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Lambert is tough. No doubt about it. In fact, he’s so fucking tough that he goes out of his way to make sure everyone knows it. Sure, he isn’t as big as Eskel and Geralt, but damn it if he can’t hold his own just like them (maybe even better than them, if he said so himself). Even when they were Young he tried to keep his grit about him, none of that vulnerability bullshit. Or, well, no more than he usually afforded himself when he was the mental age of a toddler.
It was only during moments by himself, when the others were off playing together or doing chores, that he pulled out the one thing able to witness his softness. A stuffed wolf, covered in patches and missing an eye, smelling of him and the Path. He’s never given it a name, already attached to it enough as is, but he’s had it for so long now that “Wolf,” may as well be the thing’s title. He’s kept it hidden in various spots in his room, moving it every week or so to make sure it wouldn’t be found.
Of course it’s when his schedule gets fucked up that things go to absolute shit.
He passes Eskel cooking in the kitchen, Vesemir and Geralt in the library, Jaskier in his rooms, and Yennefer and Triss in the alchemy chamber. Every one of them busy, no one paying him any mind. It’s the perfect time to pull out his stuffed wolf, rubbing a hand along its slightly matted fur from how much he’s cuddled it to his chest. It’s due for a bath, Lambert thinks mildly, just before he hears footsteps coming towards his door.
Lambert’s eyes widen and he looks down at the toy in his hands, just barely having time to stick it under the pillows on his bed as Geralt pushes his door open.
“What the fuck do you want?” Lambert spits, the fuzziness that had started to creep into the corners of his mind retreating hastily and giving him a spectacular headache.
Geralt doesn’t even look phased at his sour mood, used to it by now, and nods to the hallway behind him. “Wolves left some carcasses near the keep, rotfiends are close to the perimeter.”
“And Eskel can’t help why?” Lambert asks, already resignedly grabbing his swords from where they’re leant against the wall.
“You want to eat tonight?” Geralt asks, eyebrow raised.
“Oh, fuck off,” Lambert sighs, grabbing his armor as well and following Geralt into the corridor.
Geralt simply hums in response, leading them out of the keep. Lambert takes one more longing look into his room before groaning and following, praying that this will be quick. He has better things he could be doing.
~~~
It isn’t quick. There are more rotfiends than expected, their bulbous heads stinking and exploding when Lambert forgets to count his strikes. It’s filthy, and disgusting, and Lambert’s over it very quickly.
Once they’ve finished and burned what’s left of the carcasses, deer and monster, he’s exhausted. By the looks of Geralt, also covered in gore and viscera and pyre ash, he’s pretty damn tired, too.
They’re barely in the door before Jaskier is fluttering around them, insisting that they go to the springs immediately while holding his nose a little too dramatically, if you ask Lambert.
Jaskier does follow them down, though, taking off his doublet in the steaming room and rolling up his sleeves as they strip out of their bloody armor and into the near-scalding water.
Lambert can’t help but groan, his sore muscles loosening. Jaskier’s already got his hands in Geralt’s hair, cleaning the red from it until it glistens white in the low light. Geralt’s eyes are closed and to anyone else he’d simply look at ease, but Lambert can tell by the way the corners of his mouth are ever so slightly pulled up that he’s dropped. Typical.
“Would you like me to wash yours, Lambert?” Jaskier asks quietly, giving Geralt a small kiss to the forehead and making Geralt sigh contentedly.
Lambert shakes his head before dunking himself under the water, the heat of it stinging his face before coming back up, hair sopping. “I can do it myself,” he says, maybe a little proudly, before grabbing at some of the oils sitting conveniently close to him on the raised lip.
“Alright, sweetling,” Jaskier responds with a chuckle before starting to wash Geralt’s arms and back.
Lambert frowns, “Not sweet,” he grumbles, grabbing the cake of soap next to the hair oils and scrubbing himself down, the water turning pink as the monster blood comes out of his hair and off of his skin.
“Oh, I think you’re plenty sweet,” Jaskier teases, finally tapping Geralt to signal that he’s clean and can get out of the bath. Geralt sleepily moves to leave the spring, always tired and slow after Jaskier bathes him. Lambert frowns again, slowing his movements a bit and looking down at the now crystal clear water.
How could Geralt just become so soft so quickly? As though it’s nothing at all to give oneself over completely to someone else. Yeah, he liked Jaskier plenty, but there wasn’t enough trust in the world for him to be vulnerable like that with anyone.
“You sure you don’t need help, Lambs?” Jaskier asks quietly, kneeling next to his spring. He’s giving him a soft smile and Lambert finds himself wanting to curl into it to feel its warmth, much to his own horror. He gives Jaskier a jerky shake of the head and Jaskier just nods to him before laying a towel next to the spring and saying that dinner will be ready by the time he gets back to the dining hall. Then he’s gone, up the stairs after Geralt.
Lambert bites his cheek as he finishes up his bathing. Okay, maybe he trusts Jaskier plenty, but that doesn’t mean he can just be so small around him, let him see his tender spots. Not even the other wolves get to see those, and he’d like to keep it that way.
All this thinking has brought back his headache from earlier and he huffs, figuring he’s as clean as he’s going to get. He leaves his spring, wrapping himself in his towel and swiftly making his way back through the drafty corridors to his bedroom.
He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice the smell of someone in his room until he’s opened the door. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees Eskel standing next to his bed, Lambert’s stuffed wolf in his hands.
“I like your wolf, Lambert.” Eskel smiles at him, the gummy smile he gives when he’s Young, and holds up the wolf. Lambert barely registers what he says, breathing already growing erratic. Eskel isn’t supposed to see the wolf, no one is, why is he in his room.
