Mae govannen!

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!!! Good wishes and joy to you all this coming year!

again: WARNING: do not read if you don't ship Geralt and Jaskier- you have been cautioned ;)

Disclaimer: I own nothing of the WitcherVerse, all of it is the work of the amazing Andrejzi Sapkowski

Please reveiw!

Namarïe!

Before:

His ribs singing arias of pain, Geralt coughed and spat blood up onto the pavement. He knew the drill by now- the less you moved, the faster they became board. Soon they would move on to new prey, leaving him bruised, but breathing.

The irony was that he could take them on- and probably beat most of them too. Which was no doubt why Brehen had come up behind with the pole.

Cowards.

Geralt narrowed his blue eyes and held back the sounds of pain that were fighting to claw out of his throat. The blows had abated, but they still hemmed him in. He made no move- remaining curled on the cold concrete, his head pounding from the blow that had felled him.

Don't react. Don't react.

"Tired, White Wolf?"

Geralt bared his teeth. "You think you're so brave, Brehen," he rasped, unable to remain silent in the face of danger. "Five against one is hardly a number for anyone. Let alone a coward."

That earned him a boot to the gut. Geralt gritted his teeth and weathered it grimly, as a sailor in a storm. Be on your damn way! he thought in anger. Curses bubbled up on his tongue, but he held them in. While they could not compare to the blows his father sometimes threw, he saw no sense in provoking them. Don't tempt fate- that sort of thing.

So much for an ordinary day at school. Why were the teachers never around when you needed them?

Brehen's next blow struck the fallen boy's spine, and for a long moment, Geralt could not find enough air to draw into his lungs. The pain made every breath a struggle, his mouth contorting into a grimace.

Fuck. Fifteen years old and beaten like a helpless puppy. This had gone far enough.

"Fuck off!" snarled Geralt, temper finally snapping. In a flash, he leapt back onto his feet, white-hair flying, and struck Brehen square in the nose.

A satisfying crunch sounded and Brehen staggered back, clutching at his face. Rage kindled in his murky green eyes. "You bastard!"

"Touch me again, and I'll show you bastard."

The two of them faced off, Brehen's friends in an unsure circle about them. Geralt knew his eyes would be ice-blue flames by now. He had had enough. Enough of Brehen, and enough of this shambles they called a school. He was done with people mocking him for what he did and who he fell for.

Damn them.

Damn them all.

Now:

Geralt often wondered how Ciri always knew when something was bothering him. It was uncanny. As though she were some manner of mutant bloodhound.

All he would have to do, was begin to sink into gloom, or start awake from a bad dream, and she would be there- sitting on the edge of his bed.

Like now.

Geralt lay still for a moment, body aching with phantom pain- the recollections of a dark memory. His room was dark- the fire in the grate burned down to glowing embers, tiny flames dancing in the shadows of the night. His pupils narrowed, and the room slowly came into better focus. The wooden walls- turned a smooth grey by the moonlight leaking through the large window, the thick black rug on the floor. The worn sofa by the window. His swords hanging crossed over the fireplace.

The shadowy figure of Ciri perched on the foot of his bed.

Geralt spared her a glance, raising his head off his pillow. It was a cold night, the snow falling thickly outside on the streets. Novigrad was perpetually icy. Anything you left outside was coated in a layer of glittering frost come morning. As such, he remained under his blankets where it was snug.

"Ciri, go t' sleep..." he growled, letting his head fall back into the warmth if the pillow.

"I just came to see if you were okay," she said in return, a small smile curling her lip. "How was it?"

"H'was what?" mumbled Geralt sleepily. He was pleasantly toasty, and the sight of the falling snow only added to his contentment.

Ciri laughed with glee. "Your date, Geralt! How was your date?"

"Fine," he rumbled. "...all w' fine."

"You're such a boring bugger when you're sleepy," she groaned. "I want details, Geralt!"

"Well...you're not going to get them. Not now. M' sleeping. Go away."

"Awww...look who's snug abed..."

Geralt let out a groan as Lambert's weight sprawled over his legs. His fellow witcher had devilish mischief in his gold eyes, his brown curls a nebulous cloud about his head, beard scuffed. From the static of a pillow no doubt.

The main problem was that If Lambert was here, then Geralt would never get back to bed.

Damn.

"Does "I'm sleeping" mean anything to you two?"

"Correction: you were sleeping." Lambert poked Geralt's ribs and the white-haired witcher snarled. "Don't be so cranky. We didn't wake you. Fuck, you woke yourself."

Ciri giggled.

Geralt let out a groan. "What a pair you two are...demons- the both of you." He tugged his covers over his head like he used to when he was ten. Perhaps ignoring them would help. Then again...he doubted it somehow.

Lambert proved this by yanking the warm covers away off Geralt, who proceeded to land a solid smack to the bastard's head with his pillow.

Lambert took the blow before he lunged. He had Geralt pinned within a matter of minutes, the white-haired witcher's arm twisted up behind his back. Geralt let out a muffled growl from under the older witcher, but struggling was pointless. "Fuck, Lambert, let me go!"

"Ciri seems to want something from you," teased Lambert, ignoring the struggles going on under him. "How was your date, anyway?"

