“I asked what you wanted.” Jaskier doesn’t lift his head so Geralt can’t see the affectionate twinkle in his eye but he can hear it lingering in his voice, and feel it in the press of his lips and fingertips and body heat. A thrush calls for attention somewhere. Jaskier kisses his neck so softly it can barely be felt, encouraging him to speak with candour. “Surely you must have some fantasies.”

Oh, now Geralt remembers. They ran into a strange young woman who had taken quite a liking to Geralt, much to his dismay and Jaskier’s delight. Then both witcher and bard had been horrified to hear her wax about the great carnal prowess of witchers, possessive sex demons that they were. At first Geralt had had to fight the urge to laugh in her face. He struggles not to chuckle thinking about her creative imagination now. “I’m sure you have fantasies enough for the both of us.”

“Well, yes, obviously,” scoffs Jaskier. “But I want to please you too, Geralt! Is there anything you’ve always dreamt of? Any familiar fantasy that floods your mind on lonely nights?”

Geralt snorts. “You first.”

“Fine,” Jaskier sniffs, pulling out the syllable into a long word. Geralt affectionately sweeps a hand over his back and the man relaxes into his embrace. “Well, if you must know, I too have thought of you being… possessive. I don’t mean to imply that you’re a monster or anything like that, so don’t you dare go spiralling into self-hatred, but… uh, often I fantasize of you… claiming me. In front of another witcher.”

This last part is nearly whispered, and Jaskier very rarely shows his shame so Geralt pays close attention and tries not to laugh at the thought. All the witchers that come to mind are ridiculously poor choices. “So when we’ve gone to Kaer Morhen… that’s been on your mind?”

Jaskier nods silently. Geralt rubs his back softly as he contemplates the idea. It’s not the public intimacy that scares him, it’s that he can’t possibly think about having sex in front of his family— even though Lambert flagrantly flaunts his sexuality without a care for the other Wolves at all.

“Couldn't be Eskel,” Geralt finally says. “If that’s who you were thinking of. He’s my brother, it would be too weird.”

“I know, love,” Jaskier quickly replies, curling closer. “Don’t worry about it, truly— it’s just a fantasy, that’s all! But, uh, I told you mine; your turn now, Geralt.”

Geralt hums as he earnestly tries to recall one. But Jaskier’s bare leg is still between his, taking up more brain space than it deserves, and the man’s broad hand is curled around the side of Geralt’s abdomen. Geralt wonders if Jaskier knows exactly how few people have held him like this over the course of his long life, or if he knows that he’s the only one who has been a constant. Needs and wants always come in to muck things up, whether their morals contradict or their destinies force them apart or one of them always wants to spice things up with stuffed unicorns and the like. But lying in Jaskier’s arms— and residing in his heart— has always been easy.

“The only thing I’ve ever fantasized about was this,” Geralt mutters, a little embarrassed. Jaskier raises himself up from the witcher’s throat, his big blue eyes wide and his sharp smile pleased. He kisses away the sweat on Geralt’s jaw, then the sheepish grimace on his lips. Very soon, Geralt struggles to catch his breath again.

-

Geralt doesn’t think about the conversation for days afterward. Then while riding through a collection of hovels too paltry to even deserve the status of a village, he sees a familiar set of shoulders hunched outside the herbalist’s shop, freeing her of her monkshood. Geralt spurs Roach forward without warning and then practically vaults out of her saddle, his heart soaring as he approaches the crouching man. “Now what are you doing in a shithole like this? Not a king in sight!”

The hulking stranger smiles before he even turns, and by the time Letho rises to his full stature he’s grinning like a fool. The joy oddly suits him, transforming his usually serious countenance into a nearly handsome look. “Well, look at that. Like the beginning of a bad joke. Two witchers walk into the same town…”

“I haven’t heard that one,” Geralt laughs, shifting between his feet. He wants to embrace Letho in a tight hug but he isn’t sure if the Viper would welcome it or take off as fast as he could. So he sets his hands on his hips and tries to steady himself— then his fluttering nerves remind him of the flutteriest person Geralt knows. Fuck. He doubles back to sheepishly glance at his companion. “Don’t think the two of you have met yet.”

At least there isn’t a trace of jealousy or discontent on his bard’s face; only curiosity that will not easily be sated. Before Jaskier can do his usual pompous Viscount monologue, Letho steps around Geralt to face him head-on. “No, but I’m familiar with the songs. I’m Letho of Gulet, and you must be Geralt’s extra saddlebags, right?”

Jaskier’s eyes flash, but he laughs without any bitterness. “You’re not wrong. Is there a place around here that we could treat you to a drink, Letho? I think I’d like to hear the end of the joke.”

From then on, the two get on like a house on fire, heading to darken the door of the nearest ‘establishment’ that technically sells alcohol and other amusements. At first it feels a bit like watching a panther play with a peacock, but Jaskier seems to piece together everything Geralt never told him about Letho fairly quickly.

For the Viper’s part he is surprisingly forthcoming, sharing his pipe with the bard along with a host of stories. Jaskier eagerly attends both, linking the soft curve of his arm with Letho’s thick muscly one and hanging onto every word the witcher provides. Geralt hangs back and watches the smoke and warmth flow from them both, his mind racing as his stomach flips.

Then Letho rises from the table to buy the next round, acting more noble than ever. Like he’s putting on a bit of a show. Jaskier is not a small man but as the Viper stands he lifts the bard with him for just a moment. Geralt gulps back dry air, transfixed. Letho smiles at him, not meanly but with unexpected convivial heat— as though they share a secret.

The toe of Jaskier’s boot brushes against Geralt’s calf under the table and he looks sharply at his companion, face burning. If Jaskier can sense Geralt’s fast pulse he politely doesn’t address it, leaning in to murmur softly without accusation, “You’ve been quieter than usual since we got here. All good, darling?”

Geralt forces himself to nod and Jaskier retreats, appeased for the moment. That could be the end of it. By rights, that should be the end of it. But his blood is still boiling in an entirely pleasant way, and so he clears his throat quietly. As casually as he can, he tells Jaskier, “You know, he’s from another school. Letho isn't my brother.”

The town is lovely, if not noteworthy; on his ride in he sees verdant pastures with fat livestock grazing happily on plentiful vegetation. When he stops to harvest some extra herbs nobody calls out ‘thief’ or anything worse. In fact, everyone he passes greets him with either a smile or a nod, nobody seeming too bothered by the presence of a witcher. This bothers Geralt immensely.

He reaches the epicentre; a small town square that smells sharply of a spice or herb he doesn’t recognize. There are bards playing soft music and carts heaped high with pastries, fruit, and charms for tourists. Geralt, technically a tourist, looks over the charms— they are all crudely fashioned, whether woven or carved, and all depict the same… tiger… bear… jaguar, thing. He can’t quite tell if it’s meant to be a warg or a big cat, only that its fur (?) is dark green and its expression is pleasant and wise.

Geralt grimaces, shaking his head at the shopkeeper. They grin and hold out one of the charms anyway. “For good luck,” they tell him.

Geralt can count on one hand how many times a stranger has wished him luck in recent memory. He frowns, tucking the charm away into a pocket of Roach’s saddlebags only because it has absolutely no trace of magic, and perhaps he could pawn it off later for something.

The next major clue that something is amiss in this hidden paradise is the empty noticeboard. Even a pleasant town like this should have at least a few complaints, if not contracts; even in perfect places dogs go missing and children get sick. But the board is bare, with no recent indentations from nails. Geralt’s frown only darkens.

“You,” he grabs a passing man by the shoulder; a lush, judging from his rosy cheeks and how his eyes hardly widen as Geralt holds him in place. But not the kind of drunk who might run around causing issues, just someone peacefully intoxicated in the early afternoon. He smells of wine and of that same indiscernible scent that lingers around the rest of the town square. “Why are there no contracts here?”

“Praise Sylva!” slurs the man. He doesn’t even shrug off Geralt, let alone throw a punch. Geralt, used to significantly harsher treatment from strangers, drops him in disgust. “If we did have any contracts, sure they would’ve been taken by the witchers what just came through here last… last week?”

This oddity, strangely, puts Geralt at ease. Maybe this town is only so peaceful because all its threats have temporarily been disbanded. While this means an empty coinpurse and stomach for him, it does bring him some temporary relief. “Oh?”

“Think they’ve been here since last week,” the man muses. “Two of them witchers, you know… One big fella. Biiiig fella. And one little bald one. Matter of fact, both of them bald… not like you!”

The drunk reaches out to touch his hair, and Geralt thankfully puts that terrible impulse to rest with a withering glare. “Where can I find these two?”

“Pub,” offers the man, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Geralt leans around him to see said pub; there are horses tied up in front, although none familiar to him. When he categorises all the witchers he knows by hair or lack thereof, it isn’t hard to deduce who might be travelling together— despite how often the pair of them complain about each other.

Sure enough, when he opens the door to the (pristine, tastefully decorated, lively but not raucous) tavern, Geralt sees two witchers sitting on the same side of one table. It’s like a terrible joke waiting for a terrible punchline. 

