Dad

A/N: The site seems to be working again! It had a bad few days where no chapters or new stories were showing up, but it seems to be good now. SO: I had uploaded a new chapter (the previous one) in that time. Therefore, if you haven't read that one yet, please do, and let me know what you think!

Despite the summary, Geralt doesn't outright call Akela his daughter in a couple of these, but the point of the story is to show how he can call her that without actually saying it, if that makes sense. Still fluffy and (dangerously) sweet! Also a nice little Yennefer-Geralt scene here. Akela's age varies here, from about 15-17.

While writing number 4, I listened to 'Scared' by Jeremy Zucker.


Summary: Three times Geralt called Akela his daughter, and the one time she called him 'Dad'.


1)

"I knocked it off the cart." Akela crossed her arms over her chest. "Why would I try to steal something I have money to pay for?"

The old man's face turned sourer, if that was at all possible. "Oh, you have money?" He expectantly stretched his hand out, palm up as his fingers twitched. "Pay me, then!"

Akela rolled her eyes. "But I'm not buying them!"

"You tried to steal them!"

"I did not!"

"I saw you!"

"What you saw," she spat out, leaning forward, face the picture of anger, "was me bumping against your cart and knocking a couple apples off—which I apologised for."

A noise somewhere between frustration and rage spewed from the man's mouth and he shot his arm forward like a snake striking to attack, grasping the front of her tunic and tugging her forward. "Listen here, girl—"

Akela clenched her fists and readied to bite back, but before she even had a chance, the man's hands were ripped from her, and he was shoved away.

"Get your hands off her," a stony voice ground out, voice brooking no argument. Geralt stood tall and menacing in front of the hunched old man, head tilted slightly to the side as he glared at him. He knew Akela was often capable of looking after herself, proven clearly when she stepped beside him and a look of smugness appeared on her face, but he also knew that that would likely never change how much the anger flourished inside him when he saw someone lay their hands on his child in a way such as this.

The old man pointed a shaky finger at Geralt. "You stay out of this, Sir!"

Akela scoffed, and Geralt spared a glance down at her, briefly raising a brow. "What, exactly, am I supposed to be staying out of?"

"The little bitch tried to steal my produce!"

"I didn't!"

"The little bitch," Geralt said, holding out an arm to stop her from lunging, "is my daughter. And if you ever speak in that manner to her again, you won't be able to speak another word."

The man looked ready to respond with vigour, but at the last moment his eyes averted to the sword and the daggers at Geralt's waist, and the cogs in his brain began to turn as his vision wandered up to the white hair and the amber eyes. He shut his mouth and stepped back, resigned.

"Forgive me," he said. He appeared as though he was ready to run before he grabbed one of the apples Akela had knocked off his cart and pressed it into her hands, a forced and nervy smile showing on his lips. "Here, take this!"

The girl's eyes lit up and she smiled victoriously, taking a bite from it and turning to walk off as she called back a quick, "Thank you!"

Geralt sighed deeply and hummed, giving the man a final glare before following after her. "He was right. You are a little bitch," he remarked.

Akela grinned and tossed the apple in the air, the sunlight glinting on the green fruit as though in triumph. She handed it to him and watched as he relented with a roll of his eyes and took a bite. "Waste not, want not!"


2)

"What's it like?"

Geralt lifted his head to look at Yennefer. She was lying on her side opposite the fire, her head resting in her hand, and she seemed contemplative. Curious, in a way, which was odd for her, though what could he really say about that? It wasn't as though he'd known her long.

"I'm sorry?" he asked.

Yennefer jerked her head in the direction he'd been staring in for the majority of the past ten minutes, where Akela was fast asleep, curled under blankets, head beside Jaskier's, who was wandering in the land of dreams himself.

He looked at her a moment longer before turning back to the mage. A hint of his own confusion danced in his eyes, but she spoke before he could open his mouth to question what it was that she meant.

"Parenthood," she clarified, her voice softening. "What's it like?"

Geralt rose an eyebrow, briefly floundering for words at the, quite frankly, surprising question. For a woman who was all invulnerability and strength, it was something he hadn't expected to come from her. Not to mention he didn't often think about what she'd asked.

He glanced away and shook his head. "More trouble than it's worth," he told her with a short breath of a laugh.

The corners of Yennefer's lips drew upwards. She fidgeted with a stone on the forest floor. "I'm serious."

