1. rest

 “Is he sleeping?”

 Eskel raised his head to find Jaskier leaning in the doorway. Cahir was dozing against his thigh, the young man’s breathing was shallow with the edges of a sickness but Vesemir had assured him it would pass with rest and warmth. Humans got sick, it was something they all needed to take care with.

 “Yes.” He wanted to brush the soft curls away from his eyes. He couldn’t do so  without startling the man awake. Eskel nodded at the chair in the corner. “You can sit.”

 Jaskier took the invitation and settled down. “He did well, we wouldn’t have made it this far if he hadn’t fought for us.” Eskel didn’t know who Jaskier was defending the southerner to but he dared not interrupt. “He wanted to return to Nilfgaard.”

 Eskel furrowed his brow, why?

 “He felt he might, I don’t know- do some good from the inside? I’m not sure that he understands why, really. They’d have him executed on sight now, of that I’m sure. He’s failed them too many times in their eyes.”

 “Why are you telling me this?” He did his best to match the gentle whisper of Jaskier’s voice.

 “He’s good. He’s young and terribly hurt but I think he would fill a spot here if Cirilla doesn’t object terribly. Even so, the pass will cover soon and he needs to know that there is something better to strive for. His life, Eskel, has been a series of debts unpaid. I’m simply telling you this because you seem to have taken a shine to him” the bard gestured to where the young commander dozed on his thigh and where Eskel’s own hand had curled loosely around his back. He hadn’t meant to stay in the room long enough to sit and yet… here he was. “Be kind to him, dear witcher. That’s all.”

 Jaskier left him all the more confused. The hardships of his life were plain on Cahir’s skin, scars crisscrossed his body from years of training and, more recently, torture. He flinched when hands came too close to his head and he lost himself at times, times during which no one could reach him until he found his own way back to the present. Eskel was aware. He didn’t need to be told such things.

 He meditated, letting his mind drift in search of peace until the fingers on his knee twitched and Cahir stirred.

 Eskel cracked his eyes open and watched as the commander furrowed his brow, blinked at the room, and then began to push himself up with an air of confusion. There was hesitation in the movement, as though he thought moving at all would draw the wrath of who he’d been sleeping atop but Eskel just closed his eyes and pretended he’d never stopped meditating.

 Cahir stood and moved around the room and Eskel, quietly, asked “Did you sleep well?”

 “Yes.” Cahir said, it was followed by a clipped “Thank you.” Then he was gone, striding purposefully down the hall. Eskel sighed and stretched. Cahir wasn’t      skittish     exactly but Eskel had a hard time following his shifts between almost friendly companionship and arms length distancing.

     Debts unpaid    echoed in his mind.

2. food

 Dinner was always a lively affair and it often found Eskel sitting by Ciri as she told him which forms Geralt was putting her through. Cahir sat alone on the far end of the tables, Jaskier wasn’t far from him but there were still three seats between them. He ate little even after weeks, Vesemir had told them not to worry so long as he was eating something at meals. Appetites were fickle things and recovering from being starved made them all the more so. They had all had rough seasons on the path.

 Yet Cahir did not eat.

 For six days Eskel watched him struggle to close his fingers around a spoon and nibble on rolls. His stomach did not growl. On the seventh day Eskel raided the pantries until Lambert came to investigate the ruckus.

 “What the fuck, Eskel?” Baskets were filled with all sorts of preserves and nuts, things which needed no cooking or cooling and had been gathered over years.

 “Snacks.” He explained. Lambert joined him on the floor and dragged one of the bowls closer, inspecting the contents like he was making a bomb.

 “This is all for sad and scrawny.” It wasn’t mean, per se, but Eskel glared at him the same. It was for Cahir. Lambert softened around the eyes, such a little tell of emotion as he read the labels on various preserves . “He’s not gaining weight and the pressure on meal times doesn’t help… I get it. It’s a good gesture. You want help putting these around the old place?” There were plenty of ledges and windows even in the sub levels where the baskets and bowls would be well in reach whenever the urge struck.

 Eskel smiled. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

 Sure enough Cahir began to have more energy in the weeks following and his cheeks became less gaunt. No one mentioned the little stashes but Eskel noted that they were never empty even without his involvement.

3. clean

 It was difficult in the first days after his arrival. His skin was caked in sweat and dirt, his hair was unkempt, and his beard… Well, he was a far cry from the confident Commander he’d once been. Even as an intelligence officer far from any luxuries he’d never fallen so low.

 He’d tried to shave the second evening on which he’d been able to move around the cold room he’d been granted, but his fingers would not hold the blade steady enough. The old injury from Cirilla’s blade as they fled the Fall of Cintra had been compounded by his time in Emhyr’s dungeons and what once had been an inconvenience to work around had become a true hindrance. He washed with cold water and rags and avoided his own reflections for the time being. There was no one to bother with his state except himself after all.

