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They’ve barely made it through two rooms of this damnable place before Regis crumbles, the steady pressure against Geralt’s side easing into sudden nothingness.
Geralt, who has been doing a pretty fantastic job not thinking about what exactly stained the wall next to them a muddy red or giving in to the building waves of frustration he feels towards their situation, now feels his hands blindly grip for a body that’s no longer there. Even with his mutated reflexes he’s relegated to watching, helpless, as Regis collapses onto the filthy floor faster than he can catch him. There’s a distant shriek of a far-off katakan and Geralt fights back a wince as it seems to shake the corridor.
The already crumbling stone of the ruins being knocked loose enough to bury them alive would be a perfect way to end the night, really.
“Give me a moment,” Regis says weakly, his legs folded underneath himself like a newborn bird. He’s bracing himself on shaking forearms, gloves no doubt stained by centuries old grime and gods knows what else, and he runs a trembling hand through tangles of sweat-damp hair. His brows are twisted in pain and as he draws in a rattling breath, Geralt decides he’s had enough of this whole cursed venture.
He stoops to one knee, pointedly favoring his good leg, and hovers his hands near Regis' ankles.
“Bend your legs.”
Regis blinks up at him, expression unnaturally dazed. “I’m sorry?”
“Bend your legs,” Geralt repeats evenly. “I’ll carry you out, I just need to get my hands situated.”
Something unrecognizable flickers across Regis' face before he blanches. “Geralt, no, you don’t –”
“If you don’t cooperate I’m just going to pick you up anyway,” Geralt interrupts, flexing his fingers threateningly. “It’s been a while, but if I could pick up Ciri when she was a ball of prepubescent energy then I’m pretty sure I can handle you just fine.”
Regis' mouth twists downward and he huffs, the sound landing halfway between offense and exasperation. “I’m quite certain I weigh considerably more than an eight year old girl.”
“Based on how you look right now, I really doubt it,” Geralt says. As Regis' expression shutters Geralt mentally kicks himself in the head and hurries to backtrack. “I didn’t –”
“Your knee,” Regis interrupts like that isn’t the lowest possible blow he could take, like he isn’t the one who fashioned Geralt’s brace together in the first place all those years ago. “I can hardly ask you to risk further irritation when I’ll be perfectly capable of walking out myself after a brief rest.”
“You don’t have to ask me, I’m offering,” Geralt says, sidestepping the knee discussion altogether. He’s never exactly been the smartest about picking his battles, but it’s somehow always been a little bit easier whenever Regis is involved. “And honestly, it’s the resting that I’m least interested in – I’d rather not spend any more time down here than strictly necessary.”
If possible, Regis' complexion turns even paler. His fangs flash as he chews at his bottom lip, a curious tic he never had seven years ago, before he nods stiffly.
“Very well,” Regis says, sitting a little straighter and barely managing to hide a grimace of his own. “I suppose that respite was sufficient enough.”
Geralt bites back a curse as Regis staggers uncertainly to his feet, his own traitorous knee doing exactly what Regis said it would and twinging unpleasantly at the speed in which he follows. Even against an utterly exhausted higher vampire he’s still barely able to keep up, and as Regis stumbles into his chest after the first step, Geralt feels his own shoulders slump in return.
“C’mon, Regis,” Geralt says, arms curling protectively around the vampire’s thin waist. He’s so, so tired — of this contract, of this place, of having to watch a friend he thought he’d already lost torture himself for the sake of another. He presses his nose into the surprising softness of Regis’ hair and breathes in the sharp scent of sage and cinnamon and something darker, something like freshly turned soil, and wills Regis to understand. “Just let me help.”
They stand still for what seems like ages, the silence of the catacombs nearly suffocating as Regis remains stiff and unyielding against him. Geralt is just about to make good on his threat when he feels Regis finally relent, his body melting into the half-embrace, and Geralt can’t help but sag a little in relief as well.
“I believe you’re the single most stubborn man I’ve ever met,” Regis says, his words muffled. He presses a little more deeply into the hold, his hooked nose pressing into Geralt's shoulder.
Geralt huffs out a laugh, running a hand down Regis’ spine. “Considering how long that list must be, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Without waiting for a response, Geralt stoops down to better curl his hands behind Regis' knees and the small of his back. He pulls Regis up in one smooth movement and tries not to think about how worryingly easy it was – he’s pretty sure some of the training dummies at Kaer Morhen were heavier than this.
“Isn’t this nicer,” Geralt says, forcing an airiness to his voice and shifting the vampire’s barely-there weight in his arms. He can feel bones grate under too-thin skin as Regis slings his own arm over Geralt’s shoulder, the tangible evidence of Regis' still incomplete regeneration nestled up close against his chest, and he has to fight back the roiling guilt that pools in his stomach. In a flash of bitter contempt he almost wishes Vilgefortz were somehow still alive, just so he could run him through with a broadsword again.
Almost.
Despite his previous objections Regis relaxes almost immediately into Geralt’s hold, the fatigue of the night crashing over him in waves as his knees knock together. He takes in one, two, three deep breaths and says dryly, “My knight in gore-splattered armor.”
Geralt shifts on the balls of his feet and barks out another startled laugh. “Better not give her enlightened ladyship any ideas,” he says. “One contract from her is enough for me.”
Regis snorts as Geralt finally begins to walk in earnest, his pace clipped and footing secure. They both carefully avoid looking at the splotches of oxidized red on the walls and the rusting prison bars as they pass.