His other eyebrow shot up. "So am I," he assured her. "She may seem sweet, but underneath it all is the monster I'm most afraid to go up against." He offered her a rare smile, which she returned, and for the first time in a while both mage and witcher felt peaceful. It was blissfully quiet—the only sound being Jaskier's snores and incoherent mumbles—and it was dark, giving the two the serenity they needed after the trials of the previous days.

"It's… hard," he said seriously, despite the fact he was admitting that he, the infamous Geralt of Rivia, found something difficult. "You learn new things every day."

"What kind of things?"

"Everything. About yourself, about her, about the world in general… you make decisions you probably would never have thought about before. You have responsibilities you wouldn't have believed would ever be associated with you." He let his eyes wander over to Akela's sleeping form. "You don't know what the hell you're doing most of the time. You can feel so… so lost at it, right until you start to realise the only thing that's keeping you grounded is the same thing that gave you the title of father. It…" He paused, leaning forward to poke a stick into the dying fire. "It gives you something to live for, and at the time I found Akela, that was what I needed most."

Yennefer's lips curled into a smile as she slowly sat up, tucking her legs underneath her. "It sounds tiring," she said, glancing down for a moment, and Geralt nodded.

"It is. But the rewards outweigh the difficulties. It's something you'd give up everything to keep." He looked across at her, noticing her loosened shoulders, and realised for the first time that he took his title of father for granted. Yennefer's mutations had made her sterile, and though he was the same, he'd still somehow found a way to get past that, even though he'd never once pondered on the possibilities of it before he'd found Akela. Yennefer hadn't been so lucky, and as he looked at her, he found that that reflected perfectly in the eyes he now viewed as… sad.

"You'll feel that someday," he said without thinking, and when she glanced up, he nodded in Akela's direction. "When you have your own."

Yennefer gazed at him, violet eyes piercing the amber of his. They stared at each other for a moment, no words passing their lips but every meaningful word being said nonetheless, until Jaskier snorted in his sleep and the both of them ripped their eyes away, returning to their stone and their stick.

"Thank you, Witcher," Yennefer spoke up a moment later, and Geralt nodded once.

"You're welcome, Mage."


3)

Geralt turned his head down to look at Akela. She was standing beside him, absently tugging on the neckline of the dress they'd bought from a market that very morning. She was clearly irritated, sighing in annoyance and muttering under her breath every so often.

When she noticed him looking, she shook her head, face every bit unhappy. "I don't want to be here," she ground out.

He rose an eyebrow. "Clearly."

"Why are we here again?"

"Lord Lyon invited us."

"And how do you—" She scratched at the back of her neck, the foreign material rubbing it raw—"know Lord Lyon?"

Geralt glanced down again and frowned, slapping her hands away from her red neck. "I saved his sister from a werewolf," he said, instinctively tucking a few strands of hair that hadn't made it into her plait behind her ear, "and he insisted my attendance at his feast tonight."

Akela rose an eyebrow at that, finally relenting in her fiddling and letting her arms hang loosely. "Your attendance," she picked out. "I could have stayed at the inn." He ignored that, as she expected, and she sighed, shoulders slacking. "You never usually care for extra repayment," she said. And it was true. He didn't. He preferred to do his duty as a witcher and not stick around to see the aftermath of his hunt, except to accept his money. He didn't care for physical shows of thanks. It was better that way, for Akela and for him. But he'd, for once, genuinely been concerned for the lord's sister, so he'd accepted the invitation with the intention of only staying long enough to gain information on her wellbeing before leaving.

Geralt lifted his chin as he noticed a familiar man enrobed in silk and jewels walking towards them. He took in a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the conversation ahead of undoubtedly mindless babble about his life and anything else the lord wished to ask him.

"And you never usually say no to free food," he remarked quietly to Akela before forcing a tight smile at the open-armed, freely grinning man when he stopped in front of him.

"Geralt of Rivia!" he greeted, and Akela turned her head to meet him, only just refraining from raising her brows at the sight that met her eyes. She wasn't used to seeing royalty or regality of any sort, so she was never one to shy from her overly dramatic opinions of how these people dressed and carried themselves. She was quite certain all the clothes on her body wouldn't amount to the price of a single ring on his finger, even though she'd had to beg Geralt for weeks to buy her the new leather boots on her feet now, just about hidden by her long dress.

