Dotlookstired

Vesemir awoken in the early morning hours by a quiet thud followed by a hushed, “Ouch, fuck!” A moment later, something began to clumsily climb over him and towards the door. By the scent and weight, Vesemir immediately knew it was Lambert.

Too tired for whatever nonsense the miniature witcher was up to, Vesemir decided to seize the opportunity. With lightning reflexes, he grabbed Lambert mid-climb and pulled him into a firm hug. hoping Maybe this would discourage whatever mischief he was up to and Vesemir could get a bit more sleep.

Lambert froze as arms suddenly wrapped around him, squeezing tightly. He shrieked and immediately retaliated by chomping down on Vesemir’s arm.

“Ouch! What in the hells—” Vesemir hissed as he sat up, now fully awake. Lambert tumbled into his lap, still latched onto his arm like a giant leech.

Realizing what was happening, Lambert released his grip, looking sheepishly up at Vesemir’s unimpressed glare.

From the bed, Coën’s groggy voice piped up. “The little hobgoblin strikes again. That’s victim number three!”

Vesemir groaned, rubbing his sore arm. “I forgot about your biting problem when you were small!”

“I was scared!” Lambert shot back defensively. “You grabbed me out of nowhere! I’m defenseless right now—what do you expect me to do? I don’t have claws like a cat witcher”

“And I thank the gods everyday that you don’t have claws, I can't imagine the damage you’d have done as a child or now. Who else would be grabbing you, other than the person you’re climbing over?” Vesemir asked, voice heavy with exasperation.

Lambert shrugged, unbothered by logic.

“And where exactly were you even trying to go?” Vesemir pressed, watching the tiny menace shuffle away.

Lambert stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Nature’s calling. And no, I don’t want help. If a bear eats me, I’ll just scream real loud.”

Vesemir sighed, flopping back down with a muttered prayer to the gods for patience as Lambert toddled off into the early morning light.

From the bed, Vesemir heard a groan. He immediately got up, creeping over as quietly as a man of his years could manage. “Eskel, are you awake?” he whispered.

Eskel slowly cracked his eyes open, his gaze unfocused and bleary. “What happened? I feel like I drank a whole keg of ale and then got run over by a wagon… Oh, and I had the weirdest dream. We all got turned into kids, and I had to use advanced magic.” He groaned, rubbing his face.

Vesemir chuckled softly. “Well, pup, you just answered your own question.”

Eskel’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Then realization dawned, and he tried to sit up suddenly—too suddenly.

“Shush, easy now,” Vesemir said, guiding him back down with gentle but firm hands. “Just rest. You’re safe, I’m here, and I’ll handle everything. You did very well looking after the others.”

Eskel sighed, his body relaxing against the bed. “How’s Aiden? I think he also burned himself out with fire magic… and he had a fever.” His voice was barely above a mumble, as he drifted back to sleep.

Vesemir glanced over tiny witchers piled together, his heart skipping a beat. “Where is the littlest one?” he asked, his tone shifting to mild alarm. Scanning the heap of fur and limbs, he was starting to regret letting the toddler-sized witcher sleep with the slightly bigger ones. “What if they rolled over on him? What if they squashed him? After all, that is the reason babies and small children sleep in bassinets” Vesemir thought as he began to panic.

“He’s over here,” came Geralt’s voice.

Vesemir turned to see Geralt uncovering himself from the furs. In his arms was a perfectly unharmed, deeply asleep Aiden, curled like an actual cat.

“See? No crushed cat witchers,” Geralt said dryly, holding the little Cat witcher up like a trophy.

Vesemir exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Thank the gods. I’m too old for this level of stress.”

Geralt smirked. “At least you didn’t have his little claws digging into you all night while he rumbles.”

A snicker broke the quiet as Lambert strolled back into the shack, clearly amused. “He was just kneading you and purring. It means he’s comfortable and likes you,” he said, his voice laced with just a hint of jealousy.

Vesemir shook his head, muttering under his breath as he tucked Eskel in more securely. He then returned to his makeshift bed on the floor, gently setting Aiden in his lap. “At least he’s not burning up anymore,” he said, brushing a hand over Aiden’s forehead with relief.

Lambert plopped down beside Vesemir, resting his chin in his hand as he observed Vesemir interacting with his boyfriend. “You know,” Vesemir began, “I think this is the first time I’ve seen him without his eyepatch. Guessing it’s too big on him now?”

