Disclaimer: I do not own the copyright of the Witcher series nor the characters used below for this work of fiction.
Summary: Were you left wanting more Yen/Geralt throughout the Witcher 3? If so, enjoy. An interlude between Yennefer and Geralt in The Chameleon in Novigrad.
Spoiler Alert: This story contains text important to the main plot line of The Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt. You have been warned.
Geralt slowly climbed the stairs of The Chameleon. He was sore, tired, and smelled of decayed flesh, blood, and rotted muck. His hair was greasy, caked with mud at the tips, despite being tied off his neck. His beard was too long and slicked with arachas bits and blood. He needed a trim, a shave, and a bath. According to Dandelion, Triss had confiscated the tub two hours ago. He planned to appeal to her for access. Perhaps, she would even refill it for him and heat the water.
The leather of his armor was stiff from two days of rain. It had been caked with mud and blood earlier, but before entering the city gates, Geralt stopped at the river's edge to wash away the remnants of his days in the wilderness. He needed to treat the leather and stitch the tears near the elbow where a ghoul scratched through to flesh. He had successfully slaughtered the four ghouls and cleared the cave where they resided. Only afterwards did he sit down, pour a toxic, cleansing potion over the wound, and sewed the gash closed with a hook and some fishing line. The wound throbbed.
"Geralt."
He looked up at the familiar voice. Yennefer stood at the end of the hallway, her arms crossed over her chest and a narrowed expression on her face. She took three steps towards him. "You look horrible."
He sighed. "Thanks, Yen. It's good to see you too."
"You know what I meant," she chided, waiting as he approached. She searched his features. "You're still under the effects of your potions. How many did you drink?"
"Not including the decoction, four."
Her eyes widened in alarm. "Get inside. Quickly, before the effects fade." She turned from him and entered her room.
He followed her. "Where are Philippa and Margarita?"
"Meeting with Triss. Likely convincing her to rejoin the Lodge, but I didn't ask."
"Not interested in joining them?" He asked and smiled at the sight of the bathing tub in the corner of the small room.
She scoffed. "I did not join them before and have no intention of joining them now. I've told you that already. We need their help to stop the Wild Hunt. That is all."
"Maybe. But it'll be your neck on the line if they rub Nilfgaard the wrong way. You negotiated their sanctuary and safe passage."
"I did," she answered. "And I am thoroughly aware of my arrangement with the Emperor." She flippantly waved her hand. "It doesn't matter right now. I had other things to think about."
"Really? Were they more important than how you'll get out of this with your neck intact?"
"Yes," she answered simply and offered no more explanation. Yennefer placed her hands on her hips, eyeing the tub. "I was going to take a bath myself, but you appear to need it more."
"That means the waters hot. Not like the frigid seawater you are so fond. For me, at least." He smirked at the amused flicker in her eye.
"Only for you, Darling," she quipped. "I can't be spoiling you now."
"Mmm. Filthiest goes last. You first."
She pointed to the wooden chair by the door. "Then sit and wait your turn. I don't need you falling over onto the bed when the effects of your potions finally wane. Especially when you're covered in filth."
He removed his swords and cross bow, setting the weapons upon a trunk at the foot of the bed. "Room's a bit small."
"It is, but I cannot be picky in Novigrad." She gracefully strummed her fingers down the front of her vest, the buttons unfastening with the magical gesture. "Here, I'll take any place dry and warm … that is not chained to a pyre or the wall of a cell."
He watched as she undressed, removing the heeled boots, peeling off the tight-fitting leather pants. It calmed him - she always did, even when she was in a flurry of anger. Despite the sometimes toxic nature of their relationship, he loved her company. He loved her biting wit, her acidic nature, and he loved how intensely and fiercely she loved Ciri and him. No one had ever cared for him with such unapologetic ferocity.
He swayed forward, resting his arms on his knees as he watched her. He was descending from the toxicity high of consuming so many potions - a little woozy and tired. "I love watching you undress."
She padded to the bathtub in only her undergarments and plucked a small vial from the cupboard. "You love watching any woman undress." She opened the vial.
He inhaled. Lilacs and Gooseberries. "Maybe. But they all pale to you."
"All of them?" She peered back over her shoulder at him.
"Mmm hmm."
She seemed pleased at his response. With a flick of her fingers, her undergarments disappeared, fading with sparkling magic. She scented the bath and stepped into the water. She sat, facing him. Unashamed, she washed.
He watched, mesmerized as she stroked her hands over her body, cupping the water against her flesh. He pictured drawing his tongue over her body, licking away the scented beads of water clinging to her skin. He craved the taste.