Already amused, he watches the ‘biiiig fella’ notice him first, and promptly deliver a sharp jab to his companion’s side; said companion lifts his head, sees Geralt, and then moves to put some space between him and Letho so quickly that he nearly falls right off the bench.

“Geralt,” Gaetan declares, a little too loudly. “I never expected to run into two witchers here! Shit, it’s like the beginning of a bad joke!”

Geralt takes a seat across from them, not bothering to hide his amusement. Letho looks amused too, although Geralt can only detect it because he knows the man so well; he quickly raises his cup to cover his smirk, but the damage has been done. Geralt exchanges a look with him, then turns back to stare at Gaetan. “I heard about the two of you, but I didn’t think there was any truth to it. You know how Cats love gossip.”

Before Gaetan can cuss him out in a hundred different languages or just pounce across the table and wrestle him to the ground, Letho brings up a broad hand and lays it on his companion’s shoulder. The change is immediate; the anger drains from Gaetan in an instant, and Geralt watches with a strange, curious hunger gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Then Letho says, “Well, we’ve heard you haven’t been travelling alone either,” and Geralt’s frown returns with a vengeance. “Where is the little bird?”

They all know he doesn’t mean Ciri. Geralt grinds his teeth together, and answers anyway, “She’s with Yen.”

“I meant the little songbird,” teases Letho, in that infuriatingly slow and deep voice that always cuts right to Geralt’s core. “The bards here are fine, but all they sing about is fucking Sylva.”

Desperate to get off the topic of Jaskier and to learn more information about this bizarre town, Geralt lunges on this. “What’s Sylva?”

Letho and Gaetan exchange a look that he can’t read, and then both turn to him. “You haven’t been to see Sylva yet?”

-

Sylva, as it turns out, is…

“A warg,” Geralt guesses. Letho and Gaetan, standing on either side of him, both shake their heads; he frowns. “No?”

“Tiger,” Gaetan says, as Letho tells him matter-of-factly, “Bear.” They lean around Geralt to glare at each other, and then Letho steps closer to the warg-tiger-bear thing.

What it is is uncertain, but a small amount chaos radiates from it. Geralt thinks, ruefully, of the charm he’d accepted without proper suspicion. The plant is massive, nearly the size of a real warg, but Letho moves towards it without hesitation. It looks similar to the sculpted bushes Geralt has seen in the gardens of disgustingly wealthy nobility, and in this lush rainforest a little outside the town, it nearly looks at home. Like a real creature slumbering in the woods, only instead of sinew and blood, one made of moss and dew.

Geralt tenses as Letho approaches the plant formation; Gaetan, either seeing his stress or feeling it through his witcher senses, reaches out to place a gentle, unasked hand on his shoulder. It’s exactly the same kind of tender physical comfort that comes easily to Jaskier, and it’s like no behaviour that Geralt has ever seen Gaetan display before. He can’t even think of any time he’s seen the Cat witcher touch anyone, except earlier when Letho touched him.

His palm is warm, and his pulse is slow but solid. The message is clear; relax. Ironic that a Cat is telling him to relax, and exponentially more ironic that Gaetan is that Cat. But Letho doesn’t seem worried about Sylva either, so Geralt doesn’t shove Gaetan off and, begrudgingly, relaxes.

“We thought it might be a sylvan at first,” Letho tells him. 

He uses ‘we’ as casually as anything, implying a new depth to their relationship. From what Geralt had heard (from Lambert, by way of Lambert’s Cat lover who Lambert adamantly denies the existence of) Letho and Gaetan had only been hooking up occasionally. Hate-fucking had been the word of choice. This is anything but hateful, and from how Letho describes their investigations as though they operate as a unit, Geralt would guess it’s more than occasional. 

He keeps quiet as the Viper continues; “You know. Sylva, sylvan… everyone in town swears by this big plant. Says it’s their god, it blessed their crops, their marriages, it brings them rain and shine when needed. We thought it might’ve been some benevolent spirit who chose this town. Easy pickings.”

Geralt thinks, sourly, of a town near Skellige that was similarly ‘blessed’ by a deity that had turned out to be a leshen. “Does it answer their prayers?”

“Not verbally,” Gaetan replies. “But they say Sylva brings love to the loveless, money to the destitute… There were no contracts when we got here either.”

“Hmm.”

“At first, we just intended to stick around for the night,” Letho continues. “Not often you venture into a nice place willing to host a witcher for free, let alone two. And Gaetan thought there was something else afoot, and couldn’t let it lie.”

The Cat shrugs. Geralt narrows his gaze, looking carefully at Sylva. He’d like to carve the big plant open and see what lies inside its branches; perhaps a godling with a penchant for animals has made their home there. But if Letho and Gaetan have already stayed here for nearly a week, they surely would have uncovered this beast’s dark secret by now. Hesitantly, Geralt prods, “And is there…? Something else going on?”

“Yes and no,” Gaetan says. “Nothing spiritual— the local herbalist witch fessed up on our third day here. She said she maintains the plant and casts spells of protection on Sylva; small things, so that it won’t rot or catch any nasty infestations. But over the years, a whole local mythology has grown around this fucking plant. They really think the beast watches over them.”

Geralt stares. How anticlimactic— once more, unbidden, he thinks of the bard and how disappointed he would be in this story’s finale. Then, to divert his thoughts from Jaskier, he quickly says, “So… she maintains the hedge so that the town doesn't lose its spirit? That’s all?”

“Well. No.” Letho leans down to pluck a leafy section from the mossy beast. Sylva doesn’t move or protest in any way, despite the amateurish protective wards, and Letho cups his bounty carefully in both hands. With the same smirk he wore earlier, he murmurs, “That’s not all.”

-

“Praise Sylva,” Geralt proclaims to the stars above, which swim around in his blurred vision. From the streets below them he hears a distant whoop of agreement; although it might have been a birdcall. He lifts his head to check but can’t see over the lip of the rooftop, and craning his neck is immediately uncomfortable, so he relaxes back down on the straw beside Gaetan. “Praise fucking Sylva!”

“Now he gets it,” Gaetan grins, nudging Letho with his elbow. The Viper is curled up behind the Cat, one possessive arm slung over his chest; Gaetan reaches back to put the small bundle of herbs to Letho’s lips, and Letho inhales heavily, his breath igniting it once more. 

The skies are peaceful and free of clouds, and only the lightest breeze bothers them. Geralt still shivers as he watches Gaetan hold the joint up to Letho’s lips. They had told him of a concentrate that the herbalist crafted with Sylva’s leaves and sap, but this seems like a more organic way to ingest the offerings of the forest beast. And inhaling the plant directly won’t do too much damage, since their tolerance is much higher as witchers.

Geralt laughs quietly, thinking of how all this town’s problems were miraculously solved— not by a god, nor by anything posing as a god, but by an herbalist supplying the solution to all their maladies.

Gaetan and Letho both watch him, wearing matching soft expressions, as Gaetan takes the joint away from Letho to hand it back to Geralt. They’ve been lying on this rooftop for at least half an hour, and in that time the three witchers have moved very little. Geralt wonders if Letho has been holding onto Gaetan since they all first lay down. He notices now in clearer detail how close they are; their legs are pressed together. He wants to demand answers— how long have you been snuggling? How long have you two been travelling together?

He stays silent, his gaze snapping back up from their legs to meet Gaetan’s. The Cat looks amused, and brandishes the small bundle at Geralt. “Finish it off,” he insists, and Geralt does.

The plume of smoke that he exhales at the end of the bundle smells just like everything else in this town. He thinks, unwittingly, of Jaskier. Maybe he was wrong in his judgement earlier; maybe the bard would enjoy it here. Maybe, up on a rooftop like this, on a thick bed of straw, he and Jaskier could curl up together like Gaetan and Letho. 

He hasn’t been that close to Jaskier since the bard was younger and they would seek warmth from each other’s bodies on the cold and unforgiving Path. Back then, it had never blossomed into anything more intimate than what it was. Up here, assisted by the herb that keeps this place afloat, perhaps it could.

Geralt opens his eyes to see Letho and Gaetan still both watching him closely. Gaetan speaks all at once, almost as though he’s unable to stay silent any longer, “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” Geralt lies calmly, rolling back onto his side to face the pair of them. He tosses the extinguished butt of the joint away from the straw pile, and lets out a heavy, deeply satisfied sigh. His face burns, his whole body tingles, and he wiggles his toes in his socks. Gods, he could use a nice long bath. “They have baths inside?”

Letho nods, but Gaetan retorts, “You don’t look too dirty; not for a witcher, anyway. That sorceress of yours finally teach you some basic hygiene?”

“She’s not mine,” Geralt rumbles. Once, the confession would have brought him pain to speak. Now he just utters it as plainly as he would any other fact. He and Yen haven’t belonged to each other in a long time; it’s better this way. She will never lose importance in his life, but the yearning that drove them both so mad has finally been put to rest. For her pleasure, Yen seeks out other, equally hygienic sorceresses now. And for Geralt’s—

Annoyingly, the Cat seems to read his mind. “That little bard, then?”

