Chapter Text
As much as Regis does his best to avoid caffeine, even he can’t resist the siren call of the communal coffee pot in the breakroom after a straight thirty-six hours on shift. He has it on good authority that Rusty is going to force him to take the rest of the afternoon off if he catches him in between his own swarm of appointments and walk-ins, though it’s not as if either of them could have predicted the uptick in drowners stalking the fishing markets. The consequential line out the door to treat various oozing bites and gashes is hardly a surprise.
Regis very nearly sighs into his chipped mug as the smell of lukewarm dark roast fills his senses, exhaustion waging a valiant battle as his eyes slip shut. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to leave after lunch after all — despite his greater constitution, if there’s any risk of underperforming he’ll be of no use to the clinic. He’s heard rumors of another mass exodus of non-humans fleeing what was once the free city of Novigrad and into Toussaint, and he can hardly offer subpar service to those in need.
He still remembers the appreciative awe he’d felt when he’d made his way from Dilligen to Toussaint some twenty years ago and stumbled upon the Florian, hidden down one of Beauclair’s sprawling back streets and promising superb care to all non-humans who knew where to look. Its word of mouth system works to great effect if their list of steady patients is any indication, and Regis himself is grateful to have found a place where he feels he can make a positive impact beyond selling homebrewed tinctures and topical creams out of his admittedly shabby home.
The fact that his co-workers all seem to believe he has some amount of elven ancestry to account for his greater-than-usual constitution isn’t something he’s likely to correct any time soon either. It gives him a reason to stay in this particular town longer than normal, at the very least.
As his self-allocated break comes to an end he stands and rinses his mug, mentally promising to drop by Rusty’s office and request the rest of the day off if there are no more walk-ins before noon. He barely manages a polite nod at Marti as he passes her in the hallway before she offers him a clipboard.
“You’ve got a family waiting in the lobby for a knee injury,” she says, tapping one perfectly manicured nail against the filled out client information. “They’re normally Shani’s, but she’s still out for the rest of the week.”
Regis blinks, already mentally tallying what supplies he might need as he takes the board. “Thank you, Marti. Would you be so kind as to let them know I’ll be ready for them shortly?”
“Of course,” Marti says, turning towards the lobby door. “Iola went home an hour ago or I would have given them to her. You look terrible.”
And just like that Regis is back in his office, sterilizing tools and placing a fresh sheet of crepe paper on the examination table. He’s in the middle of checking the patient’s name and injury — Cirilla Vengerburg, age nine, knee collision that may need possible stitches as a result — when the doorknob turns. As he looks up, he sees what appears to be a couple and their daughter standing in the doorway.
It would be impossible not to notice the man first, with his shock of white hair drawn back in a loose wolf’s tail and scar cutting jaggedly down the left side of his face. He towers over the room and looks completely exhausted, heavy bags under his eyes and mouth carved into a frown. Regis feels a bolt of curiosity run down his spine at those eyes, golden and slitted in the fluorescent light, and he suddenly understands why this curious trio is standing in this particular waiting room of this particular clinic.
A witcher. Well, well.
As Regis tears his gaze away, he’s pleased to note the woman at the witcher’s elbow is no less interesting. She’s short, an inch or two below even his own nongenerous height, with a thundercloud of black, curling hair spilling over one shoulder. Even with his vampiric eyesight he almost misses the way her ear curves ever so slightly into a delicate point, indicating some trace amount of actual elven blood in her veins. She taps a meticulously manicured finger against her thigh, the other hand tightly clutching the shoulder of the young girl who is clearly the reason for their visit.
The girl’s hair is nearly as startling as the man’s, a mousy gray piled high on her head and eyes a vibrant green. She’s wearing a grass-stained sports uniform and is, most concerningly of all, bleeding sluggishly from a nasty looking shredded knee and running nose.
“I’d say good afternoon but that hardly seems applicable at the moment,” Regis says, smiling tightly and gesturing to the examination table. The girl wastes no time in breaking free of the woman’s grip, even as she has to limp her way across the floor. “Cirilla, correct? My name is Dr. Terzieff-Godefroy, but you can call me Regis. I can see we’ll be cleaning that knee for you. Can you get up on your own or shall I fetch a step-stool?”