A slow smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "You always do have the most vivid fantasies."
He shrugged, uncaring that she was reading his thoughts again. He was used to it, and frankly, did not mind. "Can't help it." He gestured to her with a hand. "An inspiration."
She chuckled. "Well, you're in top form tonight. Tell me, through what sewers have you been crawling lately? It has been days since I last saw you."
"I needed to find an armorsmith capable of crafting some masterwork armor." He motioned to his chest. "This barely held up at Kaer Morhen. Of course, finding that armorsmith had me running from here to Crow's Perch, to Skellige and back. Then had to find the diagrams for the armor. Should all be ready in a couple of days, if it goes as planned."
When Yennefer stood to exit the bath tub, Geralt tugged at the ties of his leather jerkin. "Needed more coin for the work, so did a couple of side jobs on the way back."
Yennefer did not comment that she had more than enough funds to pay for multiple armor sets for him, nor did she mention that Emperor Emhyr would also pay any amount necessary to assist in Ciri's protection, including the cost of Geralt's armor and weapons. It was not necessary to say.
He stripped off his armor, placing it on the floor near the door. The cloth sleeve peeled off the wound on his elbow, tearing at the scabbing along the edges. He did not react. Yennefer conjured undergarments with a delicate gesture of the hand. She sat on the edge of the bed, crossed her legs, picked up her hairbrush, and slowly combed her hair.
He watched her, pausing in his state of partial undress. She continued to absently comb her hair as if uncaring of his stare. He finished undressing then stepped into the lilac-scented water. He sighed, delighted; the water was only slightly warm, but it smelled of her.
He rubbed his hands over his body, cupping the water against his skin to rinse away the dirt and blood. He hated the rancid smell. How many times had Vesemir teased him about needing to scrub himself clean after any particularly pungent job? He remembered one more recent occasion, a few months ago. He and Vesemir came across a contract to kill some rotfiends. There were a dozen, at least, and they had swarmed the two witchers. One rotfiend exploded, and Geralt did not dodge in time. He was covered with blood, organs, and tattered flesh.
That was not the part, however, that turned his stomach. It was being stuck thigh-high in the rancid bog as they hunted the rotfiends. The fetid water seeped into his boots and pants. It was rank. The smell was a nauseating combination of rotten vegetation, sulfurous gases, and death. It clung to his skin and lingered in his nose. After fulfilling the contract, Geralt had stripped naked and submerged into the closest river. He did not care that it was an icy cold spring, or that Vesemir laughed and taunted.
"Geralt?"
"Hmm?"
"Did you hear what I said?"
He shook his head. "No, sorry."
"Thought not," she replied and crossed towards the tub. She gripped his wrist between two fingers and her thumb, carefully manipulating his arm, turning it as she examined the reddened and puckered wound on his elbow. "What did this?"
"Ghoul," he answered. "I treated it soon after. Alcohol, potions. Then sewed it up."
"It's aggravated," she stated. Turning from him, she opened a satchel draped over the bedpost of the foot of the bed. She withdrew a small clay sealed container. Popping off the lid, she sniffed the contents then presented the salve to him.
"What, not going to put it on me?"
"You're quite capable," she said. When he took the offered salve, she paused. Reaching down, she stroked the top of the water. It warmed and turned hot. She sat upon the near trunk, crossed her legs and watched him. "Will you see Avallac'h tonight? He grows impatient. As do I."
"I have a few contracts to finish up. I'll talk to him soon."
She arched a single brow. "A few contracts? Geralt, I understand your profession, but we are in Novigrad. Need I remind you exactly what that means?"
"I know what it means. Been working on that too."
"I've heard," she said, unimpressed. "Philippa informed me of your little plan." She leaned forward, her voice dropping in volume but not intensity. "What were you thinking?"
"Contrary to what you might think, I'm not a fool."
Her brow furrowed. "I never thought you a fool, Geralt. Naive, perhaps. But never a fool." When he did not look at her or reply to her statement, she placed her hand over his. "Geralt."
He looked at her, silent.
"You hate politics. We both know that. Being involved in this plot to assassinate Radovid was dangerous and highly risky. Why would you do something like this? Especially now when we have the Wild Hunt on our heels? Do you know what Philippa said to me? 'Put your witcher on a leash if you do not want to see him killed'. That is how the conversation began, and she informed me of your involvement with the assassination." At his continued silence, she continued and squeezed his hand. "Do you understand?"
He pulled his hand away and ducked his head, splashing water onto his face. "Why would Philippa tell you anything?"
Yennefer sighed. "I don't know. Likely, she got a rise out of knowing something about you that I did not."