“Hmm.” Geralt stretches. “Don’t know what you’ve heard from Aiden, but it’s all a pack of lies.”

“Come on, Wolf! A handsome witcher like you, you really haven’t found anyone to make an honest man out of yet?” Gaetan scoffs. “I don’t believe that shit.”

“It’s not supposed to work like that for witchers,” Geralt speaks without thinking. Then he tenses; Letho and Gaetan are both silent and passive. If he struck a nerve, neither of them shows it. He apologizes regardless, “I’m not— not saying you two aren’t, uh, you know, just—”

“Bless him, he’s stammering,” Gaetan laughs meanly. He twists under Letho’s arm smoothly, without dislodging the Viper, and presses a kiss to his lips. Abruptly, the gnawing pit in Geralt’s stomach that has been bothering him since he walked into that tavern and saw them next to each other drops. Gaetan doesn’t pull away or make any attempt at hiding his affection; he kisses Letho long, and deeply, until finally pulling away only enough to whisper against his lips. Even if Geralt didn’t have supernatural hearing he thinks he would still be able to make the words out. “You never mentioned that the White Wolf was so shy, darling.”

“He wasn’t,” Letho mutters back. Geralt doesn’t have to see his smirk to know it’s there; he can hear it in the sly, almost challenging tone. The Viper lifts Gaetan up onto his chest with nearly no effort; if Geralt wasn’t already lying down, his knees might buckle. Gaetan adjusts to his new position atop Letho immediately, bracketing the witcher’s thick thighs with his knees and nosing happily at his neck. Letho glances over, his yellow eyes finding Geralt’s. “He's the one who taught me that naughty Gwent game, decades ago in Velen.”

Geralt’s breath leaves him all at once. He remembers those nights in vivid detail, but he hadn’t thought Letho would recall their handful of dalliances; they had never slept together more than one night in a row, and they’d never been sober.

Then again, Geralt considers, none of them are sober right now. His traitorous, fearful heart thrums. Geralt has never been seduced by two people at once before.

Letho brings one hand up to cradle the back of Gaetan’s skull, dropping the other to the base of his spine, and it occurs to Geralt that the Cat is actually not scenting his throat but biting it. He catches the sharp scent of lust in the air, although it’s impossible to determine who it might have arisen from. His head swims in a way he can’t entirely blame on Sylva’s herb.

“If you don’t want to,” Letho says, slowly as ever, “all good. It’s been a long time since you and I fooled around; I’m sure you’ve changed. I know I’ve got a couple new scars.” A tremor or twitch distorts his otherwise restful face for a moment; Geralt’s pulse rushes. Gaetan must be biting along one of those scars now. Letho’s breath comes a little faster as he continues, “But I can’t stop him once he’s got an idea in his head. So either get over yourself and come over here, or go inside and take a nice long bath.”

“And think of us while you do,” Gaetan chimes in, muffled by Letho’s thick neck. Without hesitation, the Viper reaches down to smack his ass; it happens so quickly Geralt nearly misses the motion. But he doesn’t miss the way Gaetan goes still for a moment, his whole body tensing up before he leans back against Letho’s palm, clearly eager for more.

Geralt gets over himself quickly. He rises up uncertainly on the bed of straw; both of the other witchers twist to look his way. When he crawls closer instead of standing, Gaetan blesses him with a rare, genuine smile. Letho nods, equally pleased, but doesn’t take his hands off of Gaetan. 

Maybe he has changed since their old hook-ups; even with the herb mellowing him out, Geralt feels strangely vulnerable up on his knees, looking down at the entwined pair. Quietly, he pleads, “Tell me where you want me.”

“Right there is perfect,” Letho rumbles. Without being asked, Gaetan clambers off of the Viper and over to Geralt. He rises up to meet him hard, kissing him like… well, it’s like no one Geralt has ever kissed before. He sinks into it, especially as Gaetan deepens their kisses, sliding his tongue shamelessly alongside Geralt’s. Geralt, to his great embarrassment, hears himself moan; then, because it feels so good, he does it again. The sound is unbelievably filthy, muffled by Gaetan’s clever tongue; Geralt sucks hard just to see the reaction and Gaetan, not to be outdone, groans into their kiss and reaches for the clasps of Geralt’s armour.

“Slow down, kitty,” Letho teases. Hearing that deep voice always does such dangerous things to Geralt, and now is no exception; he’s gratified to feel a similar response from Gaetan, whose hands still on Geralt’s chest although his mouth does no such thing. Geralt kisses back, chasing the sensation, until heavy hands come up alongside them, pressing them to lie down in the hay. “Slow down,” Letho urges. “Feel it out, first.”

“Easy for you to say,” Gaetan grunts, pulling back from Geralt slowly. As if it taxes him to do so. “You’ve already had him.” Geralt, still high, follows the heat of his mouth until he realizes that Gaetan is actually moving away. Then he leans back into the straw underneath him, slightly embarrassed to have been slow on the uptake. Usually witchers are two moves ahead of their partners in bed.

Gaetan doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he just doesn’t mind; his hungry gaze is still fixed on Geralt. Letho, kneeling beside them and watching Geralt with the same intensity, purrs low in his throat, “He’s wanted this for a long time, you know. Ever since I mentioned what you and I used to get up to, Wolf. It’s a big fantasy for him.”

“Shut up,” Gaetan whispers, in a tone that clearly indicates he wants Letho to do anything but.

Geralt reaches down to rub himself through his armour; two sharp amber gazes follow his movement. Under the moonlight, he feels like he’s performing for them. He walks that thought back quickly enough that it can’t do any damage, and asks Gaetan, “What are you waiting for?”

“Permission,” the Cat breathes. Geralt almost nods; but before he can give his tacit approval of anything and everything Gaetan wants from him, Letho nods, placing his broad hand on the back of Gaetan’s narrow neck. Geralt flushes with pleasure. Not his permission, but Letho’s. This is his first time feeling like an outsider during lovemaking; he’s sensing there might be a few firsts crossed off his list tonight, and he finds he doesn’t mind at all.

Gaetan pounces, drawing his trouser fastenings free of his armour and then shoving the whole kit down and off. Geralt’s cock springs up, already leaking at the tip— maybe the herb was an aphrodisiac as well. Or maybe he just feels that good, half-naked with two attractive witchers in front of him, both intent on making him feel great. Gaetan lowers his talented mouth to the head of Geralt’s cock, and Geralt slams his head back down against the straw.

It lands with an unsatisfying thud, but looking up at the starry night is easier than watching the Cat devour him. The pressure, wetness, and warmth feel unbelievable anyway; Geralt stifles a moan as Gaetan sinks down, taking his length into his throat.

Letho is there, striking quickly as always— quick enough to take him by surprise. Geralt gasps as Letho grabs his head the same way he’d held Gaetan’s skull. The Viper’s fingers are likely large enough to do some serious damage if he wanted; he lifts Geralt’s head, and Geralt doesn’t struggle, too awed by his strength. “Look,” growls Letho, pressing his head down until his chin touches his chest.

Helpless, he looks. Gaetan bobs up and down on his length, sucking it in sloppily every time it nearly slips out of his mouth. The witcher’s slender hand is wrapped around the base, because— Geralt realizes with a jolt— he can’t fit all of it in his mouth. Geralt itches to reach down and make him try anyway, but he doesn’t want to have bad manners. He’s not the one in control here anyway. 

Letho’s fingers weave through Geralt’s hair, as though the Wolf is in any danger of running. He murmurs against his ear, “Should’ve made him drink a Killer Whale beforehand,” and Geralt’s cock pulses at the filthy idea. “Bet then he’d be able to take you without choking.”

“Fuck you,” Gaetan pulls off to angrily retort, and it takes great self-control to avoid coming all over his face. “I don’t need any fucking potion!”

To prove his point, and rise to Letho’s bait, the Cat lowers his mouth slowly until Geralt can feel his throat clenching around  his cock, and he can’t help but dribble a little. Gaetan, to his immense credit, doesn’t choke; instead he hollows out his cheeks and starts sucking Geralt off with renewed effort, until he’s taking him to the root every time.

“Letho,” Geralt chokes out, a warning meant for both of them. But Gaetan doesn’t pull off, and the Viper doesn’t move to make him do so. Letho’s deft, thick fingers creep through the loose ponytail still holding Geralt’s hair up, and he tugs— not hard enough to really hurt, but firmly enough that the stars in the sky fall right into Geralt’s vision and then shoot through his cock down Gaetan’s throat.

He comes for a long moment, and the other witcher sucks him down through all of it, swallowing up Geralt’s spend like Letho told him to. Perhaps they have a code; perhaps they don’t need one. Geralt gasps, loud and clear into the night. It is a small mercy that no one hears— even in a town so forgiving and welcoming, he’s sure they wouldn’t appreciate their beauty sleep disturbed by a bunch of high witchers getting it on above the local inn.

When he comes back down to reality, brain still addled and blood still rushing, he sees Gaetan moving around him to kiss Letho. Geralt turns his head so as to properly watch, figuring it’s his turn to enjoy the show. But Letho just bites Gaetan’s lip hard enough to make him gasp once before pushing the Cat away again. “He’s not done with you, Wolf,” rumbles the Viper. “Just reminding me how you taste.”