“It went missing when we woke up like this,” Lambert replied with a shrug. “He hasn’t even noticed yet, what with all the chaos. I don’t get to see his whole face much either these days.” Reaching out, Lambert carefully brushed a small hand over the closed eyelid of Aiden’s missing eye.

The contact woke Aiden, who blinked groggily before gasping and swatting at Lambert’s hand. “Nooo, it’s gross! Don’t touch!” he whined in his adorable toddler way, his little voice a mix of indignation and babble.

Lambert chuckled softly, before climbing on Vesemir's lap next to Aiden to kiss his forehead. “Relax, you drama queen. We’ll find something to substitute your eyepatch when we get to the keep” Lambert told him.

Ciri’s voice mumbled sleepily from under the pile of little witchers on the bed, “I can help. I’ve got some ideas. I’ll make you a little eyepatch when we get back to the keep. Right after I finish sewing that dress for Eskel’s goat of cures, Maybe i’ll make you one with gems or flowers or maybe something with lots of straps.”

Vesemir visibly shuddered at the mental image of whatever monstrosity the teen might dream up and force onto the cat.

Meanwhile, Aiden, still half-asleep, suddenly realized where he was and who was holding him. The tiny witcher froze, his small frame tense, before slowly tilting his head back to look up at Vesemir with a wide eye.

“Oh, hello Vesemir” he awkwardly babbled as he scooted off his lap.

Vesemir chuckled as Aiden scrambled to his feet. “Hello, Aiden. How are you feeling after last night?” he asked.

The little elf paused, staring at Vesemir as if he’d just remembered he had a body—and that said body wasn’t exactly in the best condition. “I’m tired...but happy,” he babbled.

“Happy?” Lambert asked, raising a brow.

Aiden nodded, his tiny head sleepily. “Yeah. I’ve never done magic that powerful before without nearly killing myself! I didn’t tell you last night because I didn’t want to worry you but I was pretty sure Eskel and I were going to blow ourselves up.”

Vesemir let out a long-suffering sigh. “That was some very powerful magic you and Eskel pulled off. I knew Eskel was more proficient in that area than most witchers, but I had no idea you could channel such energy. What I witnessed last night was stronger than what the average mage can muster.”

Aiden looked quite proud of himself, but Vesemir continued, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Under normal circumstances, I’d scold you both for attempting such a thing without an experienced sorcerer supervising. but i think that you all probably wouldn't be alive if you hadn't done it”

Vesemir gently nudged Lambert off him as he stood. “It seems everyone except Eskel is awake. We should head back to the keep soon.”

“Should I open another portal?” Ciri piped up, sitting up from the pile of sleepy witchers.

“No,” Vesemir said firmly. “I don’t think you’d be able to maintain it long enough for everyone to get through in one piece. But you can carry one of the little ones on your lap while we ride up the mountain. Geralt can hold the other, and I’ll carry Eskel.”

“Not a good idea,” Geralt grumbled as he sat up beside Ciri, holding up his hand to reveal a small bite mark. “Last time we tried separating them on horses, I got bitten. Also, what’s this about portal-opening?”

Vesemir didn’t need to ask which little witcher was responsible. He immediately turned to glare at Lambert, who ducked his head in shame and scooted closer to Aiden for moral support.

“I wanted to get to you as soon as possible, so I had Ciri open a portal,” Vesemir explained.

Geralt’s golden eyes narrowed, and he turned his glare on both Vesemir and Ciri. “Do you know how dangerous that is?! Her magic is unstable! You could have been dismembered!” he screeched.

Vesemir struggled not to laugh at how funny Geralt looked and sounded when angry in his tiny form. “Well, she won’t learn to control and stabilize her magic if you baby her and micromanage every use of it. I was there, supervising, and I wouldn’t have walked through the portal if I thought there was a significant chance of failure,” Vesemir told his son.

Geralt didn’t respond; he just grumbled and glared at him.

Vesemir could no longer hold back his laughter. “Ciri’s right—you do look like an angry little garden gnome,” he said, laughing openly.

Geralt growled low in his throat, his glare intensifying as he started to sulk. Vesemir’s laughter abruptly died when he noticed tears beginning to pool in the corners of Geralt’s eyes.

