Author's Note: This chapter makes references to a disabled scene from TW3 called "Geralt Cooks for Yennefer."

Geralt woke from his nap to an empty room, and for a minute, he feared the worst. But when he ran into Ciri in the main hall, sitting forlornly at the dining table, she reassured him with vague yet firm words that Yennefer was, at least, safe.

He sat down with her, and he came to a decision. Yennefer was always the one to comfort them in their times of need, but Geralt would be damned if he could not fill in for his wife while she was too tormented with her own struggles to fulfill her usual role. His wife and his daughter both needed him to be a father now. His own feelings could wait.

"Are you hungry?" he asked as his first attempt. This was very rarely an inappropriate question.

Ciri regarded him for a moment. He could see her battling between two options before looking deflated again. "I'm alright, thanks."

He sat for a while, searching for other ways to reach out to his daughter.

Then he saw her mind wrestle once more, only this time, she came out looking resolute. "Actually, I could eat."

She started to get up, but he put out a staying hand. "No, you sit. Let me fix you something."

This brought a smile to her face – a genuine smile that only Ciri could affect. "I have not heard good reviews of your cooking."

"I successfully made an omelet once."

"You also failed to boil an egg in water once."

"She told you about that, huh?"

"There aren't many things about you I don't know, Geralt."

"Scary thought. But that soft-boiled egg incident wasn't my fault."

"How is that even possible?"

"Got distracted."

"By what?"

He cleared his throat. "That's private."

Geralt saw, for the first time in far too long, a playful glint in Ciri's eyes. But it disappeared before it could become anything substantial.

Still, it was a step in the right direction.

"So, what do you want to eat?"

"What do you have?"

He got up and walked to his pantry – or, rather, Marlene's pantry. "I see some cheese," he shouted over his shoulder while rummaging, "some… other cheese. Bread. Raw meat on ice – I could Igni it? No? Hmm… Here's… more cheese. More-" He leaned out of the pantry to face her. "You want cheese?"

She smiled her Ciri smile again, and he felt heartened. "Yes, I'd like some cheese, old man. Preferably with bread."

He snatched the bread and all three blocks of cheese within easy access and, after a thought, grabbed a fourth block for good measure. When he returned to the table with loaded arms, he saw that Ciri had gotten up to fetch a bottle of red. He set the food down and went to get cutlery – forks and knives.

Apparently, that was a faux pas.

As she poured the wine into their respective goblets back at the table – but not into a third one set aside for unsaid reasons – she stared at the silverware in his hands, scandalized.

"Are you going to eat cheese with a fork?"

"How else would you do it?"

"Cut off a slice with your knife, place it on a piece of bread, pick it up with your fingers, eat."

"No, Ciri," he lectured as he sat down, handing Ciri her share of the cutlery. "You use a fork, too. Cut into it like it's a piece of chicken or steak." He demonstrated the movement. "It's the civilized thing to do."

"Says who?"

"Your mother."

"That can't possibly be true. Lady Yennefer would not be so stiff as to eat cheese with a fork."

"Well, she is hardened in the ways of high society."

"What?"

"Meant that as a play on words – a joke."

"The joke did not land, then."

He growled.

Ciri smiled a third time, and the glint of playfulness returned – only this time, it stayed. This was a very good sign. "Do you know she likes when you do that?"

"Do what?" He looked down at his hands. "Eat with a fork and knife? Yeah, I told you. She taught me how to be civilized."

"No, Geralt. First off, drop it with this notion that Yennefer eats cheese with a fork. My mother would not do something so crass ("Hey!"), and no amount of your insistence will convince me otherwise. And anyway, that's not what I meant. She likes when you growl."

This was new. "Huh?"

"She thinks it makes you sound wild. Says it turns her on."

He flushed a color he was sure resembled the wine he was suddenly hiding his face behind. "She tells you about that stuff?"

Ciri rolled her eyes. "She tells me a lot more than I want to know. Sometimes, I think she does it just to watch me squirm."

"She's got a warped sense of humor, that woman."

"It's all in good fun. She does it when she senses I need a lift in spirits, a distraction. Mother… she always seems to know just what to say."

"That's Yen," he mused with a sad smile. He loved her so much. And missed her so much.

There was a lull, and Geralt knew that they were both turning inward again, about to be consumed by their own anxieties once more. He was starting to will himself back into reality – back into conversation for his daughter – when the door opened, revealing his wife. She drifted into the house, looking… slightly different. She stopped when she saw them.

She stared at his hands with weak eyes, and her voice was small when she spoke. "Is that a fork with your cheese, Geralt?" The question came out limply, but it held a tone of something he recognized.

"Yeah?" He trod carefully, afraid she would fall away again if he didn't. He saw Ciri out of the corner of his eye regarding her mother with the same guarded hope.

Yennefer paused for a moment and almost seemed to quiver on the spot. Then he saw it. Her lips curved ever so slightly, and a hint of life returned to her violet eyes.

"What's wrong with that?" he coaxed, slowly, as if she were a wounded animal just learning to trust. "Isn't it the civilized way to eat cheese?"

Then her eyes connected with his, and everything inside him melted. All of his pain, worries, and fears flew from him in an instant. He shivered with happiness.

"No, my love," she breathed with a smile. Her eyes glistened with warmth. "It's stiff and crass."

Ciri threw herself at her mother, tears of elation flowing freely. Yennefer held her daughter, stroking her hair in a motion that Geralt hoped would be the last time it was needed; he yearned for the normalcy that he dared to believe was now returning. "Hush, no more crying now," she admonished lovingly, "No more tears, dearest one. No more of this. I'm sorry for all I've put you through, but no more now. It's all over now. I promise."

Geralt had never loved and admired his wife as much as he did in that moment. She was the strongest, most beautiful, plainly the best person he knew.

"Will you join us for some wine and cheese, Yen?" He knew the answer before she even said it.

"Only if you don't try to force a fork on me."