For the banter prompts: number 5 ("I hate it, thanks") and Vesemir/Guxart?
Two weeks after his pups head down the Trail, Vesemir looks up at the faintest scratch of boot against wood in the rafters above his head. There’s nothing to see, of course. Vesemir sighs and goes back to spinning. “You could always knock, you know.”
“Well where’s the fun in that?” Guxart asks, dropping down out of the rafters and landing lightly beside Vesemir. “Ooh, that’s a nice shade of blue. You don’t usually dye the wool before you spin it.”
“Lambert got drunk and dyed a sheep blue,” Vesemir sighs.
Guxart guffaws and goes wandering off towards the kitchen, returning with a pair of mugs of ale and a plate of goat cheese and the loaf of bread Vesemir pulled out of the oven this morning. “How d’you dye a sheep blue?”
“Fuck if I know.” Vesemir shrugs. “Lambert was blackout drunk and doesn’t remember what he did either. It is a nice blue, though. I think I’ll have enough to make all of this year’s socks.”
Guxart grins and puts the plate and mugs down on the table next to Vesemir’s chair, then flops down into the empty chair beside him, leaning over to pluck curiously at the as-yet-unspun wool in Vesemir’s lap. “Better make an extra pair.”
“...Why,” Vesemir says warily.
Guxart grins at him. “Oh, well, y’know. I might have spotted one of your pups making sure one of my kittens was healthy. Or at least, I can’t imagine why else he had his tongue down my lad’s throat.”
Vesemir very carefully puts the spindle down and covers his face with his hands. “One of my pups has taken up with one of your Cats.”
“Yep!” Guxart says brightly.
“...Ah yes, I was just thinking that Lambert wasn’t chaotic enough, and could really use some Cat training to enhance his natural lack of respect for anything even vaguely resembling authority,” Vesemir sighs, and picks up his spindle again. “Thank you. I hate it.”
Guxart snorts. “How’d you guess?”
Vesemir smirks. “Well, if it had been Eskel, he would have told me straight out, and if it had been Geralt, he would have looked hangdog for weeks and then told me. Process of elimination.”
“Huh,” Guxart says, and grins. “Well then. Aren’t you going to make sure I’m healthy, old Wolf?”
“You snuck up the Trail, into the keep, and into the damned rafters without my notice,” Vesemir grumbles. “And mind who you’re calling old. You’re not three years my junior, you know.”
“Three very important years,” Guxart teases. “And I could be dreadfully ill, you don’t know!”
“You know perfectly well that Wolf witchers don’t actually lick each other’s mouths to check for illness,” Vesemir grouses. “Any more than Cat witchers lick themselves all over to get clean.”
Guxart leers cheerfully. “I could lick you all over, if you like.”
Vesemir eyes his companion for a long moment. Guxart lounges sideways in his chair, legs slung over the side - Cats, in Vesemir’s experience, cannot sit properly on chairs - and leans back to look at Vesemir upside down, batting his eyelashes hopefully.
“Guess taking up with a Cat isn’t the worst thing that pup’s ever done,” Vesemir concludes at last, and sets his spinning aside, and leans over for an upside-down kiss.
One kiss turns into several as Guxart wriggles around, still improbably agile after all these years, until he can settle in Vesemir’s lap, rumbling the low sound that he will never admit is a purr. “Well?” he murmurs as they break apart just far enough to rest their foreheads together. “Am I healthy, then?”
“Hm,” Vesemir says, rubbing their noses together gently. “Not sure. Guess I’ll have to try again.”
“Sneaky old Wolf,” Guxart says approvingly, and tilts his head to bring their lips together once again.
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