Locks
A/N: Sorry for the wait! Akela is 3.
Summary: Geralt was beginning to think he should never have introduced Akela to the other witchers.
Geralt was beginning to think he should never have introduced Akela to the other witchers. Of course, he was three years, a lot of love, and a slight case of separation anxiety too late in remaking that decision, but the thought regularly crossed his mind when he returned to Kaer Morhen for the winter each year.
"What's that bitter look on your face for?" Lambert asked. He sounded genuine, seemingly disregarding the fact he was holding a pocket knife in one hand and a fistful of blonde curls in the other as he stared at Geralt in utter confusion.
Geralt stared between his brother and the little girl sat on the floor, chewing on a medallion, surrounded by more hair than was left on her head, not that she looked to care at all.
"She had curls," Geralt said slowly, eyes lingering a little reminiscently on the child before snapping back up to glower at Lambert.
Lambert frowned darkly. He wouldn't let anyone criticise his work, and he proved so with the clicking of his jaw and the hand—scissor included—that came to sit against his hip. "Your point?"
"Now she doesn't," Geralt stated the obvious. He bit his tongue to refrain from provoking Lambert and took one large step forward until he could kneel beside Akela and sift his hand through her hair…or lack thereof.
Lambert scoffed. "She has loads of hair. Don't be fucking dramatic."
"I thought we agreed to lower the profanities when the baby's around," Eskel said matter-of-factly once he'd entered the room. There was an irking grin on his face as Lambert stuck a middle finger in his direction.
"Fuck off. Geralt thinks I haven't done a good job with her hair."
Eskel stopped beside Lambert and looked at Akela, still munching on the medallion. True to Lambert's words, Geralt did seem to be as distressed as his witcher-persona would let on, ruffling the child's hair this way and that, brushing off cut pieces on her shoulders and shaking the stray strands that had escaped into her tunic.
Lambert had…done an interesting job. They'd all agreed that Akela had needed a haircut, her beautiful curls growing to such a vision-obscuring length that she'd toddled into a wall just yesterday, but Geralt had unwaveringly insisted that it be a trim. Nothing more, nothing less. Just enough to return her eyesight.
The witcher was far too attached to Akela's mighty mane, having heard from someone once that most babies' curls lost their bounce and strength as they grew older. Even with Lambert's barber skills, Akela still had a good amount atop her head, but apparently that was not enough to tide Geralt over.
"It looks fine," Eskel said with a small shrug, assuring both Lambert and Geralt.
Lambert grinned. "See! I'm wasted at Kaer Morhen. Should be going around charging people to cut their hair. Isn't that right, brat, huh?" He dropped the scissors and bent down, swinging the giggling girl up into his arms and leaving Geralt stooped below.
Once Lambert had left, proclaiming he was going to show the others his handiwork, Eskel put a hand between Geralt's shoulder blades, the both of them silent for a mere second before—
"Would you like a moment to mourn, brother?"
Geralt scowled and batted Eskel's hand away as he stood to his feet. He pressed his lips into a thin line at the sight of the hairy massacre below, breaking his gaze only when Eskel laughed and clapped him on the back, pulling him away in the direction Lambert had gone.
"It's just hair, Geralt," he said, "it'll grow back."
Geralt hummed. "Let's hope Lambert has the same optimism when I cut his off while he sleeps tonight."
