Collection of One-Shots

》needed rest

OF ALL THE people who show up at your door in the dead of night, Geralt of Rivia is both the one you expect to see and always the least expected. He looks worse for wear, but you don't see any blood —his own or another poor creature's— on him or his clothes, or any pesky bards in need of assistance either. It's just him, looking as though he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and is close to collapsing under the pressure. "Geralt?" You rub the sleep from your eyes, stepping from the doorway to motion him inside.

Geralt loosens the baldric holding his steel sword to his back, propping it against the low table sitting next to the door holding a collection of satchels and vials —requests and orders waiting for collection or delivery. The evidence of his exhaustion is apparent in his heavy sigh as he stops before the hearth, nigh falling to his knees. You've never seen Geralt quite like this in all the years you've known him. It makes your heart ache. Sitting next to him, you brush your fingertips over his cheek, gently bringing his weary gaze to you. "What's wrong?" You ask, watching the dark shadows dance across his face.

"Can't sleep," he mutters, feeling weak with the admission. Even so, Witchers still needed sleep like anyone else, and Geralt has been unable to rest for more than a week. Insomnia isn't uncommon for him, but any other time after a restless night, he can sleep soundly the next, but not this time. You stoke the embers in the hearth back to flame, adding an extra log to the fire to keep it going through the rest of the night.

Knowing he'll be here till at least the morn, you work the ties of his brigandine shirt loose and sit it on a low stool by a small loom and basket of threads. He toes off his boots and hunches forward, yellow-gold eyes slipping shut. Frowning, you rest your hand on his back, thinking of all the ways you could help him sleep before he goes mad. "I can make a tonic," you supplement, but he shakes his head. Geralt knows your skill with herbs, but last time he took a sleeping draught, he woke up three days later in a jail cell —the memory leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, like mugwort. "Hot bath? Warm milk?" He denies the remedies twice over, stubborn as ever.

He shifts, turning toward you —one knee brushing against yours. Geralt feels his chest tighten when he looks at you. The sight alone is a comfort he's not had since last he left the small cottage. "Just wanted to see you," he breathes. You lean in, hands rising to cup his cheeks before your lips brush against his —a featherlight kiss over too soon.

Sighing, you rise, pressing another kiss to his forehead. Geralt's shoulders fall, and he slumps against you, head resting on your shoulder and arms lazily wrapped low around your waist. "Lay with me," you whisper, craning your neck to place another short kiss on his temple. He grunts but pulls himself away from you to stand, letting you guide him to the straw-and-feather stuffed mattress, settling in with the patchwork of pelts and woven sheets.

Geralt rests his head on a roll stuffed with rags and scraps of fabric, bright eyes tracing over the curve of your nose and lips. He doesn't have a home, not since the Trials, but this is the closest he feels he has. Riding down the curving path through fields of wildflowers and herbs always feels like coming home. "Any new stories to tell?" You ask, settling your hand on his neck, thumb tracing over the sharp line of his jaw.

"Tussled with a few alps after they killed a farmer and his family," he rasps. Out of instinct, you move your hand, looking over his neck for any signs from the blood-sucking fiends. If he'd been bitten the evidence is long gone. His lips twist into a wiry smile. A moment of silence passes, the two of you staring at one another —perhaps it's the remaining sleep in your gaze that hypnotizes him, but Geralt yawns.

He moves closer, wrapping a strong, thick arm around your waist —pillowing his head on your stomach. It's his favorite way to sleep when he's with you. Absently, you run your fingers through his silver hair, untying the leather thong keeping half his locks pulled back. Your finger catches on a knot, and carefully, you work it free before quickly finding another. "Remind me to brush your hair in the morning," you muse and are rewarded with a gruff humph that makes you give a quiet laugh.

Still stroking his hair and upper back, you begin to hum an age-old lullaby, one your mother used to sing on stormy nights to keep the spirits at bay until the dawn broke. Geralt's fingers curl into your tunic, holding tight to you. Slowly, the words trickle back into your memory, and the humming becomes a soft song —sweeter than any bird or siren could sing. "Let the wind blow kindly, in the sail of your dreams–" a smile twists your lips "–and the moon light your journey and bring you to me." You pause, humming again before recalling the second verse. "We can't live in the mountains. We can't live out at sea. Where, oh where, oh my lover, shall I come to thee?"

The lull is brief, interrupted by Geralt's soft snores. His lips are parted, eyes shut with all the tension in his brow gone, and his hand is curled into your tunic, holding you close. Draping one of your arms across his shoulders, you relax back into the embrace, content with the comforting weight resting on your stomach and the added warmth of having him next to you. Any night or day you get to spend with Geralt is a good one.

Every time he's ever stayed the night, you wake to an empty bed —sometimes there's a note or flower sitting bedside as a promise he'll return whenever the wind blows him back. But this time, when you stir with the morning light filtering through the window, there's still a familiar dip in the bed and weight on your stomach. Geralt is still asleep —he needs the rest, and this is the best sleep he's gotten in weeks. Unable to wake him just yet, you settle back down. Chores can wait, so can mixing tonics and poultices. For now, you only want to memorize how peaceful he looks and how it makes your heart feel funny to see him like this.