Geralt had made an attempt to dress nicely, too. He'd washed and brushed his hair—and made several mock lunges (and one actual one) for Akela when she'd continued to tease him about it—and was wearing clothes that, though giving him an extremely regal look of his own, seemed unfamiliar to her. She much preferred him in his loose tunics and trousers, hair muddy and tangled in knots that he wouldn't give a shit about until he needed to (which was barely ever, unless she was counting surprise and sudden invites to feasts such as this).

"Lord Lyon," Geralt said with a small nod. "How is your sister?"

The lord reached forward to clap him on the shoulder, and this time, Akela did raise a brow, knowing her witcher's dislike for such actions. Sure enough, Geralt's smile grew tighter, and she could see the lines on his forehead become more pronounced. Perhaps in different circumstances—definitely in different circumstances—she would have laughed at his predicament, despite his clear discomfort, nevertheless this time she had to do with quickly turning her head to the side and stifling a grin.

"My sister fares well!" Lyon told him, not removing his hand. "She's been asleep since you returned her safely to me, but the healers assure me she will make a full recovery. Thank you again for your unforgettable help, my friend!"

"Thank you for inviting me here tonight."

Lyon stepped back, finally letting his hand drop to his side, and the corners of Akela's lips twitched when Geralt subconsciously rolled his shoulder. "Well, this is the only other way I could think of repaying you when coin did not seem enough. A good meal!" It was at this moment, when Akela was shuffling from foot to foot in boredom, almost reverting back to her scratching and tugging, that Lyon noticed her, and he rose both eyebrows, glancing between her and Geralt. "And who might this be?"

"Akela," Geralt introduced, stopping the girl with a firm hand to her shoulder. She looked up at the lord, offering a smile. "I hope you don't mind that I brought her."

Lyon tilted his head slightly to the side in obvious interest, disregarding Geralt's last sentence with a wave of his hand. "You mean she's yours? Your daughter?"

Akela continued to stare at the man in front of her, unbothered. She was well used to being called his daughter—it was easier for him to agree when people asked if she was, and she sometimes wondered when exactly he'd given up on correcting people. If he'd ever corrected people in the first place.

"Your daughter?" Lyon repeated at Geralt's lack of response.

"Yes."

"I thought… well." He looked a little sheepish, but Geralt was all too aware of what was coming. "I was always told that the trials witchers underwent made them—"

Geralt interrupted him before he could continue. "They did. I am." He squeezed Akela's shoulder. "She's not mine by blood. But she is mine."

Lyon stared a while, thinking to himself, before he abruptly smiled in acceptance. "Very good. Though I would never have taken you for the parent type."

"My apologies," Geralt said, inclining his head, "but you don't know me well enough to make that assumption."

A soft smile graced Akela's lips and she glanced down to the ground, her heart swelling with love she could only ever feel for him.

"Quite right." Lyon was clearly apologetic. He opened an arm out and motioned for the two of them to follow him. "Come, let us eat. You can tell us all exactly how you killed that werewolf!"

The hilariously dismayed look Geralt sent Akela after that made her snort.


4)

How had it come to this?

"Geralt?" Akela whispered, daring to edge closer. He looked so pale, even in the short rays of moonlight radiating down. His skin was pallid, white hair muddied and hanging in knots around his face. His eyes were shut, his lips were set in a straight line, and even as she shook his shoulder, he did not move.

He did not move.

Geralt always moved. He had long since trained himself to wake at the first sound or touch that did or didn't come from Akela. And yet now, even as she doubled her attempts and shook him so hard she was sure he'd be disorientated were he awake… he remained still. Still and silent. Completely dead to the world.

Dead.

Her heart soared, not for the first time, and she sat back on her haunches for a moment, staring with eyes as wide as the yellow moon looming over head. It was almost as though her unconscious mind was waiting for him to wake up. Willing him to wake up. Because she knew good and fucking well that without him, the point of remaining in the living was completely lost on her.

Reluctantly, her mind swiftly hurled her back. Back into damn memories of the swings of his sword and his shouts of exertion and pain as he fought with the monster that had suddenly stormed where they'd been resting. She should have stayed behind the rocks as he'd ordered… she shouldn't have listened to the clash of metal hitting sturdy skin and bone… and she certainly shouldn't have jumped up from behind the rock and screamed his name, leading him to whirl around in panic and giving the beast time to throw him against a large boulder. She could still remember the sickening crack of his head hitting the solid stone. That would have been the perfect time to scream his name, but she'd found that no words had been able to escape her clenched throat. She'd felt like she was being strangled, and her heart had stopped beating for the longest second as she'd watched with absolute terror…

He'd been telling her a story. She'd been lying beside him, exhausted eyes staring up at the starry sky as his voice lulled her to sleep. She couldn't even remember what the story had been about, all she'd been focused on was the comfort his voice offered, and for that reason she had not registered at all when he'd abruptly stopped speaking. He'd waited a moment, eyes narrowed, before quietly standing to his feet, picking up his sword as he went. All his senses had been alert, and were he an animal, his ears would have been pricked up and forwards, listening for any noise that sounded at all abnormal.