“It’s Ciri,” she says with all the forcefulness a nine year old can muster. She looks determined but before she can even attempt to hobble her way up, the man steps forward.
“Up we go, kiddo,” he says in an unexpectedly deep baritone, lifting the girl from under her armpits and onto the crinkling wax paper. She hisses and sticks her tongue out, but Regis is surprised to see she isn’t even teary-eyed at the jostled injury as he pulls on a pair of gloves and reaches for the antiseptic.
“Could’ve done that on my own,” Ciri says, the very image of a petulant pre-teen.
“Indulge your old man.”
Regis perches himself on a rolling stool in front of the table and sets to carefully disinfecting the wound, pleased to note that it looks worse than it actually is. He’s acutely aware but not unduly concerned about the woman now hovering behind his shoulder with all the intensity of a storm about to hit.
“The nurse who admitted us says you’re not a pediatrician,” she says, curt and straight to the point. In Regis’ very long years of experience, most mothers are. “Is Dr. Shani not in? She usually sees Ciri.”
Regis suddenly recalls Shani mentioning something about one of her regulars, a charming but clumsy girl who comes in at least once a month with some new injury. He strongly suspects that this girl might be one and the same.
“Dr. Shani is out of town visiting family,” Regis explains, “but I have qualifications from Oxenfurt and over forty year’s experience, much of it dealing with children. I’ve become a general practitioner more out of staff needs than lack of knowledge or training. My apologies that we’re a small clinic with only one specified pediatrician on roll, but please be assured, your daughter is in good hands.”
The woman relaxes a fraction, but her sharp eyes remain trained on Regis’ practiced fingers as they dab around the wound. “Yennefer,” she says off-handedly, as if just now realizing introductions still need to be made.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Regis says easily, “though these are perhaps never the most favorable circumstances to make them.”
The man standing by the door snorts and Yennefer throws him an unimpressed look.
“The boor is Geralt,” she says smoothly. “Please ignore him.”
“That’s me,” Geralt agrees, nodding good-naturedly and moving to sit in one of the stiff waiting chairs in the corner of the room.
“You can’t even see my bone, I don’t know why we had to come,” Ciri suddenly says, sniffing hard. A good quarter of her lower face is bruised, dark and clotted and already starting to turn yellow at the edges. Regis wordlessly hands her a tissue from the box on the counter.
“We came,” Yennefer stresses, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring as Ciri dabs the tissue under her freshly bleeding nose, “because you slid on wet grass directly into a tree trunk. Why you even wanted to practice in this weather is beyond me, but excuse me for caring about my daughter’s leg not getting infected in that mess outside. Is that a problem for you?”
“No, mama,” Ciri sighs, propping herself more fully on her hands and lolling her head forward, watching Regis work. She sticks her tongue out between her teeth and mutters, “Still would’ve been cool to see bone, though.”
“Maybe next time,” Geralt says, and Regis can’t help but smile at the easy camaraderie in the room as Ciri cheers and Yennefer sighs in exasperation. Though it’s become a rarity these past few years and he’s more or less carved a niche for himself treating particularly nasty cases of water hag and various other monster attacks, he always enjoys treating families.
After a few more minutes carefully cleaning around the wound, Regis squares his shoulders.
“This is going to need stitches,” Regis says apologetically, standing and discarding the bloodied washcloth and gloves. He takes a breath, testing the air for any possible scent of toxins in the girl’s blood, pleased as always when there isn’t any. “Though I’m sure you’ll be happy to know there’s no risk of infection.”
Yennefer sighs, perhaps even a touch more dramatically than her daughter. “Go ahead, doctor,” she says tiredly, finally moving to sit beside her husband. Or at least Regis assumes he’s her husband — he doesn’t see wedding bands on either of their fingers, but that doesn’t mean much of anything these days.
“So,” Regis says as he settles back in with a needle and thread, aiming to distract, “what is your sport of choice before that untimely tree cut practice short?”