“Fuck,” says Geralt, his softening cock making a valiant effort to harden again. He reaches down to carefully, gently roll his balls in his palm, and Gaetan, watching closely, licks his lips. Weakly, the Wolf mutters, “You two will be the fucking death of me tonight.”

“Praise Sylva,” Gaetan teases, blowing a kiss in Geralt’s direction. Geralt reaches up half-heartedly to try to catch it, reflexes slowed by the excellent orgasm and the remainder of the herb.

All three of them chuckle at that, and then Letho bends down, still laughing softly, to give Geralt a real kiss. It feels so natural and right that his heart swells; he can’t remember why he ever stopped seeking out the company of the other witcher. And he’s feeling just relaxed enough to actually share the sentiment.

Softly against Letho’s mouth, Geralt whispers, “I missed this.”

Letho smirks and kisses him once more. “Me too,” he rumbles. “Hope you’re ready to go again, Wolf; I brought along a special toy to open you up so you can take me. Just like the old days.”

The special toy in question happily replaces Geralt’s hand on his balls, honest-to-fuck purring as he rolls them between his fingers and then slides his slick hand lower. He must have oiled his fingers while the other two were distracted; clever fucking Cat. 

Geralt gasps into Letho’s mouth, and then again as Gaetan breaches him with two digits. Letho chases the noises and draws more out, sucking on Geralt’s tongue. He kisses the same way as Gaetan does; Geralt supposes that makes sense, given that they must practise with each other.

Then the Viper pulls back, rummaging through the bag Geralt failed to notice before. He retrieves another sprig of the plant, tearing off a long leaf with his thumb and starting to crush the mossy flower into smaller pieces with his palm. Geralt stares closely as Letho rolls up the bundle of herbs one-handed, and the witcher mistakes his fascination for apprehension. “Don’t want it?”

“Don’t need it,” Geralt confirms, and then, a second later as Gaetan crooks his fingers inside, “but, but, fuck! Might feel nice…! Shit, Gaetan, anyone ever tell you you’re fucking good with your hands?”

“Just wait ’til you feel my cock,” Gaetan laughs. His fingers twist again, hitting the same sensitive spot that makes Geralt’s head spin; no smoking required. He slides in another finger and it barely stretches him. “Take a hit, Wolf. Might help you relax a bit.”

“Funny, you telling me to relax,” Geralt huffs, even though— shit, had he already said that? He manages his best frown even as he practically fucks himself on Gaetan’s long, skilled fingers. It feels different than when he’s been fingered in the past; he’s more on edge. Maybe that’s because of Letho’s hot presence next to him. Geralt wonders if anyone has ever seen him get fingered before.

Maybe once— at a brothel in Novigrad— there hadn’t been proper partitions between the rooms but instead fluttering curtains— between sweating through his shirt and trying not to make too much noise he swore he saw bright blue eyes fixed on him from the next room—

“Give it to me,” Geralt demands, roughly. Letho and Gaetan laugh, but not unkindly. Smoothly enough that it’s clear he’s done this many times over the last week, Letho casts a small Igni and lights the blunt, heavily inhaling its thick, strong smoke. With the same smooth motion and in the same instant, Gaetan pulls out his slick hand. Letho bends down, cupping Geralt’s jaw with broad fingers, and blows smoke into his open mouth— just as Gaetan finally slides into his ass, teasing Geralt with just the tip of his thick length.

“Ah, sh-shit,” Geralt coughs, surprised. Letho doesn’t let him up, and Geralt inhales most of the hit without coughing again. His lungs fill with the hazy smoke and his mind blissfully clears. Gaetan pushes the head of his cock in and out of Geralt, seemingly enjoying himself as he pants every time it catches on the entrance. Geralt chokes out, “You’re bigger than the toy.”

Gaetan shoots him a brilliant, beautiful smile, then rewards him for the praise by reaching down to pick up Geralt’s knees and sink into him fully. Geralt pants at the stretch, finally breaking a sweat; Letho, caring as ever, brushes the hair back off his forehead. “You’re being so good for him,” promises the Viper quietly. “He’s going to make you feel so nice.”

“Yeah,” Geralt gasps. With his bare legs held up by Gaetan, who’s barely flexing, he feels untethered from the earth and even more vulnerable than before. The herb takes effect quickly, and while it feels wonderfully different from any witcher liquor or fun potion, he has to briefly fight off the strange sensation of floating up into the endless starry sky.

Then he becomes conscious of his own socks, his ankles softly rubbing against Gaetan’s sweaty back with every push inside. Straw pokes into Geralt’s back underneath him, where his armour and shirt have rolled up out of the way thanks to all the motion. The slight itchiness calms him, but also annoys him.

Then, finally, after what feels like forever, Letho has a hand in his hair and pulls it so slowly that it feels tender. “So pretty,” coaxes the Viper, and Geralt obediently turns to him. Letho has lost his pants too; Geralt nearly laughs at the three of them only in their shirts. Like witcher initiates fooling around late at night, too scared to fully undress and get caught.

Geralt isn’t scared at all. He reaches up to place a hand on Letho’s chest, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. The Viper gets the memo, and he disrobes faster than any human could. Geralt stares in wonder, and Gaetan’s pace slows; he still fucks Geralt but now it feels like he’s hitting deeper and deeper every time. Geralt groans, unable to restrain the noise, bouncing with every thrust forward, and Letho says, “Cat, how you doing? Feel as good as you thought it would?”

“Better,” Gaetan mumbles, adjusting his grip on Geralt’s legs. “Way better. Fuck, Geralt, thank you.”

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Geralt gasps. “Thank you, asshole.”

“Had to repay you somehow,” the Cat whimpers. Geralt turns to face him as sharply as he can, and when he sees Gaetan smiling down at him his nerves are instantly set at ease. This wouldn’t have felt as good if it were just repayment, or a favour to a friend; Gaetan genuinely wants this. His hands are shaking as he holds up Geralt’s knees, a surefire sign that he’s close to his release. When he tries to speak again, he stutters through it, “Gonna— gonna come in you, alright?”

“What a gentleman,” teases Geralt breathlessly, even as Gaetan rocks him with every thrust. Mimicking what the Cat had said earlier, he turns to look at the Viper. “Bless him, he’s stammering. Letho, I never thought your bitch would be so shy.”

Gaetan swears a string of broken curses and pushes deep inside Geralt, filling him— it feels hotter than fire, and he groans just as loudly as Gaetan. Then Letho, with a few pulls that almost look lazy in counterpoint, strokes himself off and, before anyone else realizes he’s about to, comes all over Geralt’s face.

“Fuck,” Geralt breathes, reaching up to wipe dripping come off his chin. Before he can clean any of it off, Gaetan lunges, lowering himself onto Geralt without pulling out. The movement and closeness makes Geralt gasp again, and he doesn’t stop breathing hard as Gaetan licks over his face and jaw shamelessly. “Fucking gods damn, you two,” Geralt mumbles. Then, because he’s in a fucking amazing mood, and his cock is still hard as hell, he dares to push it further; “I thought the plan was for Letho to come inside me too?”

“Plan hasn’t changed,” Letho grins, in a crooked sort of way that makes precome leak out of Geralt’s already red, sore cock. It smears against Gaetan’s stomach and Geralt struggles to find his breath, still grappling with the weight of Gaetan’s cock inside him. “Night’s still young, Wolf.”

-

In the morning— the late, late, very late, technically the next morning, for clarification— the three witchers walk out of the inn, freshly bathed and full and content. None even bear a limp to betray how they so defiled the roof of the good, friendly, spiritual town. No one passing seems bothered at all with the presence of a witcher, let alone three.

As they pass by the farms on their way out of town, a stablehand who beat his hangover with Sylva’s help yesterday recognizes Geralt. He claps delightedly at the sight of the trio, paying little mind to their intimidating armour or six swords. “Wow! That’s not something you see every day!” cries the man. “Three witchers walk out of a town— gods, it’s like a bad joke!”

The stairs leading down into this pit of a room creak horribly, so Eskel must have telegraphed his movements loudly— just not loudly enough to break through Letho’s meditation. The light has changed too, cold bright winter sunlight spilling through the open door and spreading over the rickety stairs and grimy floor. Letho promptly caves under a rush of embarrassment at how he's let this place fall to ruin since his arrival. Granted, it hadn’t been anywhere near pristine when he arrived, but he could have taken a few minutes to sweep up some of the straw and scrub the unidentifiable mire from the walls. 

He’s sure he looks terrible too; there’s a sour taste in his throat that doesn’t fade when he clears it. “Not dead,” Letho mumbles, even though he technically is. “Just relaxing.” Even though he definitely isn’t.

“Right.” Eskel’s hands tense at his side; Letho pretends not to stare too obviously. He wonders if the Wolf has stopped by to bring him up for breakfast. Then his stomach swoops uncomfortably and clenches as he wonders if it’s perhaps long past breakfast. He’s been doing a good job keeping track of the days but not the hours, and there’s a chance he missed his midday sparring. Maybe that’s why Eskel is here.

