Each Other
A/N: As a response to Guest, there is a jump between years because all of these are originally reader fics on my tumblr page, and they're typically prompted by my readers (as you can imagine, it's weird writing a baby/toddler as the reader—using 'you', 'your' etc—and so Akela tends to be in her teen years). I do have some with Yennefer, though, so look out for that.
Akela is about 15.
Summary: Geralt would never have believed that he'd one day find himself braiding a teenage girl's hair, never mind her braiding his… But there he was. And he wasn't complaining.
If Akela could describe the weather in two words, it would be: 'fucking. Windy'. With the pause for emphasis, of course.
She and Geralt had stayed in an inn over the night, a fire blazing in the hearth and the windows bolted shut to shield them from the raging wind outside, but the moment she'd stepped out of the door and a fierce breeze battered her face, she'd spun around on her heels and shoved past her witcher, who'd looked no less than confused, to get back indoors.
He'd got her out eventually after surrendering his cloak—he knew he didn't feel the cold as much as she did—and the both of them now sat upon Roach, plodding boldly on through the harsh gusts of winter wind.
Akela was fine, wrapped from head to toe in both her cloak and Geralt's, but Geralt seemed to be experiencing a little more trouble, despite the fact she couldn't exactly see from her place in the saddle.
It wouldn't have been a problem if they'd switched places, but Geralt had never had her sit behind him on the horse, and he wasn't going to start now. When she was in front, he could see her. That was all the logic there was, and all the logic he needed.
Nevertheless, this windiness was contributing greatly to his current troubles, for you see, when one sits in front of a girl with long hair on a blustery day, they're going to, quite frankly, get a mouthful of that hair at every possible moment.
He was battling crazily with Akela's long locks, spitting stray wisps out of his mouth while simultaneously shaking his head to free his vision and removing one hand from the reins to whack it away from him like a madman. Of course, she couldn't see this, as she was too intent on staying cosy, and the wild noise of the wind around them masked his sounds of frustration, so she stayed huddled in her cocoon of warmth, completely oblivious to his attempts at duelling her hair.
After a few moments, he pulled back on the reins to halt Roach, and the girl glanced at him over her shoulder. His face was red, but for some reason she doubted it was because of the cold. "What's wrong?" she asked him just as he reached down for his pack and began rummaging through it.
"Your hair," he all but ground out.
She frowned. "What about it?"
"It's—fucking hell!" He swiped at it as a gust blew it right back in his face, and a grin spread across her face as realisation dawned on her. "It's blowing in my damn face."
"That's why I left it untied," she told him cheekily, though they both knew she'd been thinking about how cold the journey was going to be that morning, not about how much she was going to annoy him with her hair.
Despite the residual infuriation, Geralt poked Akela's side. She yelped and he quickly returned to his rummaging, a moment later drawing out a small hair band. "Turn around," he informed her, coughing as her actions caused a good amount of hair to weave itself into his mouth. Growling, he grabbed as much of it as he could and expertly braided it, tying it off at the end with the band.
Surprised would be an understatement for someone if they found out the famed White Wolf knew how to braid hair, but he'd been forced to learn over the course of Akela's life. He'd stuck with simply tying it up to begin with when she'd been small, but over time and as her hair grew longer, it'd required something a little more intricate. Intricate being a braid, which wasn't that at all, but for a man who was lucky to wash his hair once a week, it was as elaborate as he damn well pleased.
He tucked the braid under the girl's cloak before pulling the hood up and over her head, feeling her shivering against him. Kicking Roach on, he gathered the reins up in one hand and used his free one to wrap securely around Akela's stomach, pulling her further back against his chest. It was often difficult to forget that he had a little girl—who actually wasn't that little anymore—with him. After so many years alone, he'd grown used to the harshness of the weather and the trails he took, never once stopping to think about himself because there was no need to. He couldn't get sick or diseased, and he certainly couldn't catch a cold.
Taking her in had given him a new outlook on life; he'd learnt about mortality from her and what it was to be human, something he'd spent time wallowing over in the days before. He supposed having something to look after had made him look after himself more, too. What use was he dead? What would ever happen to Akela if he—
He tried not to think about it, though he wasn't blind to the fact that he was a witcher, and witchers faced death like they did an old friend. Well, they were supposed to. As he'd said… he'd gained a new outlook on life. He feared his own death not because of himself, but because of his child.
He flicked his eyes downwards as he felt something against his legs, and he watched Akela move one of her cloaks across them, supposedly to keep them warm. Once they were covered, she did the same to his hands, both the one holding the reins and the one wrapped around her stomach, before snuggling back down against him and shutting her eyes.
Even if he didn't look out for himself, he knew someone who did.
Geralt had broken many bones over the course of his long life. It wasn't a surprise, of course; he was constantly tumbling down hills and banging into rocks and punching things.
Mainly punching things.
That was how he'd ended up breaking his wrist—though it was strange, considering how professional one would expect his punching skills to be after how many times his fist had made contact with both people and objects.
But he had. He had broken his wrist, and for all he was famous for lack of emotions, a blind man could see he was in pain. Another strange thing. His body was battered and bruised more often than it wasn't, and yet in the past few days Akela had heard him hiss and grumble about his "fucking wrist" so many times she wondered how he ever coped with her when she did the same.
