Fire
A/N: More fluffy Geralt. Akela's 7 (today!)
Summary: It's Akela's birthday, and she and Geralt celebrate by playing a game.
"Scary game! Scary game!"
Geralt had expected it, of course. It was an annual thing for her. Birthday. Birthday scary game around the campfire. Though, birthday scary game around the campfire also meant the ritualistic acting around the campfire, too, and he never seemed to be in the right mood for that.
Nevertheless, it was her birthday—not her actual birthday; he wasn't sure when that was—but it was the day he'd found her, and he supposed, in a way, that was more of a cause to celebrate. For him, anyway. He doubted she honestly cared, as long as she received a celebration.
And, apparently, a game of imaginary Witcher and Monster around the fire currently roasting a chicken.
"Please!" He flicked his eyes to her from where he was poking a stick into the flames. She was standing beside him, hands clasped together, barely containing her excitement as she bounced a little on her toes. "It's my birthday!"
He rose a brow. Guilt-tripping, then, was it?
Heaving a sigh, he dropped the stick and picked up a larger one, pointing it at her. "A short game," he warned, and Akela squealed in delight, jumping up and down and spinning crazily. He shook his head to himself and stood to his feet. He'd had to endure almost seven years of this, and he only hoped he wouldn't have to endure seven more.
She ran to the other side of the fire and grabbed up her own stick.
"What are you today, then?" Geralt asked.
"Uh—a bruxa!"
Geralt cocked a brow. He hadn't encountered a bruxa in years.
"Right," he conceded, positioning himself slightly as he did every year. "And how do we kill a bruxa?"
"Silver sword!" she called out, a toothy grin on her lips, and he nodded, flexing his fingers and curling them tighter around the stick in his hand. He lifted it slightly.
"Here it is," he said. Akela giggled, stretching her own stick out, and narrowed her eyes.
"Come and get me, Witcher!"
The thing about these games, was that no matter how reluctant he was initially to indulge in it, he always ended up with a smile on his face. Just listening to the girl's contagious giggles made him chuckle gruffly to himself and shake his head in fondness as he took minute steps towards her while she waved her stick in his direction and screeched at him to keep back.
"Do the stompy thing, Geralt!" she whispered harshly after a moment, obviously briefly breaking from the game, and Geralt rolled his eyes. Though she'd never seen him fight the real monsters, it seemed she'd somehow obtained the idea that he stomped around and roared like a mountain lion when he did.
His chest heaved with a sigh, and he bent over slightly, spreading his feet apart and stomping them as he moved towards her. He refused to roar.
For a time during these games, he'd wondered if it was wrong to encourage her to act as the monsters he despised and lived to kill. Really, he'd been discreetly angry at her for wanting to do such a thing, but that'd been years ago, and he'd since turned from those feelings. Now, he simply saw it as a lesson. If a game like this could instil the smallest bit of survival techniques into her, even if it was through pretending to kill him, or he her, he would keep at it until she became too old for such things.
"Stay back, monster!" she yelled, brandishing her stick, and his eyebrows rose.
"You call me the monster?" he asked, nailing the Witcher glare. "When you are luring the innocent in and feeding on them for your dinner?"
Akela shrugged. "A girl has to eat," she said, and he snorted, not even bothering to refrain himself.
"Well," he decided, almost-laughter infused into his voice, "your days of eating are over." And he launched forward, capturing her in his arms. She squealed, and for a moment his sensitive ears rung, but it took less than a second for her to dissolve into unrestrained laughter as he wrestled with the stick in her hands after dropping his own. "Give it to me, wench!" he growled.
"No! I will never surrender!" Her hands were white where they were curled around the stick, so much so she'd likely find a couple splinters later, but her childish bliss was enough to cancel that worry out for the moment. "Let go!"
"You let go!"
"No!"
"Neither will I!"
"I'll make you!"
"Will you, now?" And his hands, one attached to the arm wrapped around her waist, and the other tugging on the stick, made their way to the little girl's sides. He dug his fingers in as he had so often, and she shrieked, dropping her grip on the stick and squirming in his arms.
And there was his inevitable smile, appearing so quickly on his face as her bubbly laughter reached his ears. She threw her head back against his shoulder, pushing desperately at the hands at her sides, kicking her legs, and he hummed softly to himself, lowering the both of them to the ground. She was still giggling as he sat down, despite the fact he'd stopped his tickling. He placed her on his lap, arms wrapped around her and hands resting on her stomach.
"That was fun," she told him, breathlessly giggling, and he rested his chin on top of her head.
"Happy birthday, Akela."