Approximately ten steps later and with Regis seemingly entirely focused on the stitchwork of his witcher’s gorget, Geralt feels his mind start to wander.
It’s a tender sort of hurt, to have spent the past few years with the guilt of survival pressing down sharply on his ribs whenever he stumbles through a familiar bit of forest or passes a group of kind travelers who are clearly together for more than base survival. Even when he’d lost his memories he’d still felt in his bones that he’d forgotten something important, forgotten some one , and there was a near overwhelming blend of gratification and horror when he finally remembered who: Ciri and Yennefer, of course, and how he could have possibly forgotten them when he could pick their heartbeats out in a crowded room he’ll never know, but the dawning realization that he’d lost the faces of his dearly doomed companions had stung just as much. Even now with Regis miraculously whole again and cradled carefully in his arms it seems more like a dream than reality, and Geralt feels like he’s waiting for an inevitable shoe to drop and shatter this haze of disbelieving relief he’s been in for the past few days.
“You know,” Regis says weakly, snapping Geralt out of his thoughts. His head lolls into the space between Geralt’s chest and collar as they finally reach the stairwell of the fortress, his shallow breathing cool against the fine skin of Geralt’s throat peeking out from behind leather and chainmail. Geralt vaguely registers that it feels nice. “It’s really very bold of you to let me so near to your neck after all that.”
If Regis was expecting Geralt to falter, he’s sorely mistaken. Instead, Geralt merely huffs and begins the unforgiving trek back up the twisting, crumbling stairs.
“You would never hurt me,” Geralt says simply, careful not to bump Regis against the wall as he steps over a deep crack in the stone.
It’s quiet after that, and Geralt thinks Regis might have finally passed out from sheer fatigue. As he hits the halfway mark of the stairwell however, already dreaming of a cool drink and hot bath far, far away from this place of misery and death, he sees a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.
Regis is very much still awake and toying with Geralt’s wolf’s medallion, his slender fingers glowing almost white in the light of the moon trickling in from gaps in the stonework. His eyebrows are furrowed again, but this time it seems to stem more from simple concentration rather than any lingering pain.
“Do you ever consider how odd a pair we make?” Regis asks quietly, his sharp nails clicking pleasantly against the worn metal.
Geralt does his best to shrug and continues on. His leg is aching, tendrils of pain weakly pulsing from his knee, but he’s not about to prove Regis right by pausing to rest.
“A witcher and a higher vampire you mean?” Geralt asks, scowling at a rusted pipe protruding from the wall he swears wasn’t there when they first came in. He takes care not to jostle Regis against it as he sidles past. “I think about it less than I should. I’m pretty sure I got over it when we were first traveling together, actually.”
“Really?” Regis says, and his tone is the closest to normal it’s been all night that Geralt can’t help but crack a tired grin. “When?”
Geralt considers his answer, shifting Regis a little more securely in his arms as he steps over a half-broken beam. When faced with the question directly it’s difficult to pinpoint an exact moment — Regis had wormed his way into Geralt’s good graces surprisingly quickly, his prying kindness and wit at times overbearing but no less sincere for it. Geralt still remembers how easily he accepted the other’s input over their journey, from the Yaruga to the druids of Caed Dhu, but that’s hardly a satisfactory response.
He’s so caught up in his thoughts again that it takes a moment to realize they’ve reached the top of the stairs, his body seemingly moving on its own. The first rays of real, unfiltered moonlight spill over the pair as he finally steps over the last fallen brick of the entryway and into blessedly fresh evening air, and Geralt pauses to breathe in deeply. He hadn’t even realized exactly how suffocating it was in the depths of the ruins and he makes a mental note to never even look at the dilapidated remains of Tesham Mutna again if he can help it.
Regis has been patiently quiet the entire time, the steady rise and fall of his chest nearly non-existent as he turns his face to the moonlight.
“It might not make much sense,” Geralt begins slowly, as if testing out the words, “but it was just before we had reached the base of Mount Gorgon. When I had –” and here he stumbles, swallowing thick against the memories that suddenly overwhelm him, “– when it was just me and Cahir. You were waiting for us.”
“I remember,” Regis says with a faraway look in his eyes, the corners of his mouth tilting upward. “I was roasting trout.” Just as quickly, Geralt watches as Regis’ smile fades. “And Cahir – oh, poor boy.”
“I remember thinking what Vesemir would say if he knew how glad I was to see a vampire,” Geralt says, hoping to wipe the look of sudden melancholy from Regis' face. It’s a woefully poor redirection choice, the sting of losing another in this unforgiving world still far too fresh, but he pushes through . “He would have made me reread every single book in the library on the subject as a start, that’s for damn sure.”
Regis' eyes, usually black as coal, glow unnaturally bright as he tilts his head to try and catch Geralt’s gaze. He’s smiling again, and Geralt feels his own stare fixate on the razor sharp whites of his teeth. “You were glad to see me?”
There’s that familiar smugness in Regis' tone that Geralt has always found both completely insufferable and endlessly endearing. He barely manages to stop his own eyes from rolling in fond exasperation.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Geralt says. “I think I was more… relieved than anything else that you were the one waiting for us. You especially, not only because I knew you could stitch Cahir up better than I ever could, but because somewhere down the road I realized I had started thinking of you as one of the people I trusted most.”
“Oh,” Regis says, and something in Geralt’s chest shutters when that’s all he says.