“Aw, wolf, I’m sorry,” Vesemir said, crouching down to brush a hand against Geralt’s face. “I understand why you’re worried about Ciri, and I shouldn’t have laughed at you. I just forgot how funny you looked as a kid when angry with all that white hair.”

Geralt angrily swatted Vesemir’s hand away and turned his face, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Alright, alright, I’ll give you some space—” Vesemir began, only to be cut off when Geralt suddenly launched himself at him. The little witcher wrapped his arms around Vesemir’s neck, burying his face in his shoulder.

Vesemir froze for a moment before his expression softened. He hugged Geralt back and stood, holding him securely. “It’s been so long since I was able to pick you up like this,” he murmured, gently swaying to soothe him.

Ciri, Lambert, and Aiden all stared, shocked, as Vesemir rocked the infamous White Wolf—now a very emotional, very tiny version of himself—while he cried and vented his frustrations.

“I’m just so tired, and I have so much going on,” Geralt cried, his voice wavering. “I’ve felt terrible for so long. I want to leave my room and spend time with the others in the keep, but I just can’t bring myself to do it, and I don’t even know why. I feel like I’ve been neglecting Ciri. I’ve barely spent any time with her since winter started, and I think Yennefer might hate me. And on top of all that, I’m so stressed about Ciri’s powers!”

Geralt continued venting, his words gradually becoming more incoherent.

Vesemir, realizing Geralt probably wouldn’t want Ciri to see him like this, gently ordered her to ready the horses and help the others prepare to leave. Once she and the others were occupied, Vesemir focused on comforting Geralt, who was still fussing and letting out his frustrations.

By the time everyone was ready to go, Geralt had calmed down and was now just clinging to Vesemir.

“All right, Geralt,” Vesemir said gently. “We need to get moving. We can talk more when we get home, okay?”

Geralt nodded reluctantly and finally unlatched himself from Vesemir, staring sheepishly at the floor and refusing to meet anyone’s gaze as he shuffled out of the shack.

Coën explained to Vesemir how they had managed to get this far with the tiny witchers despite the challenges. Geralt was not in the best headspace, Eskel was unconscious, Vesemir was the only one large enough to hold Eskel while riding, and Coën was injured. Taking all this into account, Vesemir decided Ciri would carry the tiny witchers in makeshift slings.

First, Vesemir carefully helped Coën onto his horse, ensuring he didn’t strain his stitches while climbing up. Then Vesemir mounted his own horse and had Geralt and Ciri hand Eskel up to him. Eskel woke in the middle of being maneuvered, screeching in confusion as they tried to situate him. Geralt and Ciri nearly dropped him, but they managed to set him gently onto the ground.

Eskel blinked sleepily at everyone, his confusion evident. “Sorry, Eskel, we were just trying to get you onto Vesemir’s horse,” Ciri explained.

Eskel grunted in acknowledgment and attempted to stand, but his knees buckled, and he slumped back down.

“Relax, pup. Let them help you,” Vesemir instructed, extending his hands.

Eskel hesitated but then took Vesemir’s hands as Geralt and Ciri supported his weight, helping to lift him onto the horse. Vesemir adjusted Eskel on his lap, and the younger witcher immediately relaxed against him and drifted back to sleep.

With Eskel secure, Geralt helped Ciri get the slings in place. Aiden was settled in one, looking drowsy but content. When it came time to lift Lambert, Geralt turned to him and said in true older-brother fashion, “Bite her or pull any stunts, and I’ll drop-kick you into the lake.”

Lambert scowled but behaved as he was lifted into the sling on Ciri’s back.

And with that, the group set off toward the keep.

Winter was always a tough time in the keep. The howling winds, negative temperatures, and chest-high snowdrifts weren’t the worst of it—no, it was the lack of non-destructive and harmless outlets for everyone to focus their energy on. With nothing to hunt, no contracts to fulfill, and no outside work to be done due to the snowstorms, the inhabitants of the keep turned a bit crazy. Boredom had brought out their “creativity” in the most spectacular and worst ways.

“Lambert, if you blow up the lab one more time, I’m throwing you out into the snow without boots,” Vesemir growled, his voice echoing down the frigid halls.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, old man,” Lambert shot back, though his mischievous smirk said otherwise. He leaned casually against a wall, tossing a small vial of something volatile-looking between his hands.