 Jaskier knocked on the door late one evening, Cahir opened it with only a bit of hesitation. His nightmares had not let him rest in weeks, since before he’d crawled from the grimy cell, and a pillow beneath his cheek did not change that.

 “Yes?”

 Jaskier was bundled in a fur that dragged behind him, he wore his boots beneath that. “I’ve come to show you to the best kept secret of Kaer Morhen.” His gut twisted, his hands clenched -   a test. This is a test - Jaskier’s hands closed over his, held him steady.

 “Oh no, dear. Nothing like that,” Jaskier soothed, as though he’d read his mind.  “A warm bath! A warm bath is all I’ve come to share.”

 Cahir let himself be led down two levels until the floor sloped and the air  grew warmer.

 The springs were large and clearly spelled but it did not stop Cahir from sinking into the water with a groan. Tears came to his eyes as the warm water soothed aches and pains and stung lightly against unhealing wounds. Jaskier settled across the pool from him and pretended he wasn’t watching.

 “Don’t fall asleep.” It seemed like such a silly warning right up until he slipped and jolted upright with water in his mouth. Jaskier was by his side in a moment.

 “We’ll come back. I promise.” His half sleep haze loosened his lips on their journey back to their chilly rooms.

 “I want it gone.”

 “What?”

 “The beard. It’s not mine- I don’t-” Jaskier nodded at his nonsense and put him in bed without a word.

 He was once again in the springs mere days later when Lambert approached him.    

 “You want me to take care of that mess on your face?” It was aggressive and abrupt and, in truth, startled him. He’d seen the youngest wolf witcher only twice since his arrival and both times had involved swearing and a small amount of well thought politics. Cahir touched his beard, shame on his cheeks.

 “I mean-“ Lambert raised his hands and let them fall again, “I’m good at it, I’ve been doing Eskel’s close shaves every winter for twenty years and haven’t knicked him once in five. You can’t be a harder canvas than the big guy. Plus the bard-”  Oh. He told them- of course he did. He’s not a friend, he has no reason not to share your    “-mentioned that you lost your razor.”      What?  

 “The offer is there.” The Witcher dipped into one of the further pools and said nothing more. If Cahir were to accept he would need to make the approach. Could he trust them to put a blade to his throat? Could he trust      himself     to let them?

 “I’d like that.” He manages once Lambert is actively washing, all attention on himself rather than the Vicovaran behind him.

 “Okay, I’ll go get my kit.” He finished up quickly, “If you want to move over to the benches on this side?” They were higher and wider than the ledge Cahir was perched on and he did as asked while the Witcher was gone.

 Lambert returned with a well battered roll of leather which contained his shaving supplies and a tub of cream.

 There was a teasing lilt to his words as he said, “Close your eyes, Commander.” He listened to the Witcher lather his hands, tensed when those same hands brushed over his cheeks. He didn’t know why he expected a brush. “Ready?” Cahir hummed an assent, he was as ready as he could be with his heart jackrabbiting as it was.

 Lambert pressed the flat of the razor against Cahir’s cheek, tilting the edge away from the skin. The human flinched hard and his eyes flew open. Lambert expected as much and repositioned the blade, “Ready?” He asked again.

 “Yes.”

 This time the blade sung as it swept over his cheeks and Lambert watched him squeeze his eyes shut against the knowledge of how close it was. It took several passes to finish one cheek and he hesitated to move down to the man’s neck. He started to relax under the rhythm of the blade but the moment it went to his neck his anxiety ratcheted upwards.

 “Easy,” Lambert murmured, “jus’ tilt your chin up for me.” He finished the left side quickly and moved on to the right. It was with the last pass of the razor over his skin that Cahir let out a breath and his nerves fade into nothingness. Lambert used a clean cloth to brush moisturizer over the sensitive skin and watched the human shudder at the gentle touch.

 He looked so young without the shield his beard had afforded. There was a scar, a dip in the skin high on a cheekbone and a hundred more hidden beneath the mineral waters. Lambert turned away and stropped the blade before returning it to its case.

 He lifted himself out of the pool and toweled dry, all the while the human was silent. Lambert itched, he wanted to say something and make the man talk.

 He walked toward the hall, he needed to leave before he really fucked up.

 He almost convinced himself he was imagining the soft “thank you” that followed him away.

4. warmth

 The winters in Vicovaro were warm, lending themselves to swims on the better days and naps in the sun on even the harsher afternoons. There was no snow in Vicovaro v

 The winters in Kaer Morhen were bitingly cold and even a Witcher dressed in a heavy cloak would find himself shivering inside the drafty halls. Cahir, with his southern disposition and body that was healing far slower than he’d have liked fared as well as could be expected of him.

