhyr’s mouth tipped into a lopsided smile. “Ciri’s been talking to you I see.”

“We make a good team.” Geralt grinned and kissed the back of Emhyr’s hand. “You might not know this but after a fight, you’re supposed to get to the best part.”

“And what would that be?”

“Come back to our rooms and I’ll show you.” Geralt rose to his feet and draw Emhyr with him. “If I tried to do it here, Ciri would kill me.”

The next morning found Geralt and Emhyr tangled around each other in bed, awake and in no hurry to leave. Emhyr slid his fingers through Geralt’s hair meditatively as Geralt hummed in pleasure like a sleepy cat. The steady beat of Emhyr’s heart under Geralt’s ear was as soothing as Emhyr’s touch.

“Do you really want to go to the ball in honor of the Lodge?” Emhyr asked, his voice meditative.

“Hmm?” Geralt blinked open his eyes then let them close again. More sleep might be nice.

“I expect the answer is no,” Emhyr said, answering his own question as he liked to do. “Though it would be useful for me if you did. You could keep Lambert company and out of trouble.”

“Mm.” Geralt liked being useful for Emhyr.

“I think your friend, Dandelion, is planning to attend.”

Geralt’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

“That bard.” Emhyr stroked his fingertips down the line of Geralt’s throat. “He has a new song to perform called ‘The White Wolf and The White Flame’. I hear that it has a catchy tune.”

Geralt rolled on top of Emhyr, pinning him down, his hair falling around them like a curtain. He paused at the sharp amusement on Emhyr’s face then scowled. “You’re not a funny man. I don’t know why you try.”

“I am very amusing,” Emhyr said blandly. He shifted his legs to let Geralt settle between them then hooked his heels behind Geralt’s knees. “And now I know I have your full attention.”

He had Geralt’s full attention all right. Geralt ground his hips forward to show him how full it was. Emhyr’s lashes shivered and Geralt leaned in and nipped at his throat. “You were saying?”

“Will you go to the ball?” Emhyr asked, enunciating each word. “Dressed in my colors, standing at my side, holding my arm?” He shuddered as Geralt sucked a red mark below his collarbone. “Will you dance with Cirilla and keep your friends out of trouble?”

Geralt huffed a laugh against Emhyr’s chest before nuzzling a path up his throat and pressing a kiss to his lips. “Yes. If you provide the clothes. And if you save one dance for me.”

“Done.” Emhyr dug his fingers into the nape of Geralt’s neck and pulled him into a fierce kiss. It set heat burning in Geralt’s chest, but not as much as the deal struck. Emhyr had asked him for what he wanted while acknowledging that Geralt didn’t have to give it. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had done that; it made his agreement feel like a gift, not an obligation. It meant that he could give as much as be given and that he could loved as much as be loved. They could be equals.

It may have taken half of his friends and family to help him see that that was what he was missing but he had it now. Though he may never hear the end of it from Lambert. He laughed at himself as he buried his face against Emhyr’s neck and inhaled deeply: spice-ink-iron overlayed by his own familiar scent.