"None...of your...business..." gasped Geralt, a sense of old panic gripping him as he strained against Lambert. He knew the other witcher was only playing, as they often did when they sparred, but he was feeling the familiar fear that came with being held so firm.

God. Please just let him stop.

"Ah, damn you, Geralt." Lambert released him, yawning. "You're no fun when you're half asleep."

They could hear him grumbling to himself as he wandered out into the hall, on his way to his room no doubt. Ciri fetched the blankets and hopped in beside Geralt, her slender body pressed close to his.

"So, you won't tell me anything?" she whispered, peering up at him with pleading in her emerald eyes. "Not one little thing?"

Geralt sighed at the tenacity of his sister. Whilst they shared no blood, she was more family than his mother had ever been. The other witchers too. "I took Jaskier out to The Black Rose. He dresses like a peacock, but I think you'd like him..." Geralt slid an arm around Ciri and she laid her ash-blonde head on his shoulder.

"Go on..."

"It was his birthday four days ago. Since I ruined it by fighting the harpy, It was the least thing I could do. Someone nearly took our table. Without even asking a waiter."

"Rude," sniffed Ciri, no doubt miffed on his behalf.

"Filavandrel kept it for us though, so all went fine." Geralt yawned. "Introduced Jaskier t' him...they seemed to get along..."

"Fil's like that."

Geralt heard the tone of sorrow in her voice, but said nothing. It was common knowledge at Kaer Morhen that Ciri harboured deep feelings for Filavandrel. Never had she acted on them. Maybe she was scared of being hurt when he finally died. Still...if the elf could return her feelings, surely three years was better than none?

Not that it was his place to suggest it.

But he had almost missed a chance with Jaskier...hesitation was the enemy here. Hesitation and caution.

Hoping that he would get to keep his head, Geralt ventured, "Ciri..."

"Yeah?"

He narrowed his pupils so he could see all the panes of her face in the dim moonlight. The dying embers of the fire helped little. "How come you've never told Fil that you like him?"

She was silent, and Geralt was sure that she was going to ignore him when suddenly she sprang to her feet and fled the room.

Fuck. Now you've done it, you idiot...

He heaved a sigh and settled back, no longer the tiniest bit sleepy. Damn. Jaskier was right...I am thick sometimes...

Then, quite suddenly, she was back. Falling down onto the bed, her phone clutched in her hand. He could see the blue sparkle-covered case peering out between her fingers. She had that stubborn look on her face. "It's two weeks until Christmas," she said determinedly, though Geralt could see her hands shaking. She was nervous. "I'll be damned- I've been hiding it long enough."

"Ciri...what's the time?" Geralt knew that no one would be awake still if it was too late. Especially not on a snowy eve like tonight. Fires, mulled wine, and warm beds would be all the rage on this night.

"Quarter past ten." She prodded him with a grin. "You go to sleep too early, brother."

"Mmmph."

She pressed call, the phone set on speaker. When he gave her a questioning look, she flushed- embarrassed. "I don't want to do it alone."

Fair enough.

The call was picked up.

"Hello?" Filavandrel sounded awake, but his voice was hoarse.

Ciri must have heard it too, because she instantly said, "Fil, are you alright?"

"Ciri." The elf's tone changed from weary to warm. "I'm fine. The cold just bothers my chest. Only a cough, nothing to worry about."

"Oh. Good." She bit her lip. Geralt watched as she hesitated. Finally, he caught her attention and mouthed 'breathe.' She nodded.

"Fil, I have something to ask you..."

"Of course," said the elf, now serious. "Ask away."

"I..."

For a long moment, Geralt thought that Ciri would loose her nerve and hang up. But she surprised him the very next moment as the words came spilling out of her like a long awaited flood.

"I...I really like you, Fil. I always have. And I know that you don't get close to people because of the blood disorder thing, but I...I would really love to try and be with you. You see... I don't care if you're sick! I just want you... and I guess that I probably should have asked if you liked me before I said all this..." she trailed off, her eyes closed in despair. "Damn," she muttered. "You foolish woman. Should have asked him first. Shit.Shit."

"Ciri?" Filavandrel sounded quiet. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah. I am." She rubbed a hand over her face. "God. I'm so sorry. I just needed to tell you...but I shouldn't have."

"Why ever not? Ciri, I like you too."

Geralt sat bolt upright, a smile pulling at his lips. The shock and delight in Ciri's eyes made him want to cheer. But he held his tongue. Let her have her moment.

"Really?" she whispered, knuckled white on the phone.

"Really." Filavandrel sounded amused. "I normally refrain from asking people out. The whole courting death thing tends to put them off."

"Not me, Fil. Never me," she swore fiercely. "Can I take you out for breakfast? For coffee or something?"

"I'd like that, Ciri. I'd like that very much."

She hung up, her cheeks glowing. Geralt pulled her into a hug, smiling into her hair.

"There, now that wasn't so bad, hmmm?"

She let out a happy sigh. He wondered if thinking of Jaskier made him sigh the same way. He hoped not. Geralt wasn't too big on wearing his heart on his sleeve.

"I'm happy for you, Ciri, I really am... but i'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Why?" She looked started.

Geralt lay back in his warm pillow, and closed his eyes.

"Because, I need my damn sleep."