“Soccer,” Ciri says, brightening immediately. She barely winces as Regis begins the first stitch. “We’ve got a game this weekend. We’re going to kick ass.”
“Language,” Yennefer interrupts from her corner.
“Yes, mama. We’re going to kick butt.”
Regis smiles, happy to keep quiet as the family begins to talk in comfortable circles around him. He finishes the stitches in no time at all and as he offers Ciri a slightly stale lollipop he found while rummaging through his drawers earlier, he privately thinks he wouldn’t mind accepting younger patients again.
“I recommend ice compression for the bruising. With care and patience, she should be back to her old self in no time,” Regis says as Ciri gleefully rips off the wrapper. Then, to Ciri directly, he adds in a conspiratorial tone, “I must say, you’ve done remarkably well for yourself. If you can keep a secret, I believe most others your age would have taken me twice as long.”
“I’m not like most others,” Ciri says around the lollipop in her mouth, holding herself with a bravado Regis is certain she carries with her everywhere she goes.
“Come, my duckling,” Yennefer says, helping Ciri down from the table and drawing her arm protectively around the girl’s shoulders. “Thank Dr. Terzieff-Godefroy for his help and promise he won’t need to stitch you up again.”
“Thank you,” Ciri parrots dutifully before scrunching up her bruised nose. “I’m not promising anything, though.”
Regis smiles as the pair make their way out of the room and he’s suddenly alone with the witcher, who still hasn’t moved from his chair.
He’s been idly aware of Geralt’s existence in the corner of the room the entire time, hypersensitive to his own curiosity of finally meeting a witcher face-to-face and the abject irony that it was a situation in which he could hardly cultivate a conversation. Now, however, he can’t help himself from looking in interest as the man clamors to his feet.
“You’ve quite a precocious girl on your hands,” Regis says, eyes tracking the pointed tips of the wolf’s medallion around Geralt’s neck.
“She’s a real hellion,” Geralt agrees and moves to the door. “Thanks again,” he says on his way out, and Regis is unashamedly eager to get a chance to view his cat eyes closer. There’s a certain thrill in being in such close proximity to a monster hunter, and Regis idly wonders how the man would react had he known who exactly was tending to his daughter.
“It was my pleasure,” Regis says, dipping his head politely and moving to shut the door.
Despite Shani’s occasional bemoaning in the breakroom, Regis can see why she enjoys her work. He makes a mental note to ask her for stories about Ciri’s other mishaps when she returns.
—
It’s exactly three days later that Regis is in the Florian’s lobby, printing out a pamphlet on draconid burn aftercare for his two o’clock, when the bell above the front door jingles.
“Hi again.”
Regis glances up, immediately intrigued to see the same witcher from last week standing casually in front of him again.
“Hello to you as well, Mr. DiRivia,” Regis says, tapping the papers on the desk into a neat stack. “How is Ciri doing? I do hope she hasn’t gotten into any more mischief — Dr. Shani is still out until tomorrow I’m afraid, and I know those stitches aren’t ready to be removed just yet.”
“Just Geralt is fine. And she’s good,” Geralt says, looping an easy thumb around his belt. Regis tracks the movement and notices what seems to be a heavyset knife strapped to his thigh. Probably silver. “The stitches are definitely driving her crazy, though. I had to stop her from gnawing through them the other night.”
“A charming mental image I have no issue conjuring,” Regis says with a laugh. And then, because he’s horribly curious and lacking in self-restraint today, continues. “If you don’t mind my asking, is there any particular reason you choose to visit the Florian? Dr. Shani has more stories regarding your daughter than I thought possible, and it’s not exactly as if our humble clinic is the only one in this district.”
“Ciri is,” Geralt starts before pausing, clearly considering his next word. “Special. Her blood lineage is something that we’re all better equipped to handle in a place like this. And, no offense intended, that’s really all you need to know.”
“Of course,” Regis says, nodding politely. That confirmed the family’s need for the Florian’s specific expertise, at least. “I didn’t mean to pry. Patient confidentiality is very important at this establishment, I assure you.”