 He froze from the time he woke to the time he fell unconscious and shivered the time in between. Jaskier wore a warm cloak lined in warg fur and never seemed to be without gloves save for the times he had a lute in hand. Cahir had no such luxuries and they were not expected. He was a stranger, one whose very presence had upset the balance of the northern keep and distressed its most precious resident. He was grateful enough to be breathing, asking for much more may well lose him what he had.

 “Sleeping here?” The fire was warm and no one had taken trouble with his presence in the wing backed chair thus far… he nodded. “Alright.” Jaskier retreated, watching Cahir’s lashes flutter and his eyes drop closed. There had been no rest for either of them on the run north, Cahir was hunted on both sides after his escape from the Nilfgaardian cells and Jaskier… he’d simply tried to keep them alive and news of their travels out of various spymasters webs. Jaskier, at least, had the luxury of his health at the time. It would be a while for Cahir to have the same.

 The Witchers played cards and patched clothing in turns until Ciri came down with her hair a mess and her thickest blanket dragging behind her. She’d had another nightmare, her steps were hesitant and there was a frown on her lips. Geralt was the odd man out for the round and was quick to replace the socks in his lap with his child surprise. She settled in and watched her uncles play games, not a drop off alcohol between them.

 Geralt whispered something to her and she nodded before stumbling over to Jaskier.

 “I’m going to rebuild the fire in her rooms.” He explained on his way past.

 Cirilla climbed into the couch beside the bard and stared at the sleeping man who had haunted her for so long. He slept beneath his own cloak, legs curled in a way that Jaskier was sure would cause him aches later, and he shook with every wind that howled outside the walls.

 “Do you still fear him?”   Yes, of course. He would not have held it against her, a child had a right to such things.

 “It’s hard.” The girl whispered, as though the words were a puzzle she needed to piece together. Once gathered though they were far beyond what Jaskier expected from a child of barely thirteen- even a princess.

 “It’s hard to be afraid of him when he looks so…”

 “Human?”

 “Small.” She settled on. “He’s the same man and I am afraid; but I know I’m safe here and he is- he’s lost too.”

 “Yes, my dear. Yes, he is.”  More than any of us I fear.

 Ciri stood and ventured closer to the sleeping figure. Cahir curled tighter on himself, fingers bone white around the edges of his close. Ciri unwrapped the blanket from her shoulders and laid the heavy fur over the man with the care of a mother. The shivering stopped.

 Ciri nodded to herself and turned with her chin up and back straight.

 “Goodnight, everyone.” She whispered, making a round to lay a brief kiss to each Witcher’s cheek and a hug around Jaskier’s shoulders.

 Something big had shifted in the hall that night. Jaskier could feel it in his bones.

5. touch

 They had invited him to train. They offered him a spot in the courtyard which had been cleared of snow on the unseasonably warm day and a blade. Geralt of Rivia had given him a blade and set him loose to train in the same spaces as his daughter - for after these months there was nothing else Cahir could call her.

 He mostly went through forms, old routines that were so deeply ingrained in him that no time spent in the dark could force him to forget.

  Eskel watched him with keen eyes for a while before he fell into step beside him on the next repeat of his patterns.

 Cahir didn’t think twice about reaching out to lift the Witcher’s elbow with two fingers or to tap his heel a fraction forward. They were minor corrections he’d done for a hundred men. They were things that he would lay awake at night and wonder whether it would haunt him the next day. But it continued to happen. They invited him to their sparring, though he was yet too weak to join them properly. They continued to give him food freely and ask for nothing in return. His fireplace never ran out of wood no matter how often he fed it in the long nights.

 It kept  happening until he was sitting around the hearth with ale in hand and stew in his belly and realized that he was laughing. It had been a quick comment to follow one of Lambert’s usual jabs and it had sent the other men into fits from the sheer shock of it after his time of silence. Eskel’s laugh boomed off the rafters and Lambert’s was sharp, even Geralt was grinning from where he’d slung his arm around Jaskier. He was happy. Between one moment and the next Cahir’s voice cracked like a whip and his laugh became a sob.

 It ripped from his throat and he doubled over himself as the tears welled in his eyes. He was happy - he tucked his chin and bit back the next sob. He failed and it made him cry all the harder.

 For months he’d held himself distant, he’d not known what to do with himself in relation to the men who had taken him in. He’d been living a life of lies and fear for so long and all it took was the mercy of a man not taking a whip to his back to break him.  Pathetic.

 Someone draped themselves along his back, laid their cheek on his shoulder. “There you are, just let it all go.” They smelled of sandalwood and didn’t try to force him to look up.

  Another body sat at his left and wrapped and arm around both him and the man at his back. The larger figure rumbled something to the room at large then nosed at Cahir’s temple. Soon there was a third figure leaned against his right and a fourth and laid a pale hand on his knee.

 Surrounded. He should have felt trapped, weak, threatened and while he did feel weak, with tears dripping to the floor and his breath refusing to calm, he felt nothing but comfort. As he calmed, too tired to cry any longer, the others began to pull away.

