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Dandelion was sleeping on Geralt’s chest in an inn in a backwater town, the name of which had been lost to time (or so the poet would have said, in truth, it was called Bywater). Geralt didn’t mind being used as a pillow, and was still awake, looking out the window, thinking that something didn’t feel quite right.
The poet gave a soft snore and shifted, Geralt brushed his soft curls out of his face. He was always open to cuddling, which was yet another thing Geralt found strange and (although he’d never admit it) omegan about him. Perhaps it was just a quirk of Dandelion’s, but he’d never met an alpha that nuzzled into people and whined to have his hair petted. But Dandelion would do it even when he wasn’t having a heat (in fact, he was more likely to demand attention when not in heat). He’d never tell Dandelion about those thoughts, however, because the poet would take it personally and probably refuse to cuddle for several months in protest (and although Geralt was loathe to admit it, he enjoyed the closeness nearly as much as his friend. So perhaps there are alphas that enjoy it, he mused).
Footsteps stomped up the steps, and someone banged on their door. The peaceful moment shattered, Geralt was on his feet in an instant, a hunting knife in his hand, shoving Dandelion back into the bed protectively as the door swung open. It was a familiar - if livid - figure that stepped into the room.
“You,” snarled Lambert, but it wasn’t Geralt he headed for. “The innkeeper said you two were in town and-”
The White Wolf grabbed his fellow Witcher before he could get to Dandelion, who was only just started to wake, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. “You whore,” growled Lambert.
“Lambert-” Geralt began tersely. Dandelion’s jaw clenched, but he (rather wisely and uncharacteristically) remained silent.
“Do you listen to his ballads, Geralt? Because that’s the only way this foul rumor could have gotten started-”
“What rumor?” asked the poet, tilting his head curiously.
Geralt had a guess, which Lambert quickly confirmed with a snarl. “That we’re all omegas!”
“That was me that started that rumor, Lambert,” Geralt said calmly, grabbing his shoulder lest he try for the poet again anyway. “Now get out of my room before I relieve you of your manhood and remove the problem in its entirety.”
“You?” Lambert’s yellow eyes flashed as he glared at Geralt. “Why would you-”
“Because I thought it would be funny.” He shrugged, deciding not to say the truth.
Lambert spluttered at him somewhat indignantly.
“Now are you going to remove yourself, or shall I remove you and other vulnerable bits?”
Lambert stormed out. Geralt motioned for Dandelion to stay where he was and followed after him. “Geralt-”
“It’s all right, Dandelion, he won’t harm me.” He might, but it wouldn’t be anything Geralt couldn’t handle.
Lambert was waiting in the hall, and Geralt led him several steps away to a window, where he was certain Dandelion wouldn’t be able to overhear them. “Don’t blame him, Lambert, blame me.”
“Why?”
“Because I was the one who-”
“Why’d you do it?”
“Because my option was to either speak up or lose Dandelion.”
Lambert folded his arms. “You put your whore before-”
Geralt pinned him against the wall by placing his arm on Lambert’s neck, his knife pressing into the other Witcher’s crotch. “Choose your next words very carefully.”
“What else should I call him?”
“A poet, a troubadour, a linguist, an intellectual, or - if you have any understanding of compassion - my friend.”
“Alright,” Lambert snarled. “But don’t you dare go spreading more rumors.”
Content that he wasn’t going to cause any more trouble - at least not until he got to Kaer Morhen, where he would no doubt whine to Vesemir - Geralt released him. “Now,” he said, his eyes sparkling, “I want to hear what happened when someone called you an omega.”
“Fuck you, Geralt.”