Lambert had been an absolute menace, teasing and bothering just about everyone in the keep and blowing things up with his experiments in the lab. He’d been intentionally prickly to everyone except for his boyfriend, Aiden, but even he wasn’t exempt—Lambert had unintentionally gotten on his nerves as well.

Speaking of Lambert’s boyfriend, behind him—or more like above him—was the stir-crazy Cat Witcher who had miraculously survived an assassination attempt by his brothers a year earlier, escaping with only a missing eye and a damaged eardrum. He sat on one of the running support beams for the roof, occasionally flipping down to the floor and then back up again. If Lambert’s shenanigans weren’t enough, Aiden’s “zoomies,” as Lambert had explained it, and his insistence on climbing everything in sight only added to Vesemir’s growing headache. At least he was cleaning the rafters as he went—Vesemir had reluctantly handed him a duster after the third time he’d climbed to the highest point in the keep without going outside to “stretch.”

Geralt, meanwhile, had come down with some seasonal depression and had isolated himself from the rest of the keep. He only emerged to train Ciri briefly before retreating once again. Yennefer, frustrated with Geralt’s reclusiveness, had spent the past week bossing everyone else around and had gotten into a spat with pretty much everyone in the keep, even Ciri—but she especially had it out for Lambert and Dandelion. One morning while she was bathing, Lambert, having had enough of her, seized the opportunity while her guard was down and threw a snowball at her. That had led to a shouting match that still echoed in Vesemir’s ears.

Eskel wasn’t much better. Because his brothers had been caught up in other things and didn’t feel like interacting with him very much, he’d been very clingy and had not let Vesemir have a single moment to himself—until Vesemir had assigned him to look after an orphaned baby goat after its mother died. The sight of the hulking Witcher cradling the tiny creature like a newborn had at first been endearing. But now he had become obsessed with the goat and was treating it as if it were his actual son. Vesemir’s patience was tested when he heard Eskel softly cooing, “Shhh, darling, it’s just a storm,” to the goat in his room one night during a particularly bad blizzard.

Dandelion had gotten severe writer’s block for writing anything decent and had started composing roast ballads in which he mocked whoever had gotten on his nerves that day (almost always Yennefer).

Coën was in the infirmary with relatively minor injuries considering he had been attacked by a bear. One morning, he had been fishing on the local river and had caught quite a large salmon. However, a hungry bear had noticed and also wanted his fish. Coën did not want to share, and a struggle ensued that ended with Coën coming home with not only a salmon but also a bear for dinner.

Even Ciri was joining in the chaos. Because Geralt was too depressed to spend much time with her and Yennefer was in such a terrible mood, she’d started clinging to Vesemir. When she wasn’t clinging to Vesemir, she was helping Lambert with his projects and mayhem, trying to watch and imitate Aiden’s parkour, or sewing Eskel’s goat a little outfit. The keep smelled of singed wood and sulfur more often than not, and Vesemir was certain the explosive sound earlier had something to do with her and his youngest son.

Vesemir sighed. The keep needed order. Or at least a distraction.

The rumors came with the latest supply run from the village at the base of the mountain. A fox-like creature had been spotted in the woods, strange and humanoid, with glowing eyes that unnerved even the bravest hunters. Stranger still, the creature seemed to curse those who encountered it—transforming them into either animals or elderly for a few days before the curse wore off on its own.

At first, Vesemir dismissed it as winter boredom. The villagers, like the witchers, had little to do in the cold months but gossip and weave tall tales. But the stories were persistent, and strange enough that they couldn’t be ignored. Vesemir gathered his pups and honorary pups around the hearth.

“You’re all going to investigate,” he announced, his voice leaving no room for argument. “The fox creature. At the base of the mountain.”

“You just want the keep to yourself,” Lambert muttered, earning a sharp glare from Vesemir.”Yes, I indeed would like a few days where nothing explodes, and with no goats are in my house,” he said.

Ciri perked up. “I want to go too!”

But Geralt placed a hand on her forehead. “Not with the fever you currently have, you’re not. You’re staying here.” Ciri scowled but didn’t argue. “Eww, stay away, keep your plague to yourself” Lambert sneered as he took a few steps away from the sick teen.