“I never doubted you,” Geralt says, unsure where this need to keep talking is coming from. “I don’t know why, but I never doubted why you joined us, joined me, to help save Ciri. I should have. You never actually gave me a reason why a higher vampire of all people decided to follow such a ragtag group to the ends of the earth, you know.”
Regis hums non committedly, his attention seemingly drawn back to the moon. “As I recall, you had women and children within your little ragtag group when you first stumbled upon my home — refugees. I thought it horribly noble and couldn’t possibly leave them without care.”
Geralt frowns. The answer makes sense, brief though it is, but something about it rings hollow.
“You didn’t stay with them, though.”
“No,” Regis sighs. “I suppose I didn’t.” He’s quiet for another moment, as if weighing something carefully in his mind, before continuing. “Forgive me Geralt, but I’m simply not in the mood to reminisce right now. Perhaps my head will be clearer some other time, if you’re truly that interested in the whims of my past self.”
As much as he’d like to press, Geralt has the feeling that no amount of needling will work right now. Regis could be just as frustratingly stubborn as he was when he put his mind to it.
“I’ll hold you to it,” he says instead.
There’s silence between them again as Geralt finally walks on, scanning the field. Relief crashes over him as he spots Roach down by the treeline.
“I miss them terribly,” Regis says suddenly, soft and unexpected, his fingers still tangled in the medallion’s chain.
Geralt tenses, frozen for a moment as the endlessly warm Toussaint breeze washes over them, the undeniable sensation of being alive almost too much to bear. He closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of ripening grapes from sprawling vineyards that carry even to this monstrous place, and lets himself remember how this country first felt years ago. Lackadaisical and fantastical, seemingly completely removed from the threats of the world beyond the woes of a half-empty goblet, and one of the last places he and his companions were happy and whole.
He swallows the lump in his throat before continuing on. “Me too.”
Roach seems quite content chewing on a patch of reeds by the faded signpost, the crumbling walls and screeches from beneath the ground of no great concern to her. Geralt is struck with a deep affection for this creature, the same affection he feels every time he stumbles his way back from a particularly nasty contract, praying he hasn’t been left alone and bleeding by a spooked horse. She’s only been on the path with him a handful of years and has already proven to be one of his better steeds, just as unwavering as her owner.
Her ear flicks in acknowledgment as they approach.
Geralt carefully helps Regis to his feet but makes no effort to remove his hands from his back, preening when Regis leans into him.
“Think you can get on by yourself?” Geralt asks, skeptically eyeing the distance from the ground to the saddle.
“I think I might require your assistance,” Regis says with a grimace, clearly noting the same problem. He presses into Geralt’s bulk just a little bit more, his foot sinking slightly in a thick cluster of weeds.
“Just don’t slide off before I get on.”
At Regis' indignant titters, Geralt grins. His hands curl around Regis' waist and, despite having held him for the past hour, Geralt still can’t help the unease he feels at the sharp jut of the vampire’s hip bones, noticeable even through the thick leather of his gloves. In one smooth motion he lifts Regis onto Roach’s back before hopping up himself, whispering an apology as Roach whinnies at the sudden sensation of two people on her back. She settles down soon enough with a pat from Regis and as Geralt adjusts himself more comfortably behind him, he idly wonders if horses are the one beast who don’t have it out for higher vampires either — the mule and old bay Regis rode seven years ago seemed to like him well enough.
“I think you should take these,” Regis says, lifting the reins with a weak wave, “unless you’d like to see where someone in my condition will steer us.”
“Not with our luck tonight,” Geralt says. As he collects the reins from Regis' hold he decides a trade is in order, wrapping an arm around Regis' waist and setting Roach at slow pace towards the road. He’s both pleased and disappointed when Regis doesn’t comment on being caged in his arms once again.
“I’m sorry for still not being entirely myself enough to fly back on my own,” Regis says haltingly instead.
Geralt has to resist the urge to hook his chin over the gentle slope of Regis' shoulder. “If you try to apologize again I’m going to push you off this horse.”
Regis barks out a startled laugh and relaxes more completely into Geralt’s hold, the thin gray flyaways of his hair soft against Geralt’s neck. They’ve barely passed the threshold of the estate before Geralt realizes that Regis has finally fallen asleep, the subtle rise and fall of his chest an odd comfort as Geralt’s arms tighten around him. With one last turn onto the correct dirt path the dilapidated remains of the fortress finally sinks into the skyline, obscured by long forgotten trees and half broken signposts, and Geralt can’t help but breathe a quiet sigh of relief the further away they ride.
The ride back which is, predictably, much longer and much, much quieter without the comfortable conversation of a particularly chatty higher vampire to fill the void.
Roach thankfully remembers most of the way back to Mère-Lachaiselongue herself and doesn’t seem unduly bothered by the leisurely pace Geralt sets, content to mosey her way down the moon-bathed hills of Toussaint and stop for particularly appealing patches of grass along the way. Monsters seemed equally uninterested in their quiet trek, either too distant or too smart to encroach on a vampire and witcher – even with one in such a sorry state.
It is, by all standards, another beautiful night in the fairytale splendor that is Toussaint.
Geralt thinks he would appreciate it more if he wasn’t stuck with his own thoughts the entire way back.
The events at Stygga and now Tesham Mutna – it feels impossible not to compare the two, and Geralt bites his cheek as he tries not to stew too deeply in the feelings of protectiveness he harbors towards the man in his arms that, by all rights, shouldn’t need protection at all.