He'd taken calculated steps forward, hands tight around his sword's hilt, boots making no sound as he stepped over fallen leaves and twigs. And then he'd stopped, standing completely still, save for his eyes, which roved the area in front of him. He'd turned his head the slightest bit and harshly whispered Akela's name, but it had not been enough to rouse her, and she'd stayed sleeping until less than three seconds later when what she now believed to have been a kikimora burst from the cover of the trees, screaming raucously and lunging towards Geralt. She'd bolted upright and he'd yelled at her to hide herself as his sword came clashing down on the thing, not waiting to see if she'd done as was asked before moving to attempt to lead the monster away.

That had been only three minutes ago. One and a half minutes ago, he'd been thrown against the boulder. One minute ago, he'd managed to use the last of his strength to pierce the beast's hide with a cloying crunch, mixing with both his and the kikimora's shrieks of agony. Akela had looked on with trembling hands as it fell to the side, completely unmoving, and watched, waited, for Geralt to stand to his feet.

When he hadn't, she'd taken one trembling step forward, hands cold and in fists at her sides, before running the rest of the way, not caring in the least that there was a possibility the monster might still be alive. All she'd cared about was the possibility that Geralt might not be.

She stared at him now, hopefully waiting for his eyelids to flicker, or a finger to twitch… but there was no movement.

She shook him again, harder now, but it didn't work, and with a desperation she had never felt before, and her breathing quicker than ever, she hurried closer towards him, grabbing the sides of his face and shaking him, slapping him, hitting him… anything that had a chance of waking him.

"Geralt!" she shouted, voice cracking. She slapped him again, pausing only when she felt something wet and sticky coat her right hand. When she pulled it back, the sight of red met her eyes.

She stared at it for a moment, hands shuddering, before the red and the blackness of everything else melded into one as tears filled her eyes. A tightening of her throat and a short intake of breath was all that was heard before gut-wrenching sobs tore through her chest and she fell forward, clutching her bloody hand to her chest and squeezing her eyes shut as her grief poured from her in an onslaught of irrepressible tears.

"Please, please, wake—wake up!" she choked out, her forehead resting against his chest, hands gripping his ragged tunic. "Please! I can't—I can't—Please! Geralt! You can't die! You're a witcher! Witchers don't die! Wake up!"

But he didn't.

Akela harshly breathed in with as much effort as she could muster, and the smell of blood overpowered her senses… yet, at the same time, there was still that hint of forest and greenery which made him Geralt. The scent that was often the only thing that could make her fall asleep. The scent that she only had to catch for a moment before she immediately calmed. The scent that, even now, amidst her hiccups and sobs, caused the briefest feeling of serenity to swirl through her before it vanished as the new, metallic aroma abruptly tickled at her nose.

Another sob racked her body when the scent disappeared and she shook her head. "Daddy…" It came out as a mewling whine, so broken and utterly devastating that it would have made even the heartless cry along with her, but there was no other sound… no other noise in the darkness of the forest around her except the guttural cries wrenching from her throat.

It was the feeling of being alone which scared her the most. The feeling of… being without the one person who'd ever made an ounce of sense to her. The one person she loved more than life itself and who probably loved her even more than that.

She would rather die alongside him than live in a world she knew he no longer walked in.

A moment passed, and she sat there, hunched over with her head on his chest and her tired hands slowly slacking in their hold on his tunic. Her eyes were red and swollen, cheeks wet and tracking the mud and blood which had inadvertently transferred from his clothing to her face, and she was shaking so much that when a slight tremor rippled beneath her, she took no notice of it whatsoever.

At an exhausted yet almost incoherent groan, she blinked, opening her eyes despite it doing nothing against the blackness of her face pressed to him. She tried to silence her cries as much as she could, holding her breath, not quite willing to believe it but hoping more than she'd ever hoped before all the same.

