#octinary

“The fuck do you think you’re doing, Cat?” He pitches his voice as low as he can without a whisper dampening the impact of his growl. The less the onlookers hear of their exchange the better.

The Cat sprawls out as though he owns the place, an arm draping over the back of the booth. “Drop your hackles, Wolf, I’m not here to spirit away your contracts.” He gestures, beckoning the barkeep and Lambert nearly laughs at the audacity, as though that would possibly...until he notices that the man is heading towards their table with a mug of ale, which he sets before the Cat with a nod and nary a word about payment. The witcher takes a swig, tossing wet, shoulder-length brown hair out of his eyes in the process. A striking white scar intersects his sharp-angled eyebrow. His face is all sharp angles: strong, squared off jaw, covered in dark stubble; aquiline nose that looks to have been broken once; high, distinctive cheekbones.

Look, just because Lambert’s sure he’s up to no good doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate the view.

“The name’s Aiden. And you are?”

“Not about to fall for any horseshit. What do you want, Cat?”

The Cat fixes him with that feral smile again. “To drink with a colleague.” At Lambert’s huff of disbelief, Aiden sighs. He drops his voice to a deep purr. “Relax, Wolf. I'm only here to establish an alibi. What could be more memorable than two witchers from enemy schools sharing a drink? It’ll be the talk of the town.”

“Rather not be the talk of the town. Rather put my head down, do the job, and avoid cocky assholes like you like the plague. Don’t really care to be part of some intrigue that’s gonna get me skewered.”

A flash of recognition lights Aiden’s handsome face. He nods, considering his words before he replies. “Spent a good while working jobs in this area last fall. Had some pretty grisly shit on their hands; a clan of wraiths haunting the woods just outside the village, cutting them off from the nearest fresh water source and slaughtering dozens every month. Then all those fresh corpses bring…”

“Fucking necrophages.” Lambert winces. It’s not an uncommon problem with wraiths. Unlike many of the monsters he hunts regularly, wraiths don’t consume the corpses, which has a tendency to attract secondary issues.

“Fucking necrophages,” Aiden confirms. “Ghouls and alghouls, mostly, but graveirs too, nests and nests of necrophages sprung up for miles in every direction. Job took over a month to wrap up. I stayed here at the inn, got to know most of the locals. Not saying we’re pen pals, but we’re safe here.”

A petite barmaid with wispy, dirty blonde hair approaches the table, setting a steaming bowl of stew before Aiden. “Me da says it’s on the house, master witcher,” she says as Aiden reaches for his purse, a comely pink flush spreading across her freckled face.

“Your father has my thanks, Brea, as do you.” The girl blushes deeper at that, ducking her head. “Might I get another bowl for my friend? I’ve the coin.”

“Me da says I’m to take no coin for you, master witcher, you’re our guest here. Be back with the stew in a flash.”

Lambert stares.

Aiden smiles, and somehow it seems a little softer, sadder. “Brea’s brother was one of those the wraiths slaughtered before I arrived. They didn’t have much coin, not enough for such an extensive job, but they were upfront from the start, and they kept me housed and well fed until the job was done. Didn’t get the warmest welcome from the whole village, but Keller—” he nods toward the barkeep “—and his family were always good to me.”

“Never seen anything like it.” The girl flits back beside the table, setting a thick, warm bowl of stew before Lambert with a quick nod before scurrying away again. He looked at Aiden appraisingly, slowly picking up his spoon. “Name’s Lambert,” he grunts. “Thanks for...you know.”

Aiden waves it off. “Eat.”

They do.

Conversation flows a little easier as they eat. They talk about the shit weather that brought Lambert to the inn, the ealdorman a few towns over that tried to stiff Lambert after he wiped out a cave full of endregas, their best hunts this year, the closest they came to dying this year. It’s been almost a year since he was last in Kaer Morhen, last around people who understood, who would have a real conversation with him, but it turns out Aiden’s surprisingly easy to talk to. He listens more than he speaks, watching Lambert with bright eyes through each story only to interject a thoughtful question here, a devastatingly witty quip there.

They’re on their third round of ale, courtesy of Aiden’s apparent heroism, their supper long finished, when Lambert leans forward on his elbows, fingertips lacing together. “Riddle me this, Cat,” he says slowly, watching the pretty face before him break into a grin, scarred eyebrow jutting upward. “If you’re just here so you have an alibi—and don’t think I forgot about that shady shit, by the way, I don’t know what the fuck you’re up to but I haven’t forgotten that—then why’d you come sit here with me? Yeah, yeah, two witchers are more memorable than one, I heard you, but not here, where they know you by name and keep the ale coming and treat you like a damn king. There’s a room full of people who’d vouch you were here even if you weren’t, seems to me. So why?”

Aiden stretches, hard lines of his body on languorous display. He looks relaxed, at ease. “Needed to assess the threat.” His voice is casual, but his golden eyes miss nothing. “You Wolves have a reputation as a prickly, self-righteous bunch—no, hold your protests, I assure you I know all about our reputation. I like to think we’re both more than the worst traits of our guilds, don’t you agree?”

Lambert nods, reluctant.

“There’s also,” Aiden continues, and although his body remains lax, long limbs still splayed out gracefully, his voice lowers carefully, “the fact that you want me. Smelled it on you the minute I walked in, strong enough to cut through your misapprehension.”

Lambert doesn’t deny it, just watches him, silent.

“It was flattering,” Aiden murmurs, leaning in, long fingers tracing patterns on the table between them. “Strong, handsome witcher who can’t keep his eyes off me? It’s a hard thing to resist. And denying myself has never been one of my strong suits.”

“I can believe that,” Lambert snorts. Aiden’s looking up at him prettily through hooded eyes, long, dark lashes, a quick tongue wetting his lip. And Lambert could deny himself, could walk away from this fascinating man who he doesn’t quite trust, doesn’t quite know but desperately wants to. “So what now?”

“Now I’m going to take advantage of my complimentary room upstairs. What you do is up to you, but I’d welcome your company.” He slips to his feet and fixes Lambert with a challenging smile. “You coming, Wolf? Or are you all bark?”

Lambert follows.