But that’s just it, isn’t it, he thinks, dragging his unfocused gaze from the road to the shining fullness of the moon hanging over Mount Gordon. Regis is lax in his hold, his head lolling into the cavity between Geralt’s shoulder and collarbone once again, and the heady scent of herbs mingled with that same curious richness of freshly turned soil as before is enough to make Geralt’s head swim. He should have been fine back then and he wasn’t , just like I don’t know if he would have been fine now.
He still remembers the screams, the ear-splitting shrieks of a man being torn to shreds with hands as hot as molten lead. He remembers the drop in his stomach, the sheer rage and despair that had consumed him as he watched another of his companions fall, and the crushing guilt that overtook him as he was the only one to leave that hilltop castle alive. Even with his long-lost family back at his side, he’ll never forget how it felt to bury his company with his own two hands.
They were all family, at the end and far before. And there was nothing left of Regis to bury.
There’s a part of him that now wants to touch and keep touching, to have tangible proof that Regis is actually alive and here and not some far-fetched dream of when things were different. He wonders if Regis has noticed – he hadn’t been particularly tactile all those years ago, but now he can’t seem to stop himself from reaching for Regis' bony hands, or running a thumb down his arm, or standing just a little too close to brush shoulders as they pore over the same book. He barely noticed he was even doing it until tonight, when he reached desperately for Regis through the thick iron bars and pulled him close. He isn’t even sure he unlocked the cage, now that he thinks about it — he might have just torn the door from its hinges in his haste to get to the vampire.
Rationally he knows Regis is right to worry about being allowed so close to his neck after the events of tonight, but Geralt feels in his bones that Regis would never lose control so completely as to hurt him or anyone he cared about; he’d been the same way at Stygga, after all. It’s the irrational side of him that wants to know why this Dettlaff, or even himself for that matter, are so worthy of Regis’ care in the guise of martyrdom that he’s in such a precarious state again in the first place.
“Stupid self-sacrificing vampires,” Geralt mutters, tightening his hold. Regis whimpers in his sleep and Geralt bites back a reflexive apology.
It’s another half hour before Geralt hears the familiar burbling of the creek near the cemetery and he sags a little more fully onto Regis' shoulders in his own fatigue, his thoughts weighing on him more heavily than expected. Regis still doesn’t stir, and it takes Geralt carefully sliding off Roach near the door to the crypt for him to move at all.
“Regis, hey,” Geralt whispers, gently shaking his shoulder. “We’re back.”
Regis doesn’t startle awake. He blinks into consciousness, looking around owlishly until his gaze finally settles on Geralt and slow recognition sets in.
“Hello,” he says, voice sticking in his throat, and Geralt’s heart feels full to bursting with sudden and unrestrained fondness.
“Hey,” Geralt says softly. “Can I carry you in?”
Regis nods, already reaching for Geralt’s neck as Geralt carefully slides him back into his arms. He clicks his tongue at Roach to let her know she’s free to wander as he elbows the heavy door open, wincing as the metal creaks and Regis seems to wake a little more. The walls beyond the crypt sound thankfully free of any lingering beasts and before long they’ve made it back to Regis' quarters, the familiar smell of the hearth and hanging herbs seeming to rouse him completely.
“I’m quite alright, Geralt, really,” Regis says, pushing his hands against Geralt’s chest. The lingering frailness in his body is still painfully obvious, but Geralt dutifully maneuvers his arms to let Regis untangle himself from his hold. He keeps a hand to Regis' knobby back, telling himself it’s to help the vampire keep his balance as he finally stands on his own two feet again.
He tries and fails to keep his disappointment in check when Regis only stumbles a little.
“Well then,” Regis says, clapping his hands together weakly. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”
They brew the resonance – or, more accurately, Geralt brews the resonance while Regis hovers as best he can from his forced place on the floor – and it’s another hour still before they fully achieve what they set out to do. It isn’t the first questionable potion Geralt has ingested and it certainly won’t be the last, but it is the first to leave such a lingering taste of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. Even at his highest levels of toxicity he’s never felt as poorly as he does now, stuck under the thrall of a particularly volatile higher vampire’s memories.
When he comes to, blinking the fading light of de la Croix’s fabricated mill out of his eyes, he realizes he’s slumped sideways from his original position kneeling on the floor. Instead of the cool stone of the crypt underneath his head however, he feels something soft under his cheek.
It takes another minute of focusing on the slightly rough texture before he realizes his head is nestled comfortably in Regis' lap.
“Never doing that again,” Geralt mumbles around the sticky sensation of cotton in his mouth. He spends far longer than he should blinking the almost-sleep out of his eyes, Regis' concerned face swimming hazily into focus as he does.
“That’s quite alright, my dear,” Regis says soothingly. It takes Geralt another minute before he registers that his hair is untied and that Regis has been carding his fingers through the strands ever since he woke up, fraying leather gloves discarded as his side. Sharp nails scratch pleasantly against his scalp and Geralt decides he’d be just fine staying here forever, so long as Regis is there with him. “I can’t imagine we’ll have any need to brew this potion again in the future, even with another spotted wight readily available to us.”
“Better not,” Geralt goans, lifting his head slightly. Regis stops petting his hair and Geralt has to fight the urge to push up and back into the palm of his hand. “It tasted like swill. You’re lucky I like you so much.”