Geralt snorts. “I’m sure. It does surprise me that humans like you and Dr. Shani are working here, though.”
There’s a rush of satisfaction at Geralt evidently not noticing anything amiss. “This clinic and what it stands for means the world to us both,” Regis says honestly. “We’re immeasurably lucky to have been given the trust to carry out our hippocratic oaths in a place such as this. Now then, onto more pressing matters: I take it this particular visit is for a witcher and not his hellion daughter?”
“That easy to tell?” Geralt asks with a huff.
“That easy,” Regis agrees kindly. “Your eyes aren’t exactly easy to miss, if you’ll excuse my saying so. Now, who is your general practitioner? I’m more than happy to check on their status for you.”
“No practitioner,” Geralt says. “I don’t go here.”
Regis frowns. “Then what can I help you with?”
“I was kind of hoping you might want to be mine, actually?”
Regis blinks, thrown at the wording of the question. Geralt doesn’t seem unduly concerned, however.
“Not in any general sort of sense,” he continues, shrugging slightly. “I don’t exactly plan on coming in for yearly physicals or anything like that. I was just, you know, hoping the next time a wraith slices my side open I won’t have to deal with strangers not listening to me and pretending they know more about my body than I do.”
Regis is more than a little flattered at a witcher specifically requesting his skills; the fact that this particular witcher is Geralt sets something warm thrumming in his veins.
“I should hope you’re not planning on making that visit any time soon,” Regis says, “though I’m sure I could make room on my table if that were the case.”
“That’s all I’m asking for,” Geralt says, smiling crookedly. It isn’t a particularly attractive smile by any means, and yet Regis finds himself charmed by it all the same.
Regis turns back to the manila folders on the desk, idly flipping through pages until he finds the new client form. “I don’t mean to make assumptions, but is your wife a patient with us as well?”
After a beat of silence, Regis looks up from the screen to see a look of confusion flash across Geralt’s face. “Yen’s not — we’re not together,” he says, slowly.
“Oh,” Regis says. “My apologies, I merely assumed that with Ciri —“
“Don’t worry about it,” Geralt interjects. “And a slight correction: we’re not together anymore. Just had a rough time of it and finally figured out we’re better as friends than a couple. Ciri enjoys joint custody between a state-of-the-art condo in Vengeberg, and my shoddy three room apartment here in Beauclair. Yen just happened to be in town for an apothecary convention when Ciri slammed into that tree and we wound up in your office.”
“I see,” Regis says, grateful he hasn’t stepped on any toes. For all that Geralt was adamant about keeping his daughter’s status in well-deserved privacy not five minutes prior, it is a little surprising how readily he seems to divulge his own personal life. Regis places the forms in front of Geralt with a clipboard and taps at a waiting cup of pens. “In that case, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that I am indeed accepting new patients at this time. Please fill out this form and note what availability works best for your schedule, though I’m sure if it’s as haphazard as you say you’ll be more of a drop-in. Our triage nurse, Marti, has stepped out for the moment, but you’ll be able to leave your completed form with her.”
Just then the bell above the front door jingles again, and Regis can see it’s his two o’clock.
“It was a pleasure to see you again,” Regis says, turning back to Geralt with a polite smile. “Do give Ciri my regards and appraisal for not tearing out all my hard work, despite her best attempts.”
“Will do,” Geralt says, picking up the clipboard and pen and stepping to the side.
Regis doesn’t think he’s wrong in catching the once-over Geralt gives him as he backs away, and something in him preens. He tugs his three quarters sleeve down and watches with interest as Geralt clocks the curling dark ink peeking out from beneath his gray scrubs.
“Hell of a scorcher today,” says Regis’ two o’clock as he walks up to take Geralt’s place. It doesn’t look like the gnome’s beard is going to grow back any time soon, but Regis is pleased to note he’s kept the burned area clean.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Regis says easily, turning his attention completely to his patient. “We’ll do our best to make this a short visit, Mr. Moretti. Please, follow me.”