Letho wants to rise from the nest of blankets that could hardly be described as a bed and follow Eskel up into the light, but he suddenly feels impossibly heavy. He glances up at the other witcher, wishing that he could see himself through Eskel’s kind eyes. Instead his shoulders just slump. “Well… what do you need?”

“I came down here to see what you needed,” Eskel begins, and Letho scoffs before he can even finish the sentence.

It’s perhaps crueller than Eskel deserves, but he isn’t sure he knows how to be pleasant right now. It’s cold, and miserable, and he doesn’t even belong here. Letho reaches up to scratch at his neck, suddenly annoyed. “No, you came down here because you wanted something. What is it? A fight? A fuck? Don’t think I’m in the mood for either, Wolf. Are you gonna serve me my eviction notice because I skipped berry-gathering with the old man last week?”

“None of us have seen you in three days,” Eskel replies, curt but not unkind. Letho doesn’t mean to react visibly but he’s sure something flashes across his face from the way Eskel’s marred lips twitch. Has it really been that long already? Maybe he hasn’t been keeping track of time as well as he thought. The realization is more upsetting than he wants to admit.

But before he can lash out again, Eskel moves away. The Wolf stands at attention expectantly, still staring at Letho. “Come on, got something for you to do.”

“Fine,” Letho grumbles, a little surprised to have won that easily. He’s one hundred percent okay with not talking about this but he had expected some sort of a lecture from Geralt’s softie brother. He rises to his feet and slips on his boots, following Eskel up into the light.

-

After at least a minute of awkward silence, Eskel clears his throat. “... Well?”

The ceiling here is high enough that their voices and footsteps bounce up to it, Eskel’s ‘well’ echoing around the cavern. After the weeks he’s spent in hiding at Kaer Morhen, he thought he knew the place pretty damn well. But any witcher school is bound to be full of surprises. The Cats practice their needlework while perched on the roof, their legs dangling over the edge without a care. Before the fall of Kaer Seren, the Griffins had had a secret soundproofed room in their prized library for working out any frustration— according to rumours, anyway. And apparently, the Wolves have their own personal heated pool.

“This isn’t what I expected,” Letho admits, his focus caught on the tiny aquatic plants floating around a few of the springs. Some of the pools are clearly designated for washing, like the one Eskel stands beside now. Others appear to be recreational— Letho hides a smile at the thought of Vesemir in here, smoking a pipe and enjoying the hot water. “Geralt never mentioned this place.”

“Our best kept secret.” Eskel’s smile curls up at his own joke and he distractedly reaches up to run his thick fingers through his soft, pretty hair. “Go ahead, the water’s fine.”

“Fine,” Letho echoes. The Wolf turns politely away as he pulls off his armour, not bothering to make a show of it if Eskel won’t even watch. The cool air feels awful against his bare skin and Letho grimaces. If Eskel brought him here to relax, he picked the wrong activity. Then again, maybe he just stinks and the other witcher had decided he needed a bath. Maybe the Wolves all voted on it.

He steps in tentatively, moving as slowly as he can to dip his toe into the dark spring. The water ripples around his foot as heat ripples through his body, the temperature so shocking that it almost feels like he’s on fire. “Fuck,” he groans, and it is a groan. Eskel doesn’t react to his indecent noises, his head still demurely turned away. Letho finds himself immaturely wishing that Eskel would turn to look; they’re adults, after all, and both bear the same equipment. His equipment twitches where it’s hanging soft against his thigh, and Letho doesn’t waste any more time, submerging the rest of his body quickly after. “Fuck, that feels fucking incredible!”

Eskel makes a small noise of assent but doesn’t move to immediately drop trou, head still turned. Letho realizes that he’s been staring at a wall of shelves the entire time, and abruptly feels like a fucking idiot for assuming that Eskel wouldn’t want to look at him stripping. This is hardly a blushing virgin, after all; the other witcher has been more open than most about his desires. Finally the Wolf selects the small bottle of oil he wants and the right bar of soap, and he turns back to the pool. Letho quickly pretends he hadn’t been staring, snapping around to stare down into the water.

The other witcher pours a small amount of the gauzy, fragrant oil over the surface of the water, and the pleasant scent clouds Letho’s mind. He rolls his head back and groans again as the hot water pulls away his troubles. “This is… really nice, actually. How’d you know?”

Instead of getting into the spring Eskel dips his hands into the water, lathering up the soap until he’s covered in bubbles. He explains, “Sometimes when I’m stressed, my scars itch. And Coën’s got the same thing, but all over— so bathing helps. I thought it might be just what you needed.”

“Thank you,” Letho murmurs, eyelids sliding shut. They shoot open wildly a second later though, as Eskel’s soapy hands start massaging the grime and sweat off of Letho’s skin. His fingertips dig into the Viper’s shoulders without hesitation or warning, and Letho’s heart rate spikes. He’s flirted with Eskel a bit since arriving but none of it has been reciprocated so far, and he just assumed he’d been barking up the wrong tree. But unless the Wolves have a radically different idea of intimacy, this is definitely not a platonic friendship activity.

Eskel’s knuckles dig into his sore muscles and Letho holds back a sound of contentment that would surely echo through the cavern like everything else. Bubbles drip over his collarbone and down his chest, and a moment later the witcher’s deft hands follow their trail, smoothing down over Letho’s pectorals. Letho grips his knees so tightly they ache to avoid reaching for his cock, and Eskel laughs, pausing with his palms covering Letho’s chest. Against Letho’s ear, he breathes, amused, “You’re even tense here!”

“Not usually, no,” Letho tries to say, except the ‘no’ turns into a sigh as Eskel massages there too, as if his chest is just as dirty as the rest of him. He can’t remember the last time anyone ever spent this much time lavishing care and attention to his body. Maybe it’s never happened before. “Get in the water,” he half-begs.

But the Wolf just kisses the shell of his ear and then draws back, hands gliding back up to his shoulders. As if nothing is going on and they aren’t both acutely aware of Letho’s arousal, Eskel insists, “This isn’t about me, I want you to relax! Just soak in the warmth and I’ll wash you. It’s nice, right?”

“Be a lot nicer if I got to participate,” Letho grumbles. Eskel cradles his palms around the back of Letho’s neck and drums his fingers against the front of his throat. Letho doesn’t breathe but he leans into his touch like a moth to a flame, revelling in the heat from the water and from Eskel’s talented hands. “Don’t spend too long on my hair, alright?”

“Geralt never told me you were such a smart-ass,” Eskel says, sounding affectionate. Letho wouldn’t confess it with a crossbow pointed at his prick, but he honest to fuck blushes at that. “He hasn’t shared very much at all, actually. I know he trusts you, and that you’re a friend of his. Meaning you’re a friend of mine, too.”

“Never done this with Geralt,” Letho mutters.

The other witcher digs his knuckles into Letho’s skin again. “Me neither,” he says, and then finally pulls his hands away. Letho mourns the loss for only a few seconds before he hears the sound of fabric rustling, then he whips his head around to try to sneak a peek at Eskel changing. The Wolf huffs, amused again, but as he carefully removes his smallclothes and sets them aside he doesn’t make any effort to hide his body. 

Letho drinks in the sight with unexpected eagerness, gaze roaming freely over not just Eskel’s thick length but the meat of his thighs and calves, the curve of his stomach and hips, and his absolutely glorious ass. Letho’s mouth goes dry. He wants to sink his teeth into that, immediately. “I think I just found the real best kept secret of Kaer Morhen.”

Eskel sighs but his pulse nearly skips a beat on its way to catch up to Letho’s, and the Viper grins. When Eskel swings his (fucking perfect) legs over the ledge of the spring and slides down into the water Letho expects that he’ll be able to take the upper hand. Except then Eskel reclines against the rock shelf behind them and moans as his body adjusts to the hot spring, and Letho’s arousal pulses yet again, the familiar knot of desire growing low in his hips. 

Letho shifts where he’s sitting and raises his hands up from the water to flex and crack his knuckles. Eskel takes advantage without warning, sliding in to nose at Letho’s newly clean neck and reach between his legs. Letho thrusts up against his touch without even meaning to, his body contorting as he jerks both against Eskel’s mouth and his fingers. The witcher doesn’t afford him an inch of satisfaction, just gently holding him in hand and pressing open-mouthed kisses to his throat without even the slightest hint of teeth.

“Relax,” Eskel insists yet again, holding Letho’s cock without moving as it fills with blood and gets even fatter in his hand. He kisses him once more with the same near-reverence, as though Letho were something to be treasured and not a retired killer. An empty shell. 

As Letho thinks grimly about Eskel knowing the extent of his history and what else Geralt might have kept from him, some part of him must tense. “Stop thinking so much,” the Wolf growls. His hand starts to move and Letho resists the impulse to fuck his fist, lying back and receiving the care just like Eskel wants him to. Eskel’s thumb smears over the head of his cock and it dribbles, dissipating harmlessly into the spring. He thinks, nonsensically, that Eskel will need to wash him again after this, and the thought makes his cock leak again.

