Chapter Text
Geralt was at war with Christmas.
Or at least that’s what it felt like.
In the week leading up to the holiday, it seemed like everything was determined to go wrong. First a winter storm hit Vesemir’s, and his father had to tell Geralt that he wouldn’t be able to make it down until the roads cleared, almost certainly after Christmas. This meant the full weight of the celebration rested on Geralt’s shoulders, and it made the following roadblocks all the more devastating.
Next, the heating went out at Jaskier’s building. Geralt was happy to accommodate him, but having a house guest during the holidays was stressful even at the best of times. Yen and Ciri were staying with him as well, so the little house, which usually held one person, and at times a small child, was now holding four, soon to be six. There was what seemed to be endless confusion about who was using the single bathroom and showering when, who was cooking what in the kitchen, and who was doing which decorating and cleaning jobs while Geralt worked to keep his little farm in order during all of the chaos.
The cramped quarters were made even worse when on the twenty-third Ciri returned from a playdate in town with a stomach bug. It hit fast and hard, putting everyone’s plans up in the air, and sending Geralt into panic mode. He hated seeing his daughter sick. He didn’t think he could bear it if she was sick on Christmas.
She came home at four after spending all afternoon with her friend, both of them feeling completely fine. Yennefer got the call at four thirty that Ciri’s friend had thrown up. Her mother said it was most likely a fluke thing, since she’d felt fine up until the point where she started vomiting, but by five Ciri was doing the same.
Geralt volunteered to take care of her, since he was the only one in the house who didn’t have to worry about catching the bug, but this ended up being no small task. Ciri was absolutely miserable, throwing up every bit of hydration Geralt tried to get into her for hours, crying and clinging to him in between miserable bouts of vomiting and failed attempts at sleep.
During the brief time he spent outside of their makeshift quarantine in Ciri’s room to rinse out the puke bucket, he gave Yennefer updates.
“I can take a shift with her,” Yen told him. “I really don’t mind. You should get some sleep tonight.”
It was hard to argue with this, since he’d gotten very little sleep this week—staying up late to spend time with his partner and friend and get everything ready for Christmas, yet still getting up at four in the morning like the old man farmer he was at heart—but he argued nonetheless.
“Don’t be stupid, Yen. Why would you risk getting sick too when you don’t have to?”
“Because she’s my child, Geralt. And you’re my partner.”
“I’ve got it. If I need any help I’ll let you know.”
He didn’t though, despite the fact that watching Ciri be so miserable was agony, and he would love just a couple hours to sleep.
When eleven o’clock rolled around and Yen was getting ready to go to bed, and Ciri was showing no signs of improvement, they made the decision to call off their Christmas Eve party for the next day.
So of course Ciri woke up the next morning completely fine.
She finally fell asleep around one in the morning, but Geralt stayed alert at her side for a while longer to make sure it was really over. After he was certain she was out for the night, Geralt disinfected the whole house to make sure nobody else got sick, and when he finally finished he was able to catch an hour or two of sleep on the couch before he had to get up and tend to his animals. When he came back inside, Ciri was up again. Totally healthy, and very excited for Christmas.
“What do you think we should do?” Yennefer asked Geralt, as they watched Ciri eat her breakfast just as eagerly as she normally did.
“I guess we just wait and see if she keeps her breakfast down, but I think she’s over it.”
“Really?” Yennefer didn’t sound convinced, but she hadn’t been with Ciri last night.
“It seems like it ended just as quickly as it started,” Geralt explained. “At twelve she was still throwing up pedialyte every thirty minutes and at one she was out cold, and sleeping soundly.”
“Okay,” Yennefer agreed hesitantly.
“What about you and Jask?” Geralt asked. “We don’t need to worry about Eskel or Lambert catching anything, but I’d hate for either of you to get sick.”
“Either way, we’ve both already been exposed,” she pointed out.
This was true enough. They’d quarantined Geralt and Ciri in her room as soon as she got sick, but before that Yennefer had been in the car with her for a good half hour on the drive home. And Jaskier had been making a garland for the tree with her when Ciri’s friend’s mom called. Ciri had insisted she felt fine though, and continued the craft project with her favorite uncle until he noticed her face go ashen, and rushed to pour the popcorn and cranberries out onto the table, handing her the bowl just in time for her to throw up into it—despite feeling completely normal only minutes before.
“And she got sick so fast,” Yennefer continued. “I feel like if we were going to get sick it would have happened by now.”
“So should I call my brothers then?” He’d called to cancel less than twelve hours ago, but he was reasonably sure they hadn’t made other plans.
“I think we should wait and see how Ciri does with her breakfast, and talk to Jask when he wakes up and make sure he’s feeling okay, but then yeah. I don’t see why we shouldn’t go back to the original plan.”