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The witcher didn’t cry. No. That would have been more tolerable than this. Geralt was still, silent - like death. The contract had been successful, and Geralt had suffered terrible injuries trying to follow the Alderman’s requests down to the letter. No harm had come to the werewolf’s family, and the beast had been put down as humanely as possible after causing terror throughout the village. He’d been pleasant enough in human form, but he’d never mastered control of the wolf, and the village had agreed enough was enough.
Everyone except the wolf’s family that is.
After the deed had been done, Geralt had been viciously attacked with cutting words far worse than any physical wound. Surrounded by howling children and a newly-made widow, Geralt was struck down again and again by their barbed words until he was a hollow shell, left to return to Regis at Corvo Bianco, lifeless and subdued.
Regis hadn’t seen Geralt like this in decades. They’d been through hell together and survived, but the last few years Geralt had remained mostly retired, only taking odd contracts to keep his mind and body sharp. Regis was the only constant companion he had at Corvo Bianco. He’d seen enough of the world in his long life that he didn’t mind staying in one place and Geralt might never admit it, but the witcher didn’t do well on his own. Together they entertained the friends and family they’d picked up over the years, Yennefer, Dandelion, Ciri and Detlaff being their most regular guests… and it was all rather domestic.
The vampire began to wonder if their relationship had changed into something more without him even realising it, but for now they were both happy to not name it.
And Regis was incredibly honoured that he was still the one that Geralt came back to on days like this where it felt like the world was ending.
The witcher was perched on the end of his bed, arms wrapped around Regis’s waist and his forehead pressed into Regis’s stomach. It was heartbreaking- the quiet measured breaths as the witcher tried to calm his racing heart, the bitter stench of his misery permeating the room. Regis tried his best to calm Geralt, fingers combing through his long silver hair as he wittered about the book he’d read that morning on new techniques for distilling moonshine.
After all his years, humanities ingenuity never failed to surprise him as they constantly found new and better ways to build, create and grow.
To Geralt, his words would probably fade into nothing, but it helped to calm Regis’s own anxieties, as he found the sound of his own voice soothing, and he hoped that the muted noise of his voice would help silence Geralt’s inner turmoil. When he ran out of things to say about his books, Geralt’s heart and calmed enough that Regis turned to cooing gentle praises, his fingers never stopping their ministrations in Geralt’s hair.
Until finally there was a soft murmured “Thank you.”
The worst of the storm had passed, and Regis knew they would be okay.