Yennefer, overhearing that Gerlat was leaving and not being able to tolerate being alone with Dandelion, quickly volunteered herself for a “vacation” away from the madness, leaving Vesemir to babysit a sick Ciri and a creatively blocked Dandelion.

The Witchers—Geralt, Eskel, Lambert, Coën, and Aiden—set out into the snow. By the time they reached the village at sunset, the welcoming warmth they were used to was nowhere to be found. Most humans were hostile toward Witchers, but this village had always been different—trading food and supplies and offering shelter in return for protection. Something had changed. Doors remained shut, and familiar faces turned away.

The new mayor, who had seemingly taken over by force, was a staunch bigot. He’d declared all non-humans unwelcome, expelling those who had called the village home and imprisoning any humans who stood up for them. His glare lingered on Aiden in particular. Not only was the Cat Witcher a Witcher, but he was also three-quarters Sun Elf, a fact unmistakable from his appearance. In truth, no one would suspect any human ancestry in him unless he explicitly disclosed it.

Geralt stepped forward. “We’re here to help. The fox creature—”

“We don’t need your kind of help,” the mayor snapped. “Leave. Now.”

Disgusted, the Witchers turned away.

“Well, it’s not like the creature is in the village—it’s outside, in the woods,” Eskel said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Yes, but I’m not sure we’re going to be able to find it in the dark,” Lambert replied bitterly. “The creature has only been reported during daylight so far, and I really don’t want to sleep in the cold, snowy woods. We also didn’t bring much food or sleeping gear because the villagers usually accommodate us.”

As they neared the edge of the village, a woman gathering firewood hesitated before hurrying over to them.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a hushed voice. “The mayor doesn’t speak for all of us.”

Coën was about to respond when he shivered and flinched in pain from his still-healing wounds. The woman noticed and asked if he was okay, but he assured her he would be fine. Lambert, however, wasn’t convinced Coën would manage a night in the woods and voiced his concerns openly.

At this, the woman paused, her expression thoughtful.

The Witchers watched her closely, curiosity evident in their faces.

Finally, she spoke up. “Can you guys move quietly enough that no one would notice you?”

“If you can sneak into my barn, you can stay there for the night. I’ll bring food and blankets.”

The Witchers exchanged glances.

“We’d be grateful,” Geralt said.

The barn was warm, insulated with hay stacked in the loft. Lambert flopped onto a bale with a sigh of relief. “Better than freezing to death in the woods,” he muttered.

As they settled in, however, they noticed that Coën was shaking. Coën caught everyone staring at him. “I’m fine, just a little cold,” he said.

Eskel walked over and placed a hand on Coën’s forehead, finding it too warm. “You’ve got a fever. Maybe you caught what Ciri had?” he suggested.

Coën shook his head. “No, I don’t feel sick—just... off,” he replied.

Eskel pulled up Coën’s tunic to examine his wounds. His frown deepened. “You’ve pulled some stitches, I'll have to redo them. You also might have an infection. Does anyone have any medicine?”

Geralt opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, a sudden sneeze echoed from above. Everyone glanced up to see a sniffly, trembling Aiden perched on a rafter.

Aiden cleared his throat. “Sorry—it’s dusty up here,” he lied.

“Well, come down, then. I want to go to sleep anyway,” Lambert told him.

In truth, Aiden wasn’t feeling well enough to climb down. He’d been feeling off since halfway through their journey down the mountain, but it hadn’t fully hit him until now, when he had a chance to relax. Still, he didn’t want to worry anyone. If he’d been with his Cat brethren, he knew he’d likely be berated—or even left behind—if they realized he was sick while on a mission.

Aiden shook his head, immediately regretting it as dizziness washed over him. “Why don’t you come up here and sleep, love?” he suggested, trying to hide how rough his voice sounded.

Lambert narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “I can’t balance up there while sleeping. I’d fall and break my neck, and you know Wolves don’t share the Cat obsession with high places,” he reasoned.

“Well, the hay is gross. What if it has bugs in it?” Aiden countered, his voice rasping despite his efforts to hide it. “I’ll just stay up here by myself if you won’t join me.”

Lambert’s suspicion deepened, tinged with a bit of hurt that Aiden didn’t seem to want to lie with him. He was about to press further when the farm woman appeared, carrying a pile of blankets, a pot of warm tea with honey, bowls of delicious-smelling stew, and a first-aid kit.