“That’s good,” Eskel tells him, and Letho isn’t really sure what he’s doing differently but he tries to keep doing it, desperate for more praise. He reaches to grab for the other witcher’s jaw so their next kiss is a real one, and Eskel’s mouth on his is a revelation. Letho pulls him in closer and Eskel tightens his grip just a little. The message is clear: take it easy. Relax.

He tries his best, breathing heavily between kisses as the Wolf strokes him. Embarrassingly soon after they began, it becomes too good to resist coming, and Eskel pulls his release out of him without hesitation. The pool smells not just of soaps and floral oils now but of sweat and salt and sex. It smells really, really fucking good— Letho thinks he could stay here for another hour easily. Hells, he could stay here for the rest of his life.

Eskel kisses him through all the aftershocks, palm still cradling the weight of him. Letho, spent and satisfied, finally finds himself relaxing into the Wolf’s grip. Eskel pulls away only enough to breathe, and his lips still brush against the Viper’s when he asks, “Feeling better?”

Letho nods, too content to even consider hiding the truth. He nips at the Wolf’s lower lip and then begins to return the favour.

“You shouldn’t have something like that here,” he snarls. Ciri freezes and pulls the cat closer nearly protectively, but the guilt seeping through Letho’s cold heart isn’t nearly enough to stop him. “This is no place for a fucking pet.”

The ensuing beat of silence almost convinces him that he’s won, that she’ll throw this mangy animal back into the pound she no doubt rescued it from. For the first time, Ciri looks like a real girl and not a superhuman danger to international security— and she looks frightened too. Letho doesn’t back down, and even though it looks like she might, Ciri doesn’t either. The cat starts purring gently, and Letho knows he’s fucked. Scowling, Ciri protests, “But Lambert feeds the ducks down by the lake!”

“Can’t think of a worse role model than Lambert.”

“And Eskel keeps a goat out in the courtyard!”

And Geralt kept you, Letho very much does not retort, frowning just as bitterly as Ciri. Instead, he tells her, “Goats provide milk. Eskel’s smart enough to know that in an emergency, the goat would be the first to go. Pets are a distraction— you’re not keeping it. End of story.”

“You’re not my superior,” Ciri snaps. “Technically, I outrank you. So my cat is none of your business. End of story!”

The cat mewls quietly as if in agreement, and Letho turns on his heel and storms away from the girl’s room. He heads straight to the firing range, meaning to work out his frustration with some target practice, but when he tries to fasten the headset over his ears he finds his hands shaking unexpectedly.

He doesn’t even remember his mentor’s face now, after so many decades spent as far away from Gorthur Gvaed as he could get. But Letho remembers the one moment of kindness the cruel instructor had shown him, bookended by terrible memories that plagued his nightmares for years afterwards. In-between testing their poison immunity and forcing them through training courses too difficult to escape unscathed, the Viper instructor led Letho’s class into a small room. 

The gasps of the boys who entered before him made him nervous, but when Letho finally rounded the corner there was no horrific sight awaiting him. Instead he was surprised to see a pen with at least a dozen small kittens roaming around. The recruits were told that cats naturally distrusted Witchers so as a challenge, the Vipers would need to gain the trust of the fickle animals— or some story like that, anyway. Letho hadn’t questioned the reasoning too closely, blinded by his excitement at the first gift he’d ever been given.

The cat— his cat— had been a bright point during the following years of darkness. Letho, persuasive and almost too intelligent for his own good, had no problem getting the pet to trust him. The problem was that he grew too attached, so when it came time for the final test he would face, Letho failed to spot his own weakness.

He passed the test. The last piece he needed slid into place easily. Letho walked into that room as a tactical machine and walked out a killer, with a conscience wiped clear without any trouble. Or at least, he hadn’t thought there had been any trouble— not until decades later, when he saw Geralt’s apprentice holding a small orange tabby and was suddenly reminded of a loss he had nearly accepted.

Nobody bothers him until later in the evening, when Letho has abandoned the idea of shooting away his feelings. The kitchens are usually empty at this time of night so he’s surprised when the door swings open; he’s even more surprised when he turns and sees… no one.

Letho frowns. For a beat the room is ominously empty; then approaching tiny footfalls alert him to the identity of his visitor. Staring up at him is Ciri’s cat, because of course it fucking is. Letho stares right back, glaring at the creature with what he refuses to acknowledge as bitter, bitter jealousy.

After a moment of consideration, the cat moves closer and bumps its head against his leg. Letho sharply inhales before finally bending at the waist to give the creature some attention. He’s careful not to scratch near the scar on its head; even though the wound appears healed, Letho doesn’t want to aggravate it at all. The animal keens into his touch instantly, its soft, raspy purr an unexpected balm for his senses. 

Letho, to his absolute horror, feels tears pricking up in the corners of his eyes. This only spurs the cat to be even cuddlier, of course, and Letho clears his throat. “You’re a cute one,” he admits. “Wonder if she gave you a name yet. Used to call mine Furball. … Maybe let’s keep that between us.”

The cat turns away to peek back in the direction it came, ears perking as it listens. Sure enough Letho hears the same sound a moment later, as someone races towards the kitchen and practically kicks the doors back open. It’s Ciri, looking a little windswept. Her cat meows loudly and joyously, quickly abandoning Letho to return to its owner’s side. The creature’s loyal. Letho will give it that, at least.

“Sorry, sorry, I think he saw a mouse,” Ciri quickly stammers, picking up the cat. She clearly hasn’t spent much, if any, time around animals before this one; she has no idea how to hold it properly. The animal doesn’t seem to mind, just twisting in her grip until he’s comfortable. “I didn’t mean to bother you! I’ll keep it away, I promise— Vesemir told me cats don’t really like Witchers, and I’m sure you’ve got some deep-seated trauma thingy about this because almost everyone here’s got stuff about everything, but, um… I’m sorry, I’ll keep him in my room!”

Letho thinks about if it would be wise to tell her about his deep-seated trauma thingy. Then at least she wouldn’t be left wondering why he was such an asshole to her earlier, and maybe she’d even get rid of the cat and he wouldn’t have to deal with this newfound flood of emotion ever again. But Ciri looks nervous, cradling the animal close to her chest again like she’s nearly scared that Letho will do something to harm it. He takes a heavy breath in, then out. “It’s a boy?”

“Yeah,” Ciri nods. “I found him when I was doing a recon mission with Coën— someone left him tied up in this awful dark basement. So I had to bring him back, obviously.”

Obviously. Letho silently muses on this, then finally he asks, “Given him a name yet?” Taken aback by the question, Ciri silently shakes her head. Letho smirks at the scrawny cat. “How about Gaetan?”

-

The following week, an unfriendly and impatient civilian places an emergency call to Morhen HQ, demanding that the agency deploys its best men to search for his missing feline. Unluckily for him, Letho is the first responder, and he’s less than sympathetic to the man’s claims.

“I have pictures,” the man tells Letho, brandishing said pictures in his face. Yes, Letho has in fact Seen This Animal; in fact last night he yelled at that very animal when it jumped up onto the dinner table to try to steal his salmon, and then eventually caved and ate his dinner on the floor beside the cat, and then chased a certain Wolf around the building for an hour threatening murder if Lambert didn’t delete that fucking picture right fucking now. He shakes his head, smiling to himself— this enrages the stranger, who misinterprets his amusement as derision. “Don’t you even give a fuck? My property got stolen!”

“Not really,” Letho tells him, just to watch him splutter. “Maybe you treated the cat like shit. Animals don’t just up and leave. And anyway, this is below my paygrade.”

“Your paygrade?!” The man stares, eyes bugging out of his head. “I thought you Witchers were supposed to be heroes!”

They hadn’t even liked each other, snarking back and forth at every opportunity. Gaetan was impulsive, quick to kill first and ask questions later. Letho likes waiting until the best moment to strike, hunting the mark for as long as he can before taking them out efficiently. Other operatives teased the unlikely duo for their matching penchants for murder, but Letho hated the way Gaetan worked, with his boss breathing down his back half the time. He had been pleasantly surprised to hear of Gaetan’s retirement, and when Lambert handed over the burner phone, rage had flared up in Letho’s chest.

“Why,” he’d demanded, flat and angry. “I don’t need this.” Back then, he had other places he could go in a pinch. The gift of Gaetan’s current location was something that Letho neither wanted nor needed; if he were tortured, it would instantly make him a liability for the Cat.

Lambert had been soft back then, try as he might to hide it. Domestic affection suited him. He pushed the phone across the table between them, smiling behind his wide sunglasses. “Aiden said he’d want you to have it.” The sincerity in his voice made Letho’s stomach flip.

That had been thirty-six months ago, long before Aiden had been killed in action. When Letho had heard the news from a trusted contact, he had briefly thought of his old partner, wondering how Gaetan was handling his brother’s death. He had thought that Gaetan must have blamed himself for retiring, and had probably beat himself up over something more he could have done.

When Letho imagined Gaetan, he had imagined him somewhere warm and entirely off the grid. Perhaps an island where he could walk around topless and practice throwing knives to knock coconuts down from tall palms. He had imagined the man sun-kissed, sand between his toes and other appendages.

