(Geralt x Yennefer)
Ciri doesn’t take all that long to fall asleep: it’s hardly surprising, considering the rhythm that they have been travelling at, the emotional exhaustion and the fact that she hasn’t had the chance to sleep on a bed since when they left Kaer Morhen. She seemed so small and content, when she curled up on her side and let Geralt pull the blanket up to her chin as he tucked her in, and Yennefer can’t help being grateful that they decided to stop at a inn.
They had no rooms for three, so they figured they’d make do with a double, with only two twin beds. That one would go to Ciri was to be expected, but probably so was Geralt wishing her a goodnight and setting up his bedroll on the floor between the two beds.
Of course he wouldn’t want to share with her, not when the space is so small and things are still so tense between them—it feels like he’s trying to always keep a modicum of maddening distance between them, avoiding her touch, even the accidental ones that are bound to happen when living so closely together, being so civil and yet not as warm as he’s always been around her—he hardly ever calls her ‘Yen’ anymore. When it happens, she thinks it’s because he slips.
Still, maybe there was a part of her that hoped the comfort of a bed would be too alluring to resist.
She wishes he had at least tried to bargain for it, trying to cast her away on the floor as a form of punishment, because at least that way she could have argued with him, she could have insisted that he invited her to travel with them, so it’s time that he stops treating her like she should be thankful for every scrap he throws her way—but no, he isn’t even giving her an excuse to defend herself. He simply took his love for her out of the equation, and he’s treating her like he would anybody else.
She hates it with burning passion, though it probably isn’t undeserved.
It’s clear enough that he isn’t asleep, with the way he keeps shifting, looking for a comfortable position that he definitely isn’t going to find. She doesn’t think he’s still sporting bruises or injuries from the fight in Kaer Morhen, but he has been hunting food, training Ciri, taking the longest turns of night watch because he said he wouldn’t be sleeping anyway, and travelling itself gets you tired and sore. So, really, he’s just as in need of a comfortable bed as they are, if not more.
She sighs, turning on her side to lean in his direction, even though she still can’t make out his face. “Geralt,” she calls, careful to keep the volume down as to not wake Ciri. He stills and he doesn’t answer, which prompts her to roll her eyes. “I know you are awake.”
“What is it?” he asks then, after only a few moments. He doesn’t sound annoyed, but he does sound fairly tired.
“You shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor,” she states, though once it’s out it seems like a stupid thing to say.
“I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
He’s frustrating enough that she might just fucking do that. It would serve him right: if he wants to be all noble, then what business is it of hers? They are clearly only within spitting distance of each other because of Ciri, so it doesn’t matter if Yennefer lets him suffer the night on the floor or not. She should take advantage of his hero complex and get a good night’s sleep.
“I could share with Ciri,” she offers instead, reflexively glancing at her. She’s probably tired enough that she wouldn’t even notice. “We are smaller, we can fit more easily.”
“No,” he says, because of course he does. He still sounds like he really needs to sleep. “She should be comfortable for once.”
That’s true, but there’s a little egotistical part of her that can’t help wondering if the reason why he’s refusing that offer is simply that he doesn’t trust her to be so close to his child when she’s in such a vulnerable state. She wonders then if perhaps the reason why he didn’t want her to take the floor is that he’s now placed himself between the two of them.
“I could take the floor then,” she says, though she can already guess the answer.
“Yennefer,” he sighs, and it’s always a bit of a blow whenever he calls her that. She can’t help wincing a little. “I told you, I’m fine. I’ve slept in worse places.”
She snorts. “So have I.”
He doesn’t answer, and as the silence stretches she gets the distinct feeling that if it were up to him he’d just leave it there. Well, it’s too bad it isn’t up to him.
“Listen, we are all tired from the journey, and you haven’t relaxed for more than a minute at the time since when we left the keep. So either let me take the floor or we can share, we’ve slept together before.”
There it goes. Thrown around like the mere thought isn’t making her ache for something that she’s pretty sure she has destroyed with her own two hands at this point.
It was always such a fragile little thing, that love between them, tentatively trying to blossom into something beautiful on that mountain only to get crushed so shortly after—except it still lived, after that. Beneath all the hurt there was still something, something that fed her hopeless dreams and that made them so happy and relieved to be reunited at the temple—now, Geralt barely even looks at her. Whatever feelings he had for her, if they were ever as real as her own – and she’s beginning to suspect they might have been –, she ripped out of his chest in one stupid, desperate move.
“Under different circumstances, and with a different purpose,” he points out, and she doesn’t think she could call amusement what she hears in his voice. It’s probably too bitter and sad for that.
“I’m aware,” she says, sharply. “I also assume that, as adults, we are both quite capable of simply sleeping side by side. Unless, again, you’d rather I take the floor.”
She can read his temptation to argue some more in the pause that follows, but he apparently knows her enough to guess where that strategy would get him. “Fine,” he concedes. “If you are sure. We can share.”
“Good choice.”
She scoots over until her back is firmly pressed against the wall, though it’s going to be a tight fit anyway. There is no way for them to keep some personal distance, which is why she was half expecting him to double down and make her sleep on the floor, at most. After all, he’s been so carefully distant, it would have made sense.
Yet there he is, getting settled next to her, and though she can recognize that there’s a part of her that feels a little vindicated, having gotten him to come so close in spite of everything, it’s overshadowed by a chorus of regrets, lamenting just how cruel it is, the familiarity of it, the memory of the warmth in a moment when he has none left for her.
“Thank you,” he says, earnestly, once he has settled down. She can’t help noticing that he’s this shy of falling off the bed.
“You’re welcome. Perhaps you would like to not lie right on the edge and fall off five minutes after falling asleep?” she teases, though it rings a little hollow as she can only think of the echoes of all the times she’s been playful with him before and she’s been met with the same amount of affectionate teasing.
Now, he only hums, scooting a little closer, possibly just to avoid another argument. She has her arms tucked against her chest, yet her fingers are brushing against his right arm, the one that isn’t lying flat on his side, above the covers. If she only pushed herself a little farther, she could wrap her fingers around his wrist, pull him closer and never let go.
“Goodnight,” he says, and hopefully that tired note in his voice will be gone come morning. Assuming he’ll have less trouble than her while attempting to fall asleep.
“Goodnight,” she echoes, far gentler than she had intended to. She’s grateful that she can’t make out the lines of his face, because even as it is she has to ball her hands into fists to keep herself from reaching out.
The next morning, she wakes up when a ray of sunlight hits her right in the face, drawing a displeased grumble out of her.
She finds that Geralt is no longer lying in front of her, keeping whatever distance the small bed would allow, but he has migrated farther down her side of the mattress, his face tucked into her neck, his arm wrapped tightly around her and one leg between hers.
She can feel his right arm underneath the pillow, and she doesn’t dare moving, only flexing her fingers as if to make sure that they are actually buried in his hair.
She knows better than to think he’ll still be there when she will wake up a second time, but she drifts back to sleep with a light smile on her face all the same.