Scooping water in his hands, he washed his face, scratching the dirt and dried blood from his beard. He shrugged. "There's a good amount you don't know about me." He squirmed in the tub, shifting enough so he could partially submerge his head and raked the debris from his hair.
Yennefer stood and walked away. "I doubt that, Witcher."
Geralt finally surfaced and rubbed his hands over his face. With most of the dirt washed away, he stood and reached for a worn towel. "When I first arrived in Novigrad, I was shocked." He began; Yennefer turned from her place near the bed and listened. He vigorously rubbed the towel on his head. "The witch hunts. They were burning mages in every square. Scorched corpses were left on the remnants of the pyres both in and outside the city walls. I walked into one of the squares, and tied to one of the pyres was a mage I knew."
He stepped out of the tub and wrapped the towel around his waist. "Her name was Felicia. Can't remember her last name. Met her in Loc Muinne. We played dice together. She cut my hair. We did a bit of trading. She went up in flames, and there was nothing I could do. Just watch her burn." He approached Yennefer. "She screamed. The crowd cheered."
Yennefer looked away.
"Radovid was mad." Geralt continued. "He wanted to see every mage burn or worse. Especially Philippa. When Dijkstra first tried to recruit me, I didn't want anything to do with it. I never killed a king, even though I met a few that I wanted to. It's not what witchers are supposed to do. But Dijkstra … he could be pretty convincing."
"What did he say?" she asked.
"Basically, that as long as Radovid was alive, you were in danger. You, Ciri, Triss … all of you. So I got involved. Guess you heard that Philippa struck the blow."
She sighed. "Regardless, Geralt, it is not that simple. Radovid's death leaves a void, and it could spark a civil war to see who fills it. That is if Emhyr does not capitalize and press forward immediately to quell any other establishment. It still does not make the world safe for mages. The danger is not only from Radovid but also the Church of the Eternal Fire. Do you intend to slaughter all of their priests and preachers as well?"
"No," he answered, calmly. "But I won't let them touch you." He left it unspoken between them that he would gladly slay anyone who tried to harm her or Ciri. He had been labeled a butcher before under other circumstances and was not afraid of the title being placed upon him again. "You didn't care one bit about consequences on Skellige."
Her eyes narrowed. "I did not care because I wanted to find Ciri at any cost. Consequences did not matter. In that case, accomplishing my goal was worth any price, including ostracizing myself from the people of the Skellige Isles. I was aware of those consequences the moment I made my decision." She cut the air with a sharp gesture of the hand. "And don't bring up your objections to the necromancy again. I do not want to hear it."
He shook his head. "Yen, don't get defensive. And you don't have to explain anything else about it. All I said was that you didn't care about consequences on Skellige. I didn't care about the consequences in Novigrad."
She did not apologize, but averted her eyes.
Geralt staggered, his face blanching. His gaze glazed, turning glassy and distant.
Alarmed, Yennefer reached for him, tightly clenching his biceps. "Sit," she ordered, pushing him back onto the bed.
He sat, roughly. "It's normal. The potions…"
"I know."
He closed his eyes. He did not resist when Yennefer pressed on his chest. Laying back on the bed, he sighed. "Yen, I …"
"Later," she interrupted.
He inhaled. Lilacs. Gooseberries. Relaxing, he slept.
Later
Geralt awoke. Despite the late hour, raucous song and merriment hummed from the ground floor of the tavern. The witcher ignored the sounds and instead focused on the sorceress sitting at the small table in the corner. The room was dark except for a tiny, glowing blue orb that hovered in her palm. She used the summoned orb to illuminate the text of a large, red, vellum-bound book. She read, engrossed.
"Yen, come to bed."
"In a moment," she replied. Geralt watched. After 15 minutes, she closed the book and placed it in one of the satchels at the foot of the bed.
He shifted onto his side. The single bed was small, but they had slept in tighter quarters before. Yennefer sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him.
He waited. "So, are Margarita and Phillipa going to share the other bed?"
She peered back over her shoulder. "Another latent fantasy, Darling? Not likely. Rita will probably slip in within the hour and take the bed. Phillippa will polymorph and perch upon the back of that chair there nearest the window."
"Mhm. So that means we have about an hour."
She arched a brow at the insinuation of his tone. "Please. As if you would care if someone were to walk in."
"Neither would you."
"Hmm," she turned towards him, reaching out to stroke a hand over his chest. "Very true." Her vivid, violet eyes darkened and a slow grin tugged at her lips. It was a smile of victory, one of a predator with prey in her grasp. He loved that smile.
She kissed him.