The truth is that while Gaetan does live off the grid, he lives in a postcard, with coniferous trees so tall that even a passing helicopter might struggle to track him down. Letho parks his motorcycle badly, wincing as he takes in the size of the property. At this rate he’s going to bleed out on Gaetan’s front lawn. He stumbles forward, one hand pressed to his shoulder and the other to his lower chest, just above his stomach. He’s lucky he isn’t dead yet. He’d be luckier if he got to see Gaetan one last time.

There’s a light on in the front room of the cabin, but no sign of life. Letho valiantly moves towards the house even as his boots sink through the snow. His toe catches on some buried ice and he stumbles, crashing down onto his knees. The blanket of snow muffles his fall, but a moment later the cold sets in and he curses Gaetan for retiring so far north.

So this is how the so-called Kingslayer meets his end. Not at the hands of an enemy squadron, nor eased into death with Auckes and Serrit by his side. Letho will bleed out here, in the picturesque front yard of a man he hasn’t seen in six years. He wonders if Gaetan will recognize his body immediately or panic, calling Guxart to come and deal with the strange corpse outside his door.

Someone bounds towards him through the snow, but they’re much smaller than Gaetan. They are, in fact, not a Cat but a dog— Letho squints, his focus blurring as he tries to make sense of the apparition. The creature is an Australian cattle dog in a thick, red scarf, panting as it approaches. The dog has the good sense to stop a few metres short of coming close, but it doesn’t back away or even bark, just tilting its head curiously at the stranger.

Letho hates dogs. Always has. He hates guard dogs worst of all, and hates having to take them out on jobs, but this one doesn’t seem particularly protective of the property, so he just stares. Even if he wanted to defend himself he couldn’t, so he sways on his knees, blinking at the dog as he drifts into a stupor.

Finally the dog raises its nose skyward and howls, and Letho collapses.

-

“He ponders the Schumann Concerto’s tall willow hit By lightning, and stays put. When he surmises   Through one of Bach’s eternal boxwood mazes   The oboe pungent as a bitch in heat,

“Or when the calypso decants its raw bay rum Or the moon in Wozzeck reddens ripe for murder,   He doesn’t sneeze or howl; just listens harder.   Adamant needles bear down on him from

“Whirling of outer space, too black, too near— But he was taught as a puppy not to flinch,   Much less to imitate his bête noire Blanche   Who barked, fat foolish creature, at King Lear.

“Still others fought in the road’s filth over Jezebel,   Slavered on hearths of horned and pelted barons.   His forebears lacked, to say the least, forbearance.   Can nature change in him? Nothing’s impossible…”

Gaetan drifts off in thought, the last few lines of the poem lingering in his throat even after recitation. He only comes back to himself when Teigr tugs on the end of his house robe, whining insistently. As much as Gaetan would like to believe that his pet is begging to hear the rest of the verse about another, long-gone dog, he knows better. He dog-ears the page and closes the book, putting the collection down on his coffee table and rising from his couch. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Hold on, darling.”

He walks to the front door and Teigr eagerly circles him, nearly tripping him a few times. But after three years of near-isolation the two of them have developed a perfect rhythm of co-existence. Gaetan avoids stepping on his tail and in turn the hound waits patiently for his owner to bumble along. He wraps one of his scarves loosely around Teigr’s neck, covering the spot where he had to shave him last fall for a routine veterinary operation. Then he opens the door.

The dog bounds out into the snow without looking back, and Gaetan stands in the doorway, surveying the beautiful but empty yard. His garden and walkway are covered in a heavy white blanket, undisturbed except for where Teigr has wandered out for his business. A small puff of snow twinkles down from his roof, dusting the porch, but Gaetan just wrinkles his nose and draws his sleeves closer around himself.

Without warning, the harsh and inhuman computerized voice that has become so familiar to Gaetan calls, “Front door open. Security update?”

“No threat,” Gaetan replies out of habit. There’s been no threat since he moved in, not even when Aiden sought refuge here after his near-brush with death and subsequent disappearance. Gaetan hadn’t slept at all the first week, terrified by nightmares of his brother’s pursuers tracking them down. But no one had come, and eventually Gaetan grew comfortable enough to stop triple-locking the door and sleeping with a dagger under his pillow. He turns away from the cold afternoon, calling to the security system: “Teigr’s out in the yard. Turn off all alarms for fifteen minutes, yeah?”

“Yes, Gaetan,” the voice echoes from the speakers installed in every hallway. Then the noise cuts out, leaving the house silent and peaceful as ever. A run-of-the-mill visitor would hardly know that anyone of note lived here; the crackling fire in the hearth and warm scent of hot apple oolong aren’t exactly red flags.

Gaetan likes it that way— after all, he hadn’t travelled to the middle of nowhere so that he could constantly relive the trauma of his old life. The most action he sees these days is in the letters that Kiyan, Aiden, and Dragonfly will occasionally send. They often ask if he’s bored maintaining a small garden and living off the land and caring (perhaps too much) for his dog, but Gaetan isn’t bored so much as content. After a lifetime wasted as a pawn for others, his own wellbeing thrust aside as he became a killing weapon, he can’t say he misses his old life.

Then, right as he’s about to return to his tea, Teigr starts howling fiercely in the yard. It isn’t the howl of a squirrel chase or a moon sighting, but the howl of a dog in mourning. Gaetan rushes back to the front door and throws it open without thinking, and then he sees Teigr pawing at a figure, face down in the snow.

Without changing out of his housecoat or slippers, Gaetan reaches for the 9mm he keeps right next to the door. He makes a beeline for the person, praying they aren’t a corpse and wincing as the thick, sick stench of blood hits his nose. In Teigr’s desperate attempts to rouse the downed figure by nosing at their head, he has managed to dip the red scarf in their dark blood and spread it everywhere, painting wide circles on the snow.

Gaetan shoves his dog out of the way, hurrying to lift the bloodied stranger up into his arms— or try to, anyway. His heart sinks as he thinks that this must be a corpse, because no living human would weigh this fucking much. Then, with great effort, he turns the cold dead body and gasps as he recognizes the bruised face of a long-forgotten ally.

-

When Letho wakes up, he’s astonished by the total absence of pain. His eyelids are heavy so he quickly attributes the blissful numbness to drugs, and even though someone in his profession getting drugged is a very bad thing, he can’t help but thank whoever thought they’d ease the way for him with medication.

With herculean effort, he finally manages to open his eyes to take in the room around him, which is when he experiences the second great surprise. He’s not in a hospital, but in someone’s bedroom. On the nightstand is a small lamp and a bowl of water with a rag, as well as, bafflingly, a James Bond book. There’s a quilt folded over half his body and a thin blanket covering the rest, and Letho can’t see or feel the damage but he imagines it isn’t good. But there’s no IV in sight, and when he very experimentally tests his shoulder, the place he’d been stabbed doesn’t ache at all.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing,” someone snaps harshly, and Letho startles. He sluggishly swings his head around to see Gaetan baring his teeth, beautiful and furious as Letho remembers him. The man is only in sweatpants and a loose grey shirt that hangs off his shoulders, a far cry from the tight leather armour most Cats don. He also lacks any sign of a weapon, rising from his chair beside Letho’s bed with only his bare hands outstretched.

Those hands push Letho back down onto the bed gently, and Letho groans without meaning to. As he climbs up to sit on the bed, Gaetan grumbles, “You’re going to undo all my hard work, you gigantic moron. Is this how you treat all your nurses? It’s a wonder you’ve made it this far in life!”

Exhausted and hazy from the medication, Letho just blinks back. Gaetan is even more handsome than he used to be, with a thick layer of scruff shaved just under his jaw. He’s wearing half rim glasses with a black frame. Letho tries to reach up to run his hand along Gaetan’s scratchy beard, and the Cat actually growls, grabbing his hand and shoving it back down into the pillows. “Stop. Moving. You’ve been out for twenty-six hours, you can’t just hop up and run right back into the fray, you fucking idiot.”

So gentle that it’s barely audible, Letho murmurs, “Gaetan.”

Gaetan’s grip on his palm softens and he doesn’t move at all, chest lifting and falling silently. When he finally replies, his voice is more tender. “Yeah. Glad you know where you are, at least.”

Heaven, Letho thinks, confused about many things but certain about this. Gaetan pulls away from him and rises from the bed, and Letho watches him settle back into the chair before sleep claims him again.

-

“I need a shipment of O-negative blood,” Gaetan says as soon as the call connects. His old boss and mentor has never appreciated small talk, and right now Gaetan is glad for it. “As soon as possible,” he tacks on.

The line is live but silent, and Gaetan wonders, annoyed, if Guxart is alone or if Vesemir is privy to this phone call. Finally, the elder Cat replies, “Am I allowed to ask why?”

Biting back his initial, very rude response, Gaetan tells him, “It’s better if you don’t know.” True, even if it’s dramatic— the different branches of Witcher agents have tenuous relationships at best, and he doesn’t need Guxart wondering why a Viper would come to Gaetan for sanctuary. Especially not when Gaetan is still wondering that himself. “How soon can it arrive?”