She supposed it was good that he was comfortable around her enough to leave his emotions unveiled, but either way she'd never seen him so pitiful before. He could effortlessly use a sword and ride a horse with one hand, but gods forbid he tie the strings on his tunic the same way. It was almost amusing to watch him get frustrated at himself because he was too prideful to ask for help, but, thankfully so far, the girl had managed to keep herself from laughing.
Out loud, anyway.
She glanced up at the crunching of leaves to see him walking up from the river, hair wet and loose around his shoulders. He was holding his bandaged wrist out, old clothes hanging over his good arm, and she quickly hid a smile at the untied strings of his tunic. No doubt they'd stay that way unless he suddenly plucked up the willpower to abandon his dignity and ask for the dreaded 'H' word.
He'd sooner break his other wrist than that.
Trudging up with an ill look on his face, he tossed his clothes on his makeshift bed and walked further on towards Roach. On instinct Akela leaned over and grabbed them up, folding them over and stuffing them in one of his packs. That was all she'd been doing these past couple days—picking up after him. In truth, he never asked for it, she just took pity on his sick and self-loathing self by doing it for him so that he didn't exasperate himself by trying.
He despised being handicapped.
"Fuck."
She glanced over just in time for her to watch as he snapped the band he was using to tie back his hair. With one hand. Now, he was a talented man, but he wasn't superman…
"Do you need any help?" she called out to him. She received nothing but a harsh glare in her direction. He whipped around and began searching inside the pack hanging on Roach's saddle, supposedly for another band.
Akela quirked an eyebrow and lifted her arm to stare at the ones on her wrist. It would be an experiment, she figured, to see if he would rather go the easy route and take up the offer of using one of hers or remain his grumpy self and continue fruitlessly rummaging through his pack for a band she doubted he'd find.
The moment she heard him curse again, she shook her head and stood to her feet. "I've got loads if you want one," she said, loud enough for him to hear, and he paused, clearly deciding on whether it was worth it. Surprisingly, about ten or so seconds later he turned his head to glance over his shoulder, amber eyes meeting her own.
"Alright," he said with a hint of hesitation and impressively masked desperation.
A corner of the girl's lips drew upwards in a victorious smirk, and she walked towards him, handing him one of her bands once she reached him. She received a gruff murmur of thanks before he moved to tie his hair up while she watched from beside him, her arms crossed and that smirk never once leaving her lips as he so clearly struggled.
A few times he almost succeeded, but was there seriously any actual way in which somebody could tie their hair up with one hand? Akela decided the answer to that was no. "Do you want me to do it?" she asked him.
He didn't reply, fingers grappling with the white wisps of his hair.
"Geralt."
Again, nothing.
"You're not going to be able to do it. Just let me—"
"Fine!" He spun around with an aura of absolute irritation, slapping the band in her open palm—like a petulant child, she couldn't help but observe. "Do it."
She rose an eyebrow. "Fine."
With a grinding jaw, he moved back to the blankets laying across the forest floor and sat down, legs outstretched. She knelt behind him, just about tall enough to reach the top of his head, and gathered his hair up in her hands. "I can braid it," she offered, "just so it has a lesser chance of coming out again and you don't have to, you know, ask for help."
Geralt rolled his eyes at the last three words which she'd said in a secretive-like whisper. Despite it, however, he nodded. "Yes."
If anybody had walked into the clearing of the forest in that exact moment, they would have seen a witcher sat on the ground, holding his bandaged hand to his chest, while a girl who barely reached his shoulder knelt behind him, plaiting his hair in complete silence. It took about twenty seconds, but by the end of it, his hair was neatly held back, and Akela could tell he was feeling a little less like punching something than he had been before. A result, she decided.
"There," she said, "pretty as a princess!"
The glare he gave her in response to that sent a bout of giggles spilling from her lips, and at the mere sound of them a flicker of light returned to his eyes. "Thank you," he said sincerely, leaning up to press a kiss to the tip of her nose in true Geralt fashion.
"You're welcome," she replied. "You know I don't mind helping you with anything… we both know you've done it all for me before."
He looked at her. "Yes, I know," he said quietly, "but that doesn't mean I like it."
"You don't have to like it; you just have to accept it."
He rose an eyebrow. "I wonder who told you that."
"Someone very wise," she responded with a knowing glint in her eye. His smile widened and he stood to his feet.
"I'm supposed to be the adult, here."
"You are. That doesn't mean you can never ask for help."
He hummed but said nothing more on the matter as he reached his free hand back to touch the braid. Satisfied that she hadn't sneaked any wildflowers or leaves in it—the morning he had woken up to that was something he never wished to speak of again—he walked back towards Roach. "Ready to move out?"
"Yeah, I'll grab our blankets. Where are we going?"
"Where do you want to go?"
"Somewhere with a bed."
"Somewhere with a bed it is, then."
There were often times when Geralt would think back to a time before Akela. He'd been brutal. Selfish. Alone. And then he'd found the basket in the forest, and the baby wailing, and he'd picked her up, eyes still black from the successful hunt just gone by, and for the first time in an age he'd felt a spark of warmth in his cold heart. That warmth had since grown beyond his imagination. He was half witcher and half whatever he was when he was with his child—more one than the other, no doubt—and he was certain that somebody had dropped that baby in his arms on purpose. Perhaps to show everyone how emotionless he was supposed to be. How independent he was supposed to be. How unloving and unloved he was supposed to be.
He could almost laugh at how wrong they'd been.
