uhhh this chapter is called Ciri Gets a Girlfriend while Geralt and Yennefer Don't Talk to Each Other for Eight(teen) Days, and I'm sorry it's a little low on the shipping action but I promise the next chapter will have a fuck ton of it. Basically one of the reasons this chapter exists is because there needed to be enough time between the last one and the next one for it to really make an impact. Also I don't want to beat a dead horse here, but if you haven't seen the headcanon list on my blog (under the AWAL tag), you should probably look at it because one of them is about to become Extremely Plot Relevant –Bel

A Wolf Among Lilacs
Part One: Longing/Regret
Chapter Twelve: In the Shadow of Men

True to Yennefer's prediction, Val stuck around much longer than anyone wanted him to. During those days, Geralt only caught glimpses of her—it was almost painfully obvious that she was actively avoiding him. There was no reason for him to stay, but he did, and worse, he'd taken to showing up uninvited to their daily outings in the hopes of finding her there. He never did, and each time Geralt found himself growing more and more irritated about the whole situation. It felt as though none of them had any room to breathe. He understood, then, her adverse reaction to having him there.

On the fifth day, they were also joined by Philippa, which Geralt took as a sign that things were fast reaching a boiling point. She'd been around, though always in the background; he got the impression Yennefer had been staying with her for the past few days. There was something about Val in particular that set her on edge, even more so than the rest of them. Something had happened, and Geralt was beginning to tire of being left in the dark.

"She'll come around," Val was saying confidently to no one in particular. At this point, it was entirely possible he was only trying to convince himself. "She's always been like this. All she needs is a couple more days."

"She's been gone for five already," Triss pointed out. She was propping her head up with her hand, and she looked exhausted. All of them did—except Dandelion, who had nothing to do with any of this. Geralt, on the other hand, had been the subject of more intense glares over the past few days than he cared to count. He suspected he knew what was bothering Val, but he kept quiet—he didn't want to be around him, or interact with him, any more than necessary.

Val waved a hand as if brushing off the words, and it seemed meant to be casual, but Geralt could see how the muscles in his jaw were clenched. "Because she's being ridiculous. She's got no reason to be angry with me."

Philippa rolled her eyes, tapping her fingers on the table. Despite how tense she was, she'd demonstrated a remarkable tolerance for whatever bullshit he happened to be currently saying. "She's got plenty of reasons to be mad at you. You came here even after she told you not to, for one."

"If you think she doesn't actually want me here, you don't know her as well as you think."

She let a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort, covering her mouth with her hand. "Now I understand why she stays with you," she said once she'd regained her composure. "For your sense of humor."

It shut him up—or, at least, stunned him into silence long enough for Dandelion to start talking, after which it was impossible for him to get in a word edgewise. For once, Geralt was glad for Dandelion's incessant chattering, but he had a sinking feeling he was about to get accosted, and he was right. Val stopped him as they left the building, trying to surreptitiously hold him back enough to let the others get a few feet ahead. His hand on Geralt's arm was disturbingly cold—it reminded him of Yennefer's thin fingers on his face the first time they'd met, but this was different, far less pleasant. Unsettling.

"I don't know," he said in a low voice as he dropped his arm and they started to walk, "what's going on between you and Yenna, but it needs to stop."

It took him a moment to even comprehend what he was saying. "There's nothing going on between me and Yennefer." For some reason, the sound of him referring to her by that name annoyed him to no end. He wasn't sure why; he'd heard the others use it on a large number of occasions, but it sounded wrong coming out of his mouth.

"Others might believe you when you say that. But not me." He walked stiffly, and that rigidity was mirrored in his voice. When Geralt looked over, he was staring straight ahead. "I know Yenna. I know when she's acting differently. And she's been acting very differently."

"How would you even know that if you've been around as little as it seems you have?"