"Fuck…"

And she bolted upright, her eyes blinking against the blurriness. She wiped at them, her heart thumping, blood pulsing through her distraught and exhausted body, and looked on with shock as Geralt—yes, Geralt!—slowly raised his arm and brought his hand to the back of his head. His eyes squeezed tightly shut as his brows furrowed in obvious pain.

"My fucking head," he rasped out, and Akela let loose a noise of relief, suddenly and without warning bursting into tears once again. She launched forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his chest. He groaned and finally opened his eyes to peer down at the mop of hair in his line of vision.

He gulped down the sickly feeling in his gut as best he could, trying to make sense of his surroundings, and after a moment the memories returned to him, causing him to shut his eyes once more at the force of it. He returned his attention to Akela, lowering his hand to place it on the back of her head.

When her sobs grew, his frown deepened and he tried to lift his own head, swallowing back bile when the throbbing ache increased. He felt nauseatingly terrible and instead dropped his head back to the hard rock below him. "Hey…" he whispered. His voice was hoarse and he didn't really trust the words coming from his mouth. "It's alright."

Akela shook her head. "N-no! It is-isn't! I thought you were dead!"

He sighed unsteadily and moved his trembling fingers through her hair, trying his best to block out the discomfort (which was a nice word for agony). "I'm not dead," he told her, and she finally lifted her head, showing him the extent of her hysteria. She looked as though she'd been bawling for years, and he shook his head softly, raising his other arm to wrap around her and pull her back towards him. His head was pounding, he knew he was bleeding in more places than one, but to be perfectly honest, he was simply happy to be alive, and to be holding his child in his arms, however much he would be covered in tears and snot by the time he finally gathered the strength to push himself up.

"I thought you were," Akela croaked out, and he rubbed his thumb across her temple. She reached up, grasping his hand, and he narrowed his eyes, blinking at the sight of blood coating her own.

"Is th-that yours?" he asked, the words feeling funny on his tongue as he stumbled over them. Akela sniffed and glanced to where he had turned her hand over in his.

"No," she said, "it's yours." At that open revelation and reminder, she lifted her eyes, haphazardly wiping her hair from her face and blinking against the tears that still didn't seem to be stopping. "It's from your head. Does it hurt?"

Geralt's face contorted into one of pain yet again as he reached his hand to his head, bringing it back and intaking a sharp breath once he saw the blood. "Damn," he grumbled. "Yes, it hurts. Like hell."

Akela unconsciously bit at the inside of her cheeks and watched him as he lowered his arm and shut his eyes. Her heart continued to pound and every so often her ragged breaths were interrupted by a hiccup. "I'm sorry," she muttered after a short while.

He blearily opened his eyes to look at her. "Why?"

"I called your name," she told him, "and you turned around."

He nodded faintly in remembrance. "Why?" he repeated.

"I don't know." Akela swallowed thickly, tears fogging her vision again. "I was stupid. I just… got so scared, and I didn't—I didn't want you to… to…"

At her rising distress, he pulled her down to his chest again, ensuring her ear was conveniently placed over the left side of his chest. His heart was slow—perhaps a little faster than normal yet still slow all the same—but in the silence of the forest he knew she would be able to hear it and let it soothe her.

It worked, and the two of them stayed there for a while. Geralt fixed his attention on his own breathing, trying to match Akela's as he felt her pulse through his hands. He wondered briefly how far the nearest village was and if he could risk asking for medical help. Perhaps he could reach Triss in Novigrad, and both he and Akela would have a safe place to recuperate.

His muddled mind was interrupted when he turned his head and noticed the kikimora for the first time, lying in a rotten clump on the ground a couple feet from him. He swallowed the knot in his throat and shut his eyes, remembering all too clearly what had happened and, more importantly, how close it had been to getting Akela. Unconsciously, his hands tightened around her, and he slowly breathed out, calming himself before he let his emotions reign over him. She didn't need to see that.

"It's alright," he said softly, more to himself, but it assured her all the same.

"Next time, I want to fight with you. I don't want to watch. I've been trained for these moments."

"We'll talk about it later."

"I thought you were going to leave me."

"Leave you?" He shook his head. "No, no, never…"

He shut his eyes. He knew that the day he left Akela would be the day the stars burned out and the world became shrouded in darkness. To leave her would be to leave his heart, and that was the one thing that, no matter how battered and bruised, he would hold onto and keep safe with every fibre of his being.

It was his duty, after all.

As her father.