Autum was finally showing her face, peeking tentatively around the corner after summer being so unusually hot and long. He wonders if this is going to be a trend since Geralt’s daughter had done her epic work of defeating the...white frost or whatever it was. He faintly remembers carving tallies in the bowl of a tree centuries ago, trying to keep track of when the winter snows would come so he could have advance warning to feed his pack and start preparations. He remembers the tally marks shrinking over the decades, the gradual winnowing away of the fat season from over a hundred days to half that, the worry of not having enough time to get everyone properly fattened up.
Now, however, he has help. Regis and Geralt have been assisting with gathering fresh nesting material and meat, with the promise of even more help with the latter’s brothers coming to stay for the colder months. He will not have to worry about fighting through cold and snow to catch a deer for one of the pack members that woke early. Granted the bruxas did help too...sometimes. Maybe. They didn't particularly care for the lesser vampires, and definitely didn't view them as pack. They more or less viewed them as his pets and his sole responsibility and he’d mostly not pushed the matter because they were his pets after all and he wasn't used to asking for help. Regis and the witchers liked them (though Lambert was still on the fence about the bigger ones) and would happily groom and feed them. They treated his pets like thier pets and he’d more than once seen Geralt roughhousing with Dela, his adult male fleder missing an arm, while Eskel favored bottle-feeding the two orphaned pups Crina and Daciana, and Lambert would spend hours tiring out the plumard pups with a rabbit foot on a string (though that one is less commendable because he’d get them to pounce on his brothers or Regis and make nuisances of themselves).
Regis-bless the man-was the most tireless and indispensable of them all. He’d had to make do with bleeding himself to heal them or try to stave off sickness and that didn't always work because his blood wasn't really compatible with the more distantly related lesser vampires. Regis brought some hundred and change years of medical experience and knowhow, and moreover, he was willing to implement it. Many of their kind viewed lesser vampires as, well, lesser; not unlike the way humans viewed other less intelligent primates. Regis was one of the few that felt even their distant cousins deserved some respect and care as they were just as much strangers in a strange land as themselves. Regis was happy to bandage abrasions, flush out parasites, and lovingly dote and coo over every broken and ill little thing he brought to his care.
The memory of the other vampire humming tunelessly at he worked over a plumard pup with a tiny brush made him feel near as warm as the sunbeam he was lounging in.
Yes, lounging. In autumn. It was a wonder, having a team of people just volunteering themselves to care for the horde of vampires so he wouldn't run himself ragged. It meant he had time to while away an afternoon stretched out on Regis’ bed soaking up the sun coming through the window and reading.
Unfortunately he’s not the only one with that idea. “You’re in my sun.”
He squints up at Geralt, mildly annoyed. “I was here first.”
“Budge over then.”
He is far too comfortable. “No.”
Geralt eyes him for a moment and he eyes him back with no intention of backing down. He does start a little when the other man gets onto the bed and leans over him, a challenge in his eyes. His face is distressingly close and he can practically see every golden detail in the slit eyes. Dettlaff feels oddly nervous, unsure what he’ll do.
“Last chance.”
He squints at him, but says nothing.
When Geralt abruptly stops holding himself up and just drops his entire upper body down on him he does...sorta say something. Well, wheezes it, more like. Bit difficult to say anything when a solid wall of Witcher nearly knocks the breath out of him. He squirms ineffectually because even though Geralt wasn't using his strength to pin him down he is ridiculously heavy; once he gets his breath back he’ll shove the idiot off him because he refuses to mist and let him win-
“Mrrp.” Queenie chirps and hops on, making a dozen more happy sounds as she settles on a warm witcher in a spot of warm sunlight. He watches balefully as she curls up, not to be disturbed for an hour at least.
“Traitor.” He wheezes.
Queenie whines a complaint when she’s bounced a bit by Geralt’s laughter, and he glares at the man even though he couldn't possibly see it. After a moment he resigns himself to his fate, mollified somewhat by the fact Geralt is at least as warm as the sunbeam, if not more so. He even starts to feel...cozy, despite himself. It may be the warmth or the closeness or possibly the ‘deep pressure that calms one’s nervous system’ that Regis had spoken of to explain why weighted blanks felt so nice to him. He’s not completely discounting feeling sleepy on account of being half-strangled because it’s difficult to breathe around the idiot either, but whatever the cause he finds himself slipping into a comfortable doze.
Nearly an hour later, it’s Regis who comes to the rescue. Or, well, at least to gawk in barely-restrained mirth. “Goodness, that can’t be comfortable.”
“Well,” He drawls fatalistically, “at least he doesn't lay on my bladder like Dela.”
Geralt shifts.
“That wasn't a suggestion.”