He sighed condescendingly. "That's one of the most interesting things about you witchers," he said in a tone Geralt recognized all too well, the one that said clearly the speaker only viewed him as a mutant, an abnormality. Yennefer had never spoken to him like that. "You don't understand human emotion at all. Of course, I don't have to see her every day to know how she feels. That's what happens when you know someone long enough—you don't need to ask."

"Sounds like you're making an awful lot of assumptions." It was true Geralt had only known her for a couple of months, but it seemed even those who had been in her life far longer sometimes found Yennefer difficult to read. "And if you're going to judge understanding of emotion by perceived level of humanity—you're not fully human either."

"No." He nodded briefly, though somewhat reluctantly, in acknowledgement of the point. "Though I'm still more human than you."

Based on the brief moments when the wall she'd put up around herself had chipped, Geralt truly couldn't comprehend how someone like Yennefer would want to spend the rest of her presumably-endless life with someone like that. True, she wasn't completely devoid of the pride most associated with mages, but what she lacked he more than made up for. Geralt remembered the vulnerability in her face when she'd asked him to kill the dragon. He doubted she would ever allow Val to see such a display of emotion.

"Look," Geralt said, staring at the road in front of them. "I don't know what your actual problem with me is, but let me make one thing clear. Whatever you think there is between Yennefer and I? I can guarantee you it's not there. We're both here because we have to be, and what happened on the trip hasn't changed that."

"I'd find it far easier to believe if I actually knew what happened."

"Whether she wants to tell you or not is her decision. I've got nothing to do with it." He suddenly found it difficult to think about—he had everything to do with it, but Val didn't need to know that. Instead of trying to further convince him, he sped up in the hopes Val wouldn't follow, or try to read his mind. He didn't feel safe until he caught up with Philippa, nearly a block ahead. Surely he wouldn't think a look into Geralt's mind worth spending any time around her.

"A word of advice, witcher," Philippa said casually, looking at him sideways with her dark eyes. "If he tries to draw you into another argument, don't take the bait. Actually, just don't listen to him in general."

"Not sure why he thinks he needs to be constantly breathing down her neck," he grumbled. "Or what he thinks I've got to do with it."

"It's simple. He doesn't like you because she does. He's had that problem since they first became…romantically involved. Every friend is a threat." She paused, but Geralt knew better than to think that meant she was done. "Initially, they spent a great detail of time isolated. That's the root of it, I assume."

"Must've been a lot of time." The thought of it rubbed him the wrong way. He didn't like the idea of her spending even one night alone with him. He seemed the kind of man to anger easily.

"Yes. About three years." When he looked over at her, she sighed impatiently. Apparently Val wasn't the only one who didn't actually want to talk to him. "Well, they weren't together during that whole time—not in that sense, anyway. Not physically at all, really, except when they needed to be. She had her own quarters, a small private lab—there are specific rules about accommodations when you apprentice someone, you know, to make sure they've got adequate room for their own research—"

"Wait." He stopped on the bridge connecting the Academy to the rest of Oxenfurt, stepping to the side, and Philippa reluctantly followed. "Please tell me I'm misunderstanding that."

"I wish you were." She grimaced. "It's a complicated situation, one I'd recommend you not ask her about."

"Why?"

She started walking again without checking to see if he'd follow, but even if he hadn't he would've been able to hear her. "She gets defensive. Probably because she knows just as well as anyone else how fucked up it is."

~oOo~

Somewhere around the sixth day that Val had overstayed his welcome, Ciri left the apartment. She didn't particularly care how dangerous it was—he spent most of the day hanging around and she was sick of it. So she tucked all her hair up inside a black beanie, used a pencil Yennefer had given her to turn her eyebrows dark, and went to the Alchemist.

The place was more or less deserted during the day, which she found herself incredibly grateful for as she made herself comfortable in a booth in the corner, listening to the music drifting down from the speakers. She'd stay until they kicked her out—and even then, it would take a convincing argument to get her back in the apartment. Previously, she'd hoped Val's intense dislike of her would keep him away (not to mention his even more intense hatred for Triss). But it didn't work—he'd been there the day before grilling her about what had happened with Geralt and Yennefer on the trip. It had been clear that he didn't believe her when she said she had no idea.