“And are at the considerable whims of a fickle duchess who could make your life exceedingly difficult should you choose to disappoint her,” Regis says primly, making Geralt snort. Regis reaches for a cup of water he’d no doubt prepared beforehand and hands it to Geralt, who downs it gratefully. “I thank you immensely, my friend. I dearly wish this was all I require of you, but I’m afraid we’ve still quite a ways ahead of us. And, well…”
Geralt grunts in acknowledgement, handing the now empty cup back. When he finally feels like he won’t upheave the contents of his stomach on the threadbare blanket Regis has thrown over the mattress, he carefully swings himself back into sitting upright, cracking his neck and wincing at the strain in his muscles. He has no idea how long he was out for, but it feels like he was laying against Regis for at least a good thirty minutes.
A fair trade, then.
“Yeah. Well.”
Regis is chewing at his bottom lip again and Geralt is exhausted enough that he doesn’t even try to hide his staring. He’s in the middle of wondering how Regis doesn’t puncture himself with those teeth that he nearly misses when Regis says, “I don’t suppose we couldn’t continue our search now? From your descriptions of the events, I’m certain I’m familiar enough with the area to at least make an educated guess on where next we could obtain more information.”
“Regis, you look like death warmed over,” Geralt says bluntly, snapping his gaze from Regis' mouth to his eyes. They’re somehow even more sunken in than before. “And I’m in no shape to carry you back from any more misconstrued plans either.”
Regis at least has the good grace to look properly abashed. “I suppose this is where we part ways for the evening then,” he says, sighing and tipping his head back against the stone behind him. The pale column of his throat glows with an almost translucence in the low light of the candles and Geralt feels his eyes track the gentle slope. “I’m sorry for all the hassle. You need not stay any longer than this; as I recall, you’ve a bed at the vineyard waiting for you. I myself will be perfectly functional in the morning after some rest and we can reconvene then.”
The inane itch to touch is back, spurred on by the unfamiliar meekness in Regis' voice, and Geralt feels his hand clench into a fist at his side. He somehow manages not to impulsively grab hold of the vampire’s own limp hand resting on the mattress between them, but it’s a near thing.
“When did you get so damn self-deprecating,” he mutters. He knows Regis heard him, just as he himself heard every minuscule whimper the vampire made on their ride back to the cemetery, but he doesn’t feel like pushing it when Regis doesn’t respond.
It’s been a long night. He can always get his bath tomorrow.
Geralt shifts so he’s sitting next to Regis with his back to the wall, wincing at the sting in his knee that has never fully healed. He’ll have to adjust his brace again in the morning.
“Actually, if you don’t mind, I think I’d rather stay here tonight,” he says, carefully rolling his foot. “I don’t know if Roach is in the mood to shepherd me halfway across Toussaint again right now, and I don’t know if I’m in the mood to try.”
“Oh,” Regis says, and something in Geralt’s chest sinks at the soft surprise in his voice. Regis raises one elegant hand to skim along the leather of Geralt’s bracer and that something in Geralt takes flight just as quickly. “Of course I don’t mind, my dear, so long as you’re amenable to a shared floor for the night. I’m afraid I simply haven’t had the time – nor, frankly, inclination – to procure anything better.”
Geralt waves his hand placatingly. “I’ve slept in worse places. Hell, we’ve slept in worse places, unless you’ve already forgotten the Sansretour in the wintertime.”
At Regis' scoff Geralt moves to lie down, the mustiness of the mattress and swirling scent of a barber-surgeon's herbs from above oddly soothing. He tugs his own gloves off and cushions his head with one arm, flashing his most unflattering grin with gums on full display. “You never tried it before, but Dandelion always said I make a great pillow.”
“How exceedingly lucky for Dandelion,” Regis says, stretching out next to Geralt and very frustratingly managing to somehow not touch him at all. Geralt rolls his eyes and hooks an arm around Regis' bony shoulder, maneuvering him in such a way he knows a higher vampire would never allow if it wasn’t what he also wanted, even in his current state.
“That was an invitation, Regis,” Geralt says, the constant urge to touch fading to a pleasant hum as Regis adjusts himself to a more comfortable position. He’s nestled up close, hair ticking Geralt’s throat, and Geralt can’t help but marvel at how uniquely well they slot together. It’s not a perfect fit by any means: Geralt’s long legs nearly hang off the edge of the mattress and Regis seems as if he can’t quite figure out where to put his arm, shifting restlessly for a full minute before finally settling it over the curve of Geralt’s ribs, but it somehow feels right in a way so few things have recently.
Geralt decides he’s had enough of trying for perfection lately anyway.
It’s quiet after that, the gentle bubbling of the cauldron and the crackling of the fire underneath the only audible sounds in the room. A witcher and vampire at peace evidently don’t make much of a noise at all, their breathing nearly nonexistent and the thump of their already glacial heartbeats deadened to the world. It’s the sort of relaxing that Geralt hasn’t experienced in ages and he feels his eyes start to slip shut with ease.
“It was because of you, you know,” Regis says in a quiet voice, startling Geralt from his half-asleep state.
“Because of me what,” Geralt asks blearily, willing his eyes to stay open. It’s typical that even after pushing his body to the absolute limits, Regis is still unable to sleep when there’s something on his mind.
“Do you recall when you stumbled into Fen Carn all those years ago?” Regis asks in a careful tone, an apparent non-sequitur that Geralt is too tired to examine closely. It takes him a minute to process the words, and another minute still to connect the name to his memories.