“Why are you in here?” Lambert growls, looking between Eskel’s face and his wolf in Eskel’s hands. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears and his headache is starting to throb at his temples.
“Oh, you borrowed one of my bestiaries about a week ago and you never gave it back, so I came to get it. Then I saw his paw from under the pillow and…” Eskel trails off, his smile falling as he looks at Lambert’s warm and probably red face. “Lambert?”
“That’s mine,” he says sharply, stomping towards Eskel. “You can’t touch that!” Now Eskel’s scent will be all over it, he’ll have to clean it so many times, and Eskel’s going to tell everybody that Lambert has a comfort toy and-
Lambert bares his teeth, growling, feeling his eyes prickle with embarrassment.
“I didn’t know!” Eskel exclaims nervously, eyebrows furrowing as Lambert grabs the wolf by one of its paws and tries to take it from Eskel’s grasp. He must pull too quickly for Eskel to let go, or maybe Eskel wasn’t ready to give it up, but all of the breath leaves his body when the sound of ripping fills the air and Lambert’s on his ass, one paw in his hand and the rest of the wolf in Eskel’s.
Eskel’s looking at him wide-eyed, mouth open in surprise, but Lambert doesn’t bother looking at him for long, simply staring at the paw in his hand. A small bit of cotton fluff falls to the floor from the wound.
All he can do is stare as his throat starts to close up, his eyes watering dangerously. The one witness to his softness, his confidant and secret best friend, is in pieces before him. He can feel his breathing pick up and he can’t even bother worrying that he’s crying in front of Eskel. He slowly closes his hand around the paw as a sob claws its way up his throat and he nearly chokes on it, tears slipping down his cheeks.
He doesn’t bother paying attention to Eskel anymore, barely realizing that he’s calling for someone until he feels hands on either side of his face. Lambert knows he should pull away, knows he shouldn’t give into this physical affection, but he can’t bring himself to care. Gone is his grittiness and fortitude and what’s left is just a crying Youngling on the ground, holding a part of his torn companion.
“Lambert? Darling, please look at me,” he hears over the din of his own sobs and he looks up to see Jaskier’s worried blue eyes, Eskel and Geralt standing a little ways behind him. Eskel’s got tears running down his own face and Geralt looks about ready to cry as well. “That’s it, love. Hello.” Jaskier gives him another one of those small smiles.
Lambert hiccups, not knowing what to do. He’s never felt this frazzled, never bawled so much in front of any of them and the attention just makes him want to cry even more.
“Eskel told me what happened,” Jaskier says quietly. “Can I see what you’ve got? I may be able to mend it.”
Lambert quickly brings the paw to his chest, shaking his head vehemently. He can’t just give away his wolf to someone. Who would he cry to without ridicule, or cuddle when he’s especially sad? And look what happened when someone else got their hands on it, ripped and torn apart as it is now.
But, as he looks into Jaskier’s kind eyes, he can’t help but think about how he’s not being teased now for his tears, and how Jaskier offers up cuddles. They always seem to work for Geralt and Eskel…maybe they could work for him, too?
Lambert finally uncurls his fingers and very carefully sets the paw in Jaskier’s hand, biting his lip nervously as Jaskier holds it up to the stump it left.
“I can have this fixed right away, my little wolf,” Jaskier says cheerily, yet his face has a determined set to it that Lambert can appreciate. It shows that he’s taking this dire situation seriously.
Before he can really think about it and without his wolf to hold, Lambert figures the next best thing is Jaskier. He launches himself into Jaskier’s chest, shoving his face into Jaskier’s neck. “Gonna be okay?” He asks weakly into Jaskier’s throat, not bearing to look at his ripped friend.
He smells a bit of surprise coming off of Jaskier before he feels him nod, “Right as rain in no time, my dear. In the meantime, I think someone has something to say to you.”
Lambert peeks out from Jaskier’s neck to look at Eskel, his face tear-stained and hand firmly held in Geralt’s. “I’m sorry your wolf got hurt. I just wanted to look at it, but I shouldn’t touch things that aren’t mine.” He says it as though it’s a recitation, but Lambert can tell he’s being sincere all the same.
And Lambert, as much as he wants to be angry at Eskel, finds he’s much too tired for that now. He simply gives Eskel a nod before putting his face back into Jaskier’s neck. He can’t help but admit it feels awfully nice to be cradled in the bard’s arms. Maybe he can stand to stay here for just a little while, until his wolf is fixed.
“Let’s get you dressed, hm?” Jaskier whispers to him, his warm hands rubbing up and down Lambert’s bare back and he’s reminded that he’s still naked save for the towel around his waist.
Before he can whine and say he doesn’t want to move, Geralt holds out some of his softer trousers, a shirt, and underclothes (play clothes, Jaskier calls them, much to his embarrassment).
“Thank you very much, Geralt. Would you like some help, Lambert?”
He may be sad, but he’s not a baby. He shakes his head and quickly pulls his clothes on, wiping at his tear-damp face once he’s clothed. Eskel’s still standing by the door, fidgeting with the hem of his tunic and looking just about as sad as Lambert feels.
And even though he isn’t very happy with Eskel right now, he knows he’d feel worse if Jaskier hadn’t given him a hug. So, he makes his way over to Eskel, mouth set in a small frown. Eskel’s eyes widen before he’s pulled into a firm hug.
Eskel’s frozen for a moment before he hugs Lambert back nearly twice as tight. Lambert can smell his tears as they fall and feel where they hit his neck. It isn’t long before another pair of arms wrap around him from behind and he glances over to see Geralt’s head on his shoulder, eyes closed in contentment.
As he stands there between his brothers, a smiling Jaskier and soon-to-be-fixed stuffed wolf in his hands watching over them, Lambert figures that maybe he can be soft sometimes if it means he gets something as wonderful as this.