“I thought, given how sick the injured one looked, some herbal tea with honey might help, along with fresh bandages,” she said, glancing at Coën, who offered a weak smile. “And with all of you being out in the cold all day, I thought some warm stew would be nice.”

“Thank you,” Eskel said gratefully. “We’d be in much worse shape without your kindness—especially since it looks like another one of us is coming down with something.” His gaze shifted upward to Aiden, who was now lying on the roof rafter.

Aiden raised an eyebrow, his glowing yellow Cat eye peering down at them. The farm woman startled, clearly unnerved. Aiden tried to jump down as he normally would, but his strength failed him.

He began to fall—but Lambert reacted quickly, catching him before he hit the ground.

“Easy, love. I’ve got you,” Lambert said, cradling Aiden. “You’re burning up!”

Aiden mumbled something incoherent to Lambert before managing a rasping apology to the farm woman. She waved it off with a kind smile, setting the supplies down.

“There’s medicine in the kit,” she said gently. “Take care of each other. I’ll keep watch for the mayor.”

The Witchers decided to prioritize tending to the sick and injured before anything else. They laid blankets over the hay bales to create makeshift beds and carefully helped Aiden and Coën out of their armor. Both of them were visibly exhausted. While Coën allowed himself to be gently guided to his makeshift bed, Aiden was far more reluctant.

He had been terrified of any medical treatment ever since the trauma caused by the surgeries he underwent after surviving an assassination attempt by his brothers. The injuries, including an arrow that had to be removed from his eye and brain, along with other severe wounds, left deep physical and emotional scars. Given that Witchers don’t have much money, anesthetic hadn’t been an option for most of the procedures, making the experience all the more harrowing.

Lambert sighed in frustration. “Your child has given Aiden her plague!” he hissed at Geralt.

Geralt, too focused on helping Eskel tend to Coën, barely acknowledged him, muttering a distracted, “Neat.”

This only made Lambert angrier. “This is not neat! As I’m sure you’re aware, a virus must be particularly nasty to have any effect on a witcher!” he screeched, his voice rising enough to make Coën flinch and Aiden cover both his functioning ear and his barely functioning one.

Realizing his outburst was affecting Coën and Aiden, Lambert muttered an apology before turning his attention back to Aiden.

“Relax, love,” Lambert murmured, crouching beside his partner. “I’ll be right next to you soon enough. Unless you’ve been hiding injuries from us, you don’t need stitches like Coën,” he added with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. “We just need to check your temperature and maybe give you some medicine, that’s all.”

Aiden’s single cat-like eye was hazy with fever, and he swayed slightly, clearly disoriented. Lambert gently guided him to lie down, though Aiden, still foolishly trying to convince the group he was fine, muttered a few sleepy protests about “being fine.” The heat radiating off him was alarming, and Lambert suspected the fever was making him delirious.

Meanwhile, Eskel began re-stitching Coën’s wounds. The Griffen School witcher winced but stayed mostly calm as Eskel worked, talking softly to distract him. When Eskel was finished, he gave Coën a dose of antibiotics. Coën, though pale and weak, swallowed the pills without resistance, muttering his thanks before curling up under the blankets.

Aiden, however, was a different story.

Geralt joined Lambert to help him check an uncooperative Aiden’s temperature, which turned out to be dangerously high. Lambert frowned, brushing damp hair away from his lover’s sweat-soaked forehead. “That’s not good,” he muttered.

Eskel, after finishing with Coën, returned with the first aid kit. “If it’s that high, we’ll need to get some medicine into him,” he said, rummaging through the supplies. Unfortunately, the fever medication had to be injected.

Lambert paled at the sight of the syringe, glancing down at Aiden, who was now mumbling incoherently. He knew very well of the Cat Witchers' deep trauma surrounding medical procedures. Lambert had even been present for some of the gruesome procedures.

As Lambert tried to reason with Aiden, Eskel prepared the syringe. “Aiden, you need this,” Lambert said, cupping his lover’s flushed cheek. “It’ll help, I promise.”

But Aiden’s eyes widened and his pointy ears folded back defensively at the sight of the needle, and he instinctively tried to pull away, weakly struggling despite his fever.