“The elven cemetery where we first found you?” Geralt asks after a lengthy pause. If he thinks hard enough he can still imagine the first taste of mandrake moonshine on his tongue, the hazy light of the moon casting dappled shades across crumbling stone, the curious attentiveness in the black eyes of the genteel barber surgeon of Dillingen who crawled out from beneath a dolmen and so courteously offered them shelter for the night. “I remember. Do all higher vampires gravitate towards headstones in their backyards, or are you just special?”
Geralt can’t see it, but he can practically feel Regis rolling his eyes.
“It’s more to do with the privacy offered than any sort of personal aesthetic,” Regis sniffs, and Geralt bites back a grin and rubs a slow circle in the vampire’s shoulder in apology. “Not to mention Fen Carn was, and I’m sure I told you back then as well, a veritable cornucopia for female mandrakes which brew to the most magnificent distillate, but that is besides the point entirely.” He pauses, shifting in place to rest his hand just off-center of Geralt’s heart, and Geralt feels something in the air change. “Do you remember the state your leg was in when you first made your trek there?”
That is a significantly less sentimental memory, and Geralt feels his own face shutter in response.
“I do,” he says slowly, and even after all these years he can still feel the keen crack of an iron rod against his knee. “What about it?”
“You were carrying that weight of your shattered leg so terribly, I recall I couldn’t believe you were walking at all,” Regis continues in spite of the uninviting flatness in Geralt’s tone. “The druids of Brokilon are powerful healers indeed, but to leave with their treatment incomplete—”
“I had to save Ciri,” Geralt interrupts, a reflex even after all these years.
“I know,” Regis says softly, untangling himself entirely from Geralt’s hold. He pushes himself up on shaking forearms, hovering uncertainly over Geralt’s chest. The light from the fire casts deep shadows over his face, the gauntness of his cheekbones thrown into sharp relief, and before Geralt knows what he’s doing he’s cupping Regis’ cheek with one hand, pressing his calloused fingers into the thin flesh.
Regis’ lips part, his expression slightly dazed, and Geralt quickly withdraws his hand as if it were burnt.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“Oh, my dear,” Regis says softly, and something in Geralt aches.
“What you were saying before,” Geralt interjects, voice thick. He moves his hand to the nape of Regis’ neck, still tentative, rubbing light circles with his thumb. He’s gratified to feel Regis press back into his palm. “About Fen Carn. Keep going.”
Regis’ eyes have nearly slipped shut and Geralt is both startled and fascinated as what sounds like very faint purring fills the air. It stops as soon as Regis shakes his head and Geralt makes a mental note to ask what it was in the morning.
“Surely you must know,” Regis continues after a minute, tracing a thin finger across Geralt’s chest. Geralt is still in his armor, unwilling to risk anything even with a higher vampire stretched out on top of him, but he suddenly wishes he was in his bare shirt so he could feel the scratch of Regis’ sharp nail against his skin. He has to force himself to focus on Regis’ words as the vampire continues. “Surely by now you must know it’s that same drive that drew me to your little company in the first place. What was one war to a being such as myself? It would have been cumbersome, true, but I could have easily fled the encroaching south and traveled far beyond the reach of Nilfgaard’s prying clutches.”
“You wouldn’t have left, not when there were people you could have helped,” Geralt can’t help but interrupt again. He isn’t expecting the look of raw adoration Regis levels at him, his black eyes reaching a smoldering depth that Geralt hasn't seen before.
“That is precisely what I mean,” Regis says slowly, refusing to look away. His hand has stilled, fingers fanned and claws pressing into the leather directly over Geralt’s heart.
Geralt suddenly recalls the sight of Regis transfixing a guard at Stygga with a single hypnotic stare, and he can’t help but feel a pang of sudden understanding for how quickly the man succumbed; if he didn’t know what kind of person Regis was, if he were splayed out on his back with any other monster above him, Geralt has the distinct impression that he would be eaten alive right now.
“Can you imagine what it was like to see the one and only Geralt of Rivia from Dandelion’s plays stumble into my own backyard, as you so eloquently put it?” Regis says, heedless of the static skittering its way across Geralt’s mind. “To speak with him? Him, who was leading a pack of refugees desperate to find family and loved ones? The chance to see if the stories were true about a witcher with a streak of kindness for beasts was simply too tempting for a monster like me. I joined to care for the women and children on our way to the camp, true, but I stayed for you. You and your kindness and your unwavering drive to see your Ciri safe.”
Regis is still looking expectantly down at Geralt, his brows slightly furrowed and eyes otherworldly. He’s clenching and unclenching his fist, not unlike a cat kneading, and Geralt feels his head spin.
“Oh,” Geralt says, and it’s apparently his turn to offer little to nothing in response tonight. As the silence stretches on and Regis’ expression starts to shift into something that looks too much like trepidation tempered with regret, Geralt scrambles for something to say.
“I missed you,” his brain settles on, and as much as this was not the discussion he was expecting to have tonight — or even really a direct response to Regis’ haphazard admission itself — it’s still a curious relief to finally be so forthright. His free hand surges up to cover Regis’ shaking fist, calloused thumb rubbing a circle into the cool flesh. “Regis, I had to watch you die. I thought you might have been dying again tonight.”
Regis’ eyes soften in relief as he nods and sinks slowly back down onto Geralt’s chest, seemingly more than content to accept Geralt’s change in topic. He tangles a hand in the chain of Geralt’s medallion, palm splayed over his heart once again, and breathes in deeply through his nose.
“I don’t suppose I have the greatest record of keeping myself intact, do I?” he asks, voice tight. “It’s not at all intentional, I assure you.”