She had no desire to know, either. What went on between them was their business, though she couldn't help but hope it would work out in her favor. Any scenario in which Yennefer was no longer attached to Istredd was a good one.

"Stop it!" she heard someone yell, and when she looked over she was met with a shattering sound as she watched one of the men in a booth across the room push his glass off the table and it broke into a million fragments on the floor. Ciri stood at the same time he did, and even from a distance she could hear him threatening a red-haired waitress, seemingly over a price dispute. It was a stupid thing to be breaking glasses over, Ciri thought, but apparently he didn't agree, and when his friends started to stand too, she was across the room before she even fully realized what she was doing.

"Is there a problem?" she asked as she stood next to them, drawn up to her full height, hands on her hips. She was taller than all but one of them, but she was also thin, dressed in loose clothing that hid her muscular frame, and it was clear they weren't intimidated by her in the slightest, though she did notice one of them looking uneasily at her scar.

"Nothing you need to worry your pretty face about," the one who'd broken the glass said, leering at her. The other woman, who'd stepped back from the table, stared wide-eyed.

"Really? Because it seems like I'm already involved." Ciri nodded at the woman. "If you'd kindly leave my friend alone."

They looked at each other for a moment, then the men burst out laughing. "Yeah?" the tall one said. He took a step towards her, and the rest followed suit. Ciri tensed. "And what'll you do if we don't?"

Before he'd even had a chance to blink Ciri's fist lashed out, connecting squarely with his nose. He yelled in pain and stumbled back. By the time his friends realized what was happening she'd immobilized them both with heavy blows to the stomach. The first stood back up, but when Ciri raised her fists again they ran, nearly tripping over each other in their haste to get to the door. She smiled in satisfaction as it swung shut behind them.

"You okay?" she said, looking back at the woman, who was watching her with a mixture of suspicion and awe on her freckled face. A few strands of her hair had fallen out of the plait running down her back, and Ciri noticed how her hands shook, hovering unsteadily at her sides.

"I'm alright," she replied in a tone that was strained in how hard it tried to be casual. She brushed off the front of her black apron and eyed the shards of glass on the floor. "Truth be told, I probably could've managed on my own."

When Ciri raised her eyebrow, the girl whose name tag red Bea insisted "I could've! Not the first time it's happened!"

"Do angry patrons normally break the glassware?"

Bea looked ready to argue for a moment, then she sighed, reaching up and rubbing the back of her neck. "No," she admitted, grinning sheepishly. "Guess I owe you my thanks, then. Can I get you something? A drink? On the house, of course."

"That's okay." Ciri shoved her hands in her pockets. "Some company would be nice, though. Don't suppose your shift ends soon, does it? I mean, if you're not opposed to sitting with a stranger. I plan to be here a while."

"I'm not. Especially you." Was Ciri imagining it, or was Bea blushing? "I'm technically done already. Just…let me clean this up and I'll join you." She motioned to the glass on the ground. "And don't even think about trying to help me."

Ciri didn't want to sit back down—why would she, when she could be doing something?—but she did, smiling faintly. The idea of talking to someone who wasn't stressing out about Valen Istredd's mere existence was the best one she'd come across in a while. The pool of people she normally talked to was very limited—it had to be considering she rarely ever left the apartment. She spent the majority of her time with Triss, or Yennefer (who stayed in their apartment more than she seemed to stay in her own), and occasionally with Geralt, though she hadn't seen him nearly as much as she'd hoped. She could feel herself growing more and more impatient as she waited, idly scrolling through her phone but not really paying attention to anything. When Bea finally came over with two beers, one of which she set down in front of her, Ciri tried to hide her excitement.

"I know you said not to bring you anything," she said. "But you looked like you need it."