Geralt, who had also had a bit of medical trauma from the additional experimentation as a White Wolf, knelt beside Lambert. “Aiden, please be reasonable. I know you’re scared—these kinds of things make me uncomfortable as well, I know how you feel. But if we don’t do this, the fever could kill you.”

The words didn’t seem to reach Aiden, who shook his head furiously, tears welling up in his yellow eye. “I don't want anymore poking and prodding” he rasped, his voice weak and scratchy. “Please, no…”

Lambert ran a hand through his non-existent hair, clearly distressed. He didn’t want to hold Aiden down or force him, but the fever was getting worse. He glanced helplessly at Geralt and Eskel.

“Can either of you jab him while the other restrains him?” Lambert asked in a low voice. “I… I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to hurt him.”

Geralt sighed. “I’ll hold him. I’ve been where he is—I can’t jab him either.”

Eskel nodded. “I’ll do it, but you need to stay with him, Lambert. He’s going to need you.”

Lambert nodded, though he was already feeling guilty at the thought of what they were about to do. Slowly, Geralt approached Aiden, who blinked blearily up at him. “Hey, Aiden,” Geralt said as gently as he could with his gruff voice, sitting down beside him. “I’m just going to sit here, okay?”

Aiden hesitated but nodded sluggishly. Geralt carefully slipped an arm around him, then swiftly pulled the feverish Cat Witcher slightly onto his lap. Aiden startled at the sudden movement, his body tense, but Geralt began running a soothing hand over his arm. “Shh… It’s okay,” he murmured. Aiden’s tension eased slightly, and he started purring softly, the sound vibrating weakly against Geralt’s chest.

Lambert joined them, sitting beside Aiden and taking his hand in his own. He pressed a kiss to Aiden’s knuckles. “I’m here, love,” he whispered, squeezing Aiden’s hand.

Aiden’s purring grew louder, and for a moment, it seemed like they might get through it without much resistance. But as Eskel approached with the syringe, realization dawned on Aiden, and panic flared in his fevered eye. He started weakly struggling, begging them to stop.

“Don’t! Please, don’t!” Aiden pleaded, his voice breaking.

Lambert cupped Aiden’s face, turning his head away from the needle. “Look at me, Aiden. Just look at me, okay?” he said softly. “It’ll be over before you know it. You’re strong—you’ve been through worse than this.”

Eskel took the opportunity to quickly jab the syringe into Aiden’s arm. The Cat Witcher let out a sharp cry, his body tensing as he tried to pull away. Geralt tightened his grip, holding him steady while Lambert continued to murmur reassurances.

“It’s okay,” Geralt said firmly, his hand still stroking Aiden’s hair. As Eskel pushed the plunger down and withdrew the needle, Aiden’s cries turned into soft whimpers. Geralt loosened his hold, and Aiden immediately wriggled free, drunkenly and wobbly climbing and retreating to the rafters of the barn while Lambert tried to stop him, fearing he'd fall again. He perched there, trembling and blankly staring into the void with tears rolling down his face, his ears twitching every once and a while with agitation.

Lambert sighed, running a hand over his face. “I hate this,” he muttered.

“We did what we had to,” Eskel said gently, though his expression was troubled.

Coën fell asleep almost immediately after eating, exhausted from his injuries and infection. Eskel wasn’t far behind, snoring softly on his hay bale. Geralt and Lambert, however, stayed awake, trying to coax Aiden down from his perch with a bowl of stew.

Eventually, the medicine seemed to take effect, and Aiden began to think more clearly. He cautiously climbed down from the rafters, though he kept his distance from the others. He sat with his back to them, nibbling at the stew in silence, refusing to meet their eyes.

Lambert approached slowly, sitting down beside him. “Let’s take this off for the night, it’s not good for it to be covered 24/7” he said as he reached for Aiden's eyepatch, but the Cat Witcher flinched away.

The rejection stung, but Lambert didn’t push.

“I’m sorry,” Lambert said quietly. “I didn’t want to do that to you, with what you’ve been through.”

Aiden didn’t respond, his ears flattened against his head. But the fact that he’d come down at all was a small victory. Lambert decided to give him space, hoping that with time, Aiden would forgive him.

Outside, the horrifying scream of an unfamiliar creature echoed through the hills. Geralt’s eyes narrowed as he stared out the barn window. “It’s close,” he said.

“Good,” Lambert muttered, his voice low. “I need something to stab.”