Geralt gathers the vampire in his arms again, hyper aware of the way Regis’ spine presses into his hands. He feels like he’s balancing on the precipice of some high up cliff, where one wrong move will send him hurtling into the waves below.
“I just wish you’d take better care of yourself,” he mumbles, stroking Regis’ back. “No more of these secret plots you tell me as we’re walking out the door, no more rushing in to save the day if it means putting your own life at stake. I know you’re made of a hell of a lot stronger stuff than I am, but that doesn’t mean you should have to put so much at risk.”
It’s quiet again, the fire under the cauldron finally fizzled out to a low smolder and the air thick with memories of a time long since passed. Geralt adjusts his head on the mattress, resolutely not thinking about the crick in his neck he’ll have in the morning, and instead focuses on Regis and the lazy thought that it would be nice to fall asleep with him again once this whole mess is over. He begins idly counting the dips between each of the vampire’s vertebrae, the fabric of his worn gambeson thin against his palm and fingers, when —
“I cannot promise that,” Regis says softly, the underlying steel in his tone both surprising and absolute. “You of all people should know that is an impossible request to make of me.”
Geralt frowns, his hand stilling at the small of Regis’ back. He’d thought this conversation was over. “There’s always another way.”
“In any other situation I would be inclined to agree,” Regis says. “This, however, is one of the rare instances in which the alternative is one I simply refuse to even acknowledge. Not when you might face the consequences of that choice, and certainly not when we’ve already come this far. What’s done is done, and furthermore, I would not have agreed to anything else.”
“Every move we make feels like the wrong one,” Geralt argues. He’s nearly forgotten his previous frustrations of the night, but now he feels them start to resurface alongside utter bewilderment at the abrupt turn this exchange is taking. It feels a bit unfair that while he’s still reeling from his own fatigue and heavy handed compliments, Regis is apparently as clear headed as ever and picking apart the words Geralt hadn’t even registered would be an issue. He takes a breath and tries again. “I only just got you back, Regis. I’m not losing you again, not if I can help it.”
“I find it highly hypocritical that you’re allowed these grand statements of fact and yet I’m not granted the same right,” Regis says, and this is not the way Geralt was expecting this to go at all. He’d said his piece in good faith, unexpectedly hot behind the ears at Regis’ unwavering praise and wanting to return the favor in some way. He has no idea what to do with Regis’ change in demeanor, his apparent wishes for the vampire’s well-being rankling in some way he can’t even begin to fathom.
Regis hasn’t moved from his place on Geralt’s chest but he has started tapping his fingers in a rapid pattern known only to him, the movement almost too quick to track even with a witcher’s eye.
“I told you before that you don’t have a monopoly on altruism, my friend,” Regis continues, his hand nearing a complete blur as he speeds up the tempo. “Has it occurred to you that neither are you the sole proprietor in craving the safety of those you care for and that it is, in fact, an entirely rational and base desire of all, myself included? You say you cannot lose me, whereas I—”
And here Regis stops, the hastily bitten off phrase left hanging in the air as his hand stills. He’s frozen in place, feeling more like sculpted marble than living flesh, and Geralt has to remind himself to start moving his own hand against Regis again to try and coax some life back out. His own irritation has vanished just as quickly as it came, and in its wake is left the same simmering curiosity as before.
“Whereas you?” Geralt prods, sweeping his hand questioningly over the back of Regis’ shoulder blades.
“You say you cannot lose me,” Regis repeats thinly, voice barely audible and body taut enough to snap in two, “whereas I cannot bear even the thought of losing you.”
In the span of so many minutes Regis has stripped himself bare once again, offering something Geralt has no name for. Geralt thinks unbidden of the gaping maw in Regis’ chest when they’d first met again so unexpectedly in the warehouse, the oozing red knitting itself back into place where the claws meant for him had burst clean through. He thinks of a false eye, far too small for its socket and spinning madly; thinks of roasted trout and snuffed out campfires, of walking sticks and beekeepers, of fire and moonlight and the ease in which he felt walking side by side with a vampire all those years ago. He thinks of second chances and how extraordinarily lucky he is to be here at this exact moment with someone he thought he’d lost for good, and the curious sensation that there’s something lurking just beyond his field of vision that he can’t yet see but is pressing steadily closer.
“Together then,” Geralt says, the word coming out with a much greater finality than he intended. As he focuses on the press of Regis’ hand against his chest he’s struck with a sudden conviction that not only are these the words he wants Regis to hear, but that he’s tiptoeing his own personal line of realizing exactly how far he’s willing to go to protect the vampire as well. “We’ll do everything together. You can come up with all the terrible plans you want, but I’m allowed to intervene as I see fit and vice versa. Sound fair?”
There’s a beat of tense silence before Geralt realizes that Regis is shaking, and another beat before he realizes that Regis is shaking because he’s trying very hard not to laugh.
“Apologies, I don’t know what’s come over me,” Regis says at the dumbstruck look on Geralt's face, the pointed pearls of his teeth peeking out from between thin lips. Geralt can’t help but think a whole swarm of kikimores could smash through the adjourning wall right now and it wouldn’t be enough for him to tear his gaze from the sight of that smile. “Beyond an acute fear that the events of the night have taken a greater toll than expected, of course. But if you insist, I believe I can meet you halfway. We shall certainly at least try to reach our resolutions together, for as long as we’re able.”
“Great,” Geralt says without thinking, still staring at the curved slope of Regis’ mouth, the razor sharp tips of his fangs. “Glad we agree.”