"Was it that obvious?" Ciri laughed a little and took a long drink. "I guess you're right, though. There's a reason I'm sitting by myself here instead of at home."

"Don't suppose you'd tell me what it is? I mean, you already know what's troubling me." She swept her arm around in a wide gesture that encompassed the whole room. Her fingers were very thin, Ciri noticed, but covered in small burns, probably from working with the equipment in the back.

Ciri nodded, shifting to rest her back against the wall so she could stretch her legs out on the bench in front of her. "My—" The word was barely out of her mouth when she stopped. Who was Val to her? Someone she didn't particularly care to talk about—but also the root of most of her current problems. "My mother's fiancé is in town," she said finally. "He…doesn't like me that much. And the feeling is mutual."

"Why?" Bea tilted her head curiously, lifting her own drink to her lips. "Because you're not his kid?"

"Oh, he couldn't care less about that." She remembered all too vividly the first time they'd encountered each other, at Melitile's temple when she'd first begun taking lessons with Yennefer. They hadn't spoken, but she'd been able to sense his dislike of her, and it had only grown since then. "To him I'm just one more person to compete with for her affection."

Bea frowned deeply. "That's…ridiculous," she proclaimed, twirling the end of her braid around her fingers. "Love's not a contest, and if they're engaged he should know she loves him." In the brief silence that followed, Ciri drained the rest of her drink. "She does love him, right?"

Ciri chewed on her lip as she looked at a spot on the back of the booth, slightly to the left of Bea's face. It wasn't exactly as if she spent a lot of time around the both of them, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen them be truly affectionate towards each other, if there had even been a time in the first place. And, especially lately, the frigidity seemed to be largely one-sided. "I think she did, once."

~oOo~

It took eight days for him to get her alone—far longer than it normally did. It wasn't uncommon for Yenna to need two or three to cool down. She'd always been quick to take offense from him, though he was willing to admit that, in earlier years, it was more often than not because he pushed too hard concerning things she didn't want to talk about. This time, it was something else, and it was obvious by the lengths she went to in order to avoid him. He knew for a fact she'd spent two of the past few nights in Montecalvo. He wasn't sure where she'd been for the rest, and he had a feeling he didn't want to know.

But on that eighth day, he returned to her apartment and, by some miracle, she was there—he heard the shower running. He knew it was her and not Keira; he could smell her perfume heavy in the air. She wouldn't come out for another ten minutes at least, and he didn't dare go in. It would only make her angrier in this state. Instead he waited in the living room, looking at the pictures on the shelf in the corner. There was one in particular that kept drawing his gaze. It had been taken a week or so after he'd proposed to her, when she finally said yes. It was a bit hard to tell, considering half of her face was pressed into his chest, but she seemed…happy. Or content, at the very least. He wondered if things would be different if he'd insisted on an answer right away, hadn't given her time to think about it. He suspected he knew how her decision would've changed.

The door behind him swung open, casting a ray of light on the carpet, and when his eyes met hers, he thought he saw a flash of disappointment in them before she composed herself, drawing the black robe around her more tightly closed. "You're incorrigible," she said, and where once before there might have been amusement there was only annoyance. He was sure, then, that something had shifted. When he didn't immediately respond, she rolled her eyes and retreated back to the bedroom, and he followed. She must have realized he wasn't going to give up that easily, because as she sat in front of the mirror she said "If we have this argument now, will you leave in the morning?"

"I'll leave if you want me to," he responded quietly, perching on the edge of the bed closest to her. His whole being ached to touch her, pull her to him, but she'd react badly if he tried. "But I haven't seen you in months, Yenna. Can't we just—?"

"You saw me eight days ago," she interrupted, sliding the robe off—she was already partially dressed under it, he noticed, which said to him that she had been expecting him—and reaching for a vial on the table in front of her. "For several hours, if I recall correctly. Most of which we spent alone." He felt her gaze on him through the mirror, giving him a slow, uncomfortable once-over.