 He turned toward the leftmost figure and curled a hand into their shirt, the one at his back kissed the top of his head. His eyes were heavy, the other man lifted him into their lap like a child.

 “Sleep.” They rumbled at him while petting his hair. They let him hide behind the curtain of curls until sleep came for him instead. No nightmares would find him in their arms.

 With Cahir dozing on his chest Eskel was helpless. Jaskier, who had been the first to comfort the other man, gave a sorrowful smile. “It’s been a long time coming.” He replied in answer to the Witchers’ unspoken question.

 “He needed to breakdown in order to get better. I don’t know how to explain it better than that.” Eskel thought back to a pile of glass and bloody bandages, he tightened his embrace and wished desperately for Jaskier to be correct.

     Let him be right -  because Eskel didn’t want to see what would become of them if he was wrong.

 Cahir sniffled, but he slept soundly that afternoon.

+1 the time he did

 It was the evening after his breakdown that Cahir knocked on Eskel’s door. The witcher had chosen a room higher in the keep than those where Cahir resided and the hall was rebuilt and patched well but remained cold. Eskel opened the door with a half smile that had, until recently, been reserved for his brothers. It pulled his scar but was so genuine that Cahir didn’t mind. He didn’t mind a lot of things he once would have.

 “Can’t sleep?”

 “No. I wanted to talk.” Eskel stepped aside and mentioned him in. Eskel’s room was larger than the one they placed him in and it was… it was cozy. Two bear skins covered the floor around what was a massive bed.

 Above the fire there were rows of trinkets that spoke to a lifetime of travels and memories. There was a drawing of a group that hung beside the window and Cahir approached to study it closely. The figures were Witchers, Geralt and Eskel were sitting together on top of a table and Vesemir was off to the side, Those he recognized easily. There were seven other men that Cahir could not name.

 “The one shoving Geralt is Gweld.” For a man of his size Eskel moved more quietly than many assassins. “Behind him is Gardis. On the floor there is Aubry. The three playing cards are Everard, Hemrick, and Diever. Off to the side there is Remus.”

     Where are they now?    He wanted to ask, but he knew the answer. The sadness in Eskel’s eyes confirmed it.

 “What about Lambert?” That seemed like a safe enough question.

 “Someone had to draw it.” Cahir turned around properly and found himself looking up at the witcher, barely an inch apart.

 “You wanted to talk?” He had. Though he couldn’t remember what about. “Cahir?”

 He kissed him.

 It wasn’t desperate, there was no clawing at clothing or clicking of teeth. It was just a kiss, a press of lips. He pulled away, eyes closed, and felt Eskel sigh. His gut clenched but he would not be a coward. Cahir opened his eyes.  Do it again. 

 Eskel wrapped his hands around Cahir’s waist and pulled him along until the Witcher could sit on the edge of the bed with Cahir standing between his knees. He’d never thought before that he would be content to simply  kiss for hours, but he wanted nothing else. But…

 He sank to his knees and swallowed down a whine.      He’s been so good to you .

 “Cahir,” he tugged at the fabric of Eskel’s pants.

 Cahir continued with a single minded focus, “Let me do this for you.”

 One large hand dragged him back up by his shirt. He closed his eyes and braced for a blow that never came.

 “This is not a debt to be paid.” Eskel spoke slowly and there was an emotion in his voice that made Cahir shake.   “Look at me.”

 “I-“ Eskel cupped his jaw.

 “Cahir. You do not owe us anything and if this is nothing more than a way to feel like you’re on even ground? Then I don’t want it.” Say something. Lie. Just lie and-  

 “I want this. I- I do feel like I owe you” he tightened his grip before Eskel could push him away “all of you. But that's not why I’m here now.” The hand on his shoulder slipped down to his waist. “I never get what I want but I want to be here.”

 “You do?”

 “ Yes.” Eskel nodded but said nothing.

 He didn’t know where he’d gone wrong but he had. He’d just wanted to make it clear how much he appreciated everything of the last months, how he understood what had been done for him… Eskel brushed a tear from his cheek.

 “If I said that I  wanted nothing more than to have you right here for the evening. If I just want to kiss you?”

 “I’d like that.” Eskel searched for any sign of a lie and was seemingly pleased with his findings.

 “Then that is what we’ll do.”

 Cahir laid atop the Witcher’s chest, Eskel himself was propped up on the pillows at the head of the bed. Cahir shivered as kisses were laid to his neck, without a word Eskel pulled a blanket overtop of them both.

 Cahir didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment he was kissing and being kissed and the next he was waking to the sun and lips against his temple.

 He turned into the man’s chest and hid his face from the light, he didn’t want to wake from this dream just yet.

 Eskel rumbled something unintelligible and pushed him closer.