“I already placed the order,” says Guxart, and Gaetan finally sags in relief. “But— and forgive me for prying, young one… why not just donate it yourself? It says in your file that your type is O-. Are you in good health, Gaetan?”

“I’m fine,” Gaetan hisses, toying with the edge of the bandage on his inner elbow. He’s a universal donor, not a universal recipient, which means that while he can easily provide for Letho, it doesn’t work both ways. Besides, Letho needs all the blood he can get right now, so… “As soon as you possibly can,” he repeats insistently, before ending the call.

-

The next time Letho awakens, he knows better. He looks over at the chair first, and he isn’t surprised to see Gaetan there, snoring gently and slumped forward over the side of the mattress. Whatever cocktail the Cat made him has started to wear off so it aches slightly as Letho sits up and reaches for him, but he does it anyway, curiously placing his hand on the Cat’s shoulder.

Before he can get a word out Gaetan jumps, scrambling away from Letho’s touch. Letho tries not to laugh, or cry, at the sudden jerkiness in his movement even though he’d been fast asleep only ago. You can take the Witcher out of the game… He mumbles, voice hoarse from disuse, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” huffs Gaetan, cross. Then as he looks at Letho his gaze softens, so the Viper must really look fucking awful. Letho has never been a pretty boy like the other Witchers but recovering from the brink of death would do a number on anyone, and despite his superhuman strength, he is only just human. “It’s alright, I gotta… gotta let the dog out anyway, so it’s good.”

Sure enough, a scratching starts up on the other side of the door. Gaetan must have shut it to keep the animal out of the room, and while Letho appreciates it, he suddenly feels terrible for both the dog and his owner. Gaetan didn’t invite Letho to crawl into his life and take over his early retirement. When he supplied the number he had probably done it as a fucking joke, not… not for any of this.

Gaetan stands, stretching out an obvious kink in his back. Letho stares, unabashed, at the gap of skin revealed by his sweater rising up over his stomach. He looks so comfortable and vulnerable here, and Letho brought death and terror to his door when he wasn’t expecting it. Letho owes him a thousand apologies, but he can’t bring himself to deliver any of them, not when he’s not sure exactly where the two of them stand.

As the Cat goes to exit the room, Letho asks, sounding pathetic even to his own ears, “Can I come?”

“Oh!” Gaetan turns back to stare, slightly bewildered, hand still lingering on the doorknob. The scratching from the other side gets more eager and intense. “... Don’t see why not.”

-

Moving Letho out of bed is a two-man job, but thankfully for both of them the Viper seems to be regaining his strength more and more with every day. Gaetan has him on a steady diet that mainly consists of broth, not wanting to risk upsetting anything because he doesn’t know Letho’s nutritional needs. He knows very, very little about Letho, which has never been an issue before. But here, with Gaetan’s entire life on open display, he feels a little nervous hosting the other man.

Letho takes everything in stride— or, at least, if he has any comments on the state of the house, he keeps them to himself. Teigr is very interested in the stranger he found in the yard but Gaetan firmly keeps the dog out of arm’s reach, not wanting Teigr to try to jump on his new friend and accidentally toppling a giant in the process.

The giant stares back at Teigr, much less friendly than Aiden had been. Gaetan wants to ask him a hundred questions, ranging from his opinion on dogs to his opinion on Gaetan’s situation to why the fuck he showed up here. But he doesn’t want to ask for too much too soon; he only knew Letho for a short time but the man had been very open about his policy on friendship.

After letting a very relieved Teigr loose into the yard, Gaetan returns to the living room and settles down next to Letho. The bigger man has taken up residence in one of Gaetan’s favourite armchairs, and he’s wearing the baggiest clothing that Gaetan could find in the house. The bandages around his shoulder are visible under his shirt collar, and while Gaetan can’t actually see the gauze around his stomach he can see every time the stitches twinge in pain, because Letho winces, blinking hard.

Out in the yard, Teigr plays with a ball. Letho watches through the window, staring at the space where he’d left his motorcycle; Gaetan had had no idea how to drive the damn thing so moving it into the garage had been a slow process. Before the Viper can ask about a getaway route, Gaetan asks nervously, “Are your stitches alright?”

Turning a look of consideration first on his own hulking body and then onto Gaetan, Letho hums. The noise makes him sound like a Wolf, but his low voice is unmistakable when he answers, “I’m fine. Whatever you gave me has been working like a charm.”

“Good!” Gaetan reaches for his mug of wine, draining it. He hadn’t offered Letho a drink but now he wonders if he should; when he licks his lips afterwards, Letho’s clever gaze follows the motion. “You thirsty? Hungry at all?”

“No,” mumbles Letho.

He doesn’t tear his eyes away from Gaetan, who ignores the flush of heat blooming across his chest as Letho watches him. “Don’t give me some spiel about wanting to get right back out there,” he suddenly snarls. “I don’t give a shit if you’re bored, you haven’t even been here for a week. You were shot and stabbed in two very nearly vital places. Surely whoever hired you can find another Witcher to finish the job!”

But Letho just keeps watching him, dark eyes holding more secrets than Gaetan could possibly hope to ever find out. “I’m not bored,” he says. “And I did finish the job. Nearly killed myself in the fucking process, but…” The Viper smirks in morbid amusement. “You should see the other guys.”

Gaetan leans back in his chair, interest stirring despite himself. “Are you at liberty to share the story, or will that bring Ivar himself to my door?”

“Ivar doesn’t know where you live,” Letho snorts quietly. “Didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t even know myself until I needed it, and then I checked the burner. Pretty stupid invitation, by the way; anyone could have taken that phone off my body and come right here.”

“Unless a great deal has changed in seven years, I find it hard to believe that anyone could rob you,” Gaetan huffs. Letho’s smirk widens and as he flashes his teeth, Gaetan’s heart flutters in a way it hasn’t in years. “So, tell me. Who got the jump on the Kingslayer himself?”

-

This evening feels different than all the others, and not just because he’s conscious and upright for it. They dine together in the kitchen, swapping stories about jobs both recent and ancient. Over red wine and risotto, Letho tells Gaetan about his most recent near-brush with death, and more, going into detail about the smugglers and how he’d been tracking this gang for months. In return Gaetan tells Letho about the truth of an old assassination that was famously carried out by the cabinet minister’s mistress.

Letho’s side begins aching long before he finally tells the Cat he needs to go to sleep, prolonging the conversation for as long as he can hold out. He missed Gaetan, although he doesn’t tell him that; back in the day they’d been at each other’s throats all the time and they never had the opportunity to talk like this. Letho enjoys it more than he thought he would have.

When he does finally relent, Gaetan hurries to help him into bed, walking alongside him in the hall just to ensure that he doesn’t slip or anything. The door to Letho’s room is slightly ajar and when he pushes it open he’s surprised to see the cattle dog curled up on the mattress, soundly asleep. Gaetan scowls, quickly calling his pet away, but Letho silences him with a hand on his arm. “You remember what they say about sleeping dogs, right?”

The reference is to a fight they’d had as much younger men, in a very different context. It’s difficult to rectify the hair-trigger temper Gaetan had had back then with the peaceful man standing before Letho now. But judging by the light in Gaetan’s eyes, he remembers that fight well too. Grinning, he mumbles, “Fuck off.”

“We can just sleep in your room,” Letho tells him, and when Gaetan’s jaw drops he sighs. “I mean, unless you have a better idea?”

“No, uh— that’s, no, that’s fine,” stammers Gaetan. “It’s just down the hall, I’ll go get one of the chairs from the living room!”

But Letho, still holding his arm, pulls him back until they’re face to face again. “Aren’t you tired of sleeping in a chair? You’re not likely to make it worse if you just share the bed with me… unless you still sleep with a knife in your hand.”

Gaetan fidgets, and for a moment Letho panics that he’s ruined this whole uncertain thing between them. He’s on the verge of walking it back when the Cat reaches up to touch Letho’s palm where it’s wrapped around his forearm. He takes Letho’s hand into his, tracing the lines on his palm thoughtfully. “If this is what you want, then yes,” Gaetan says, eyes shining. “Yes, I could do with a night in a real bed.”

-

As dawn breaks, Teigr comes into Gaetan’s room, sniffing around for his owner. He knows better than to jump up onto the bed with two grown men there— especially when one is gigantic— so he just stands on Gaetan’s side. He taps his paw against the side of the bedframe, whining quietly until the giant man rises up from the covers and smiles at him with surprising tenderness. “Gaetan’s still asleep,” he murmurs. “You’ll have to wait a bit to go out, alright?”

Teigr settles back onto his haunches, staring at Letho. The man stares right back, chewing his lip pensively as he watches the dog. “You know, I never liked dogs,” he confesses. Teigr tilts his head curiously. “They always freaked me out. But you saved my life… so you’re alright, I suppose. Kind of cute.” Letho smiles again. “Just like your owner.”

Ducking down to kiss the top of Gaetan’s head, Letho snuggles back under the covers. “Five more minutes, Teigr.”