"Yes, and then you left in the middle of the night and didn't come back," he said. She let her hair out of its clip behind her head and it fell in glistening black waves down her back. "You ignore me every time I ask you to visit for a weekend. And most of the time besides."

"Val," she said, putting a couple drops of liquid from the vial on her palms and running her hands through her hair. "The last time I checked, we didn't need to spend every moment together."

"The last time I checked, we'd spent the last ten years living together," he snapped. "Forgive me for having trouble with that transition."

She was quiet for a long time. He watched her open a green glass jar and spread its contents over the scar on her stomach, the one that never quite seemed to fade no matter what she did. "Three of those years don't count," she finally said, dipping into the jar again and rubbing her forearms. She no longer sounded upset, merely pensive. "If I sequestered myself in the quarters you'd given me and only talked to you when absolutely necessary, it wasn't really living together, was it?"

He stood and walked over to her, resting his hands on her shoulders gingerly. She didn't react—she'd propped her elbows up on the table and was staring at her wrists—but he thought he felt her relax slightly. "But I knew you were there. How could I not? That last year…I thought about you every day, Yenna."

This wasn't the time for him to get sentimental, but he couldn't stop the words from pouring out. He knew she would look for ways to put him in the wrong—hell, maybe he was. At the same time, however, he could feel his grip on her loosening. There had to be something he could do to make her remember why she'd chosen him.

"What's on your mind?" He looked down at her arms, a little unsure what was so interesting about them. She shifted under him, shrugged his hands away and stood.

"Blood magic," she said, and offered no explanation even after the concerned look he gave her. The noise machine clicked on as she climbed into bed and he knew his time was running out—if he wanted to say anything, he needed to do it now. But she had already settled herself, wrapping the blankets around her. The lamp in the corner dimmed, but didn't turn off.

"Seems like you're the one with something on your mind," she murmured, her face pressed partially into the pillow. He laid down next to her, facing her. His fingertips slid down the side of her neck, her shoulder, her arm. She closed her eyes, exhaled deeply, leaned into his touch. He didn't want to let himself get too comfortable, despite her favorable reaction.

"I do," he admitted. She opened her visible eye and stared at him. "I…you still haven't told me what happened while you were gone. I know you don't want to talk about it," he hurried on before she could interrupt, "but I'm worried about you." His hand made its way back up to run along her jaw; she bit her lip. "And I don't know what's going on between you and that witcher, but—"

"I," she said, eyes blazing, "don't see what Geralt of Rivia has to do with any of this."

There it was—a sensitive spot. Exactly what he'd been afraid of finding. He had hoped he'd get no reaction at all. That he'd mention it and she'd say nothing, kiss him, brush it off. He should've known; it had been clear in how the witcher had been looking at her when they returned. Protective, though his eyes, more than once, strayed to her lips, her throat. His jacket, the one she'd been wearing when she returned, hung over the back of the chair at her desk. She saw his eyes go to it and frowned. "I keep thinking eventually you'll figure out how your…clinginess…hurts me."

She turned so her back was to him as she said it, moving like it pained her, and all he could see was her hair spread out behind her. "You'll keep your promise?"

Once, years ago, he'd made the mistake of asking her where the scar had come from. After vehemently refusing to tell him, she locked herself in her private study for a week and didn't speak to him. This felt like that—there weren't literal walls between them this time, but he felt locked out all the same. "Yes," he said, and this time when he rested his hand on her arm and she didn't pull away, it didn't feel like love. It felt like resignation. "I'll leave in the morning."

I'm not going to put the whole thing here because it's kind of long, but if y'all want to know what the schedule for the next couple weeks looks like I made a post about it on my writing blog. I'll probably get some stuff done over exam week but I also want to give myself time to get on a chapter-ahead schedule so if I do post anything it'll be either one of the one-shots for this or totally unrelated. (Also - "Valen" means strong. I couldn't resist the irony.)