Regis closes his eyes and nuzzles into Geralt’s collarbone, wafting another scent of heady spices into the air, and Geralt feels his feet dangle precariously over the edge of the cliff once again.
“You never fail to amaze me, my dear witcher,” Regis says with all the tenderness of the world, and Geralt swears there’s an audible click as something in his mind finally, ridiculously, agonizingly snaps into place.
Oh.
Oh.
So that’s what this was.
Maybe that’s what this always was, from the mist-covered headstones of Fen Carn to the bloody Yaruga to the first idyllic stay in Beauclair all those years ago. It’s a myriad of choices that have led them here, wrapped up in one another twelve feet underground, and Geralt feels all at once the culmination of those choices pressing hard enough to crack his ribs in two.
Before he can do something exceptionally stupid, like crush his mouth to Regis’ — and isn’t that another revelation of its own, the burning need to not only touch, but to kiss, to soothe, to shelter — he winces as the steadily building pressure of exhaustion pounding against his skull reaches a new threshold.
It’s equally typical that as soon as he manages a breakthrough massive enough to reduce Rinde to a smoldering pile of ash and rubble again, his own past actions come back to snuff it out.
Regis has become withdrawn in the scant few seconds it’s taken for Geralt to recontextualize everything he’s known about their friendship, posture once again rigid and unsure as if he too has realized something, and Geralt scrambles to regain his lost footing. Hesitation is what gets a witcher killed, he suddenly thinks in a voice that sounds painfully like Vesemir, but he doesn’t know if he can follow his own advice tonight.
“I,” he starts, hating the way Regis immediately stiffens further in his arms as if bracing himself for a blow.
If he had the luxury he’d stay sequestered down here in this crypt with Regis for a week straight, limbs tangled together and navigating their way through whatever creeping thing is budding between them. He knows it isn’t possible, knows that they’ll both be back to the demands of duchesses and beasts tomorrow, but for now he’s going to cling to the comforting closeness he’s been given and try to give it back as best he can.
And so he makes another choice.
In a fraction of a second he reaches for Regis’ hand and draws the back of it to his lips, pressing a kiss against the bony knuckles. His mouth curves into a tired smile at the sound of Regis’ sharp inhale, already knowing the keen vulnerability of the noise will fill his dreams for years to come. It’s not the full extent of what he wants to do, not by a long shot, but the slight tang of salt and herbs against his tongue is enough to satiate him for the moment. He shifts Regis’ hand, determined to kiss each finger before he drops it against his chest again, the pinprick of claws against the delicate skin of his throat exhilarating in a way it wasn’t an hour ago.
As he looks at Regis’ face, furled open in a blend of shock and awe and that same adoration from before kicked up tenfold, he notes for the first time that he can see himself in the inky reflection of the vampire’s eyes.
He looks terrible – his skin is sickly pale, the toxins from the combined resonance and elixirs he took hours before still pulsing black in the veins across his cheeks and forehead. His hair is in desperate need of a comb and there’s a newly puckered white scar spidering down from his left temple to the corner of his mouth, a reminder of how foolhardy it was to corner someone like Dettlaff on his own, and he really could use an hour or three scrubbing the grime of the night off his skin. And yet Regis is still looking at him less like he sees past his shortcomings and more like he’s actively cataloging each one, and like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than cuddled up close to a worn and weary witcher with a silver sword not two feet away.
Geralt is not unused to being looked at with desire. From the wanton curiosity of strangers who want the anecdote of sleeping with a mutant without sharing their bed proper, to the recent sneaking suspicion that his popularity with sorceresses might stem more from a point of contention and competitiveness rather than any real interest on their part. But the way Regis is looking is something different, something softer, and it makes him feel like he’s missed a step at the most crucial moment of a contract.
Geralt belatedly realizes that Regis has looked at him that same way for a long time now.
“Go to sleep, Regis,” Geralt says, swallowing hard. He skims his hand down the vampire’s side again, willing his newly aware touch to be a comfort and for Regis to understand everything he can’t find the words for right now. Regis relaxes bit by bit back into his hold until he’s tucked up close to his chest again, intoxicatingly pliant in a way even the most expensive bottle of Toussaint red can’t achieve, and Geralt makes a promise to himself right then and there to learn the map of Regis’ new body the second they have the chance. “We’ll figure everything out tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Regis agrees, voice raw and achingly hopeful, and Geralt can’t help but press another impulsive kiss to his forehead.
There’s another revelation that of course Regis has noticed his recent tactileness while Geralt himself couldn’t see its deeper significance, that he’s been responding in kind with each lingering touch and press of his shoulders as they walk side by side, and that Geralt had simply accepted it as comfortable familiarity on the vampire’s behalf instead of something blatantly more. It isn’t the firecracker Geralt expected this sort of world-shattering upheaval to have, but instead a balm of sweet honey against the sharper parts of himself he wasn’t even aware were exposed. The final realization that he’s now presumably encouraged to touch much, much more is a different story and he drags an experimental knuckle down the back of Regis’ neck, gratified and fascinated in equal spades at the way he shudders in response.
Still, the fatigue he feels weighing heavily against his eyelids is finally too much to bear and he takes in one last deep breath, lulled by the comforting warmth of a body against his and the familiar scent of wormwood and cinnamon surrounding him. The sound of purring fills the air again, this time even deeper than before, and Geralt makes a hazy guess on its intent as he finally slips into the most comforting sleep he’s had in what feels like years.
He still wants to ask Regis what it means in the morning.