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For someone who usually slept in nothing at all it was surprising for the first thing that Geralt saw when he woke was Yennefer covered half in sheets and half in an old tunic he swore he’d thrown out at some point.
Outside the sun had almost risen, the light streaming through the curtains still buttery yellow. There had been rainstorm the night before, unlike the rain in the North it made everything fragrant and even more lush and green than it was before. Toussaint was like that, the harder one stared at it the more overly picturesque it became. At some point Geralt was sure he’d tire of it, but in that moment he lay back and listened to the curtains whispery sweeping over the stone, the chirping birds and the breeze that made the morning air cool.
And Yennefer snoring, just a bit, next to him.
The mischievous side of him that always arose whenever Yennefer was around reared its head, but was met with the side of him that was soft on her, had been for years. He reached out a hand ran it through black hair spread out on her pillow. She was on her side, tunic bunched up around her thighs, giving a hint that there was little else underneath.
The snoring, that his mischievous side desperately wanted to point out as soon as she opened her eyes turned into a low murmur and she stirred beside him.
“Please tell me it’s not dawn.” She mumbled without turning towards him.
“Fine,” Geralt muttered, black hair still between his fingers. “I won’t.”
Yennefer rolled from one side to her other, the smell of sleep and her skin invading his sense. His arm lifted automatically so she could roll into the nook of his chest and arm. She was a different person in sleep, all the harsh lines and acerbic looks fallen away, only perceptible in the tone of her voice. Here, with only Geralt to witness, she was practically delicate.
He loved that about her. He loved a great many things about her, but that layer of softness, that fragility hidden beneath layers of steel and fire drew affection from him that he’d rarely felt for anyone. It was the same way Ciri could make him feel affection he couldn’t contain, an urge to protect and cherish.
She murmured intelligibly again and curled closer to him. “Why are you even awake?”
“All this peace and quiet.” He said.
“And birds singing.”
“Oh yes, we mustn’t forget the birds.”
Her responding laugh was more of a breathy exhale, but Geralt could feel her lips curl against the skin of his chest.
“One of these days,” Yennefer said, her eyes still closed. “you’ll be back on the Path in the rain and the mud and you’ll miss those birds.”
Her voice trailed off so Geralt almost though she’d fallen asleep halfway through her teasing, which would not surprise him in the least. For someone who was so adept at being seemingly in a dozen places at once, meddling in affairs that were likely one day going to get her in mortal peril, Yennefer could be terribly lazy.
Geralt turned on his side and pulled her a little closer, tight enough for her to squeak and then grumble at him. “I’ll miss you more, Yen.”
“Heavens, did one of those birds chirping outside fly inside and shove itself down your throat?” Yennefer asked, her eyes still closed. Geralt laughed.
“Trying to be less of a cold, emotionally distant bastard, now that we’ve been soaking up so much sunshine.”
Lithe arms reached through his strong hold on her to wrap around his broad back. The palm of her hands were still warm and felt small against the skin of his back.
“I thought I was the cold, emotionally distant one. How dare you try to take that from me.”
What little space was left between them grew warmer, pleasantly against the cool air in the room. Geralt ran a hand up Yennefer’s leg, until it met the pleasing curve of her hip, his fingers sliding slowly underneath the light fabric of the tunic. The skin underneath was even warmer and a low heat pooled in his stomach, like an instinct.
“Don’t even think about it.” It was obvious she was practically asleep again, her breathing heavy and nearly evened out. “Think you got quite enough of that last night. Besides… it’s dawn, Geralt. We have to go out and be social today, thanks to your friendship with Her Grace.”
“Fine.” He grumbled, but he kept his hand right where it was, tucked into the dip where her hip met her waist.
Within moments she had fallen back asleep, still wrapped up tightly in the circle of his arms. Against the scarred, uneven planes of his skin she retained that fragile appearance, especially now that she had fallen asleep again.
The Duchess had invited Geralt to attend a festival, to celebrate the wine harvest. Since Corvo Bianco had made a contribution to Toussaint’s wine economy, even if Geralt was entirely sure how — he left that to others who had actual knowledge of winemaking — he had been invited to join in with the festivities. When he told Yennefer he was going she had rolled her eyes and told him she would accompany him.
She seemed to think he hadn’t seen the dress, pure white and pea green, hanging on a mannequin in the room she kept her things. He normally didn’t go in that room, but she’d left the door open and he’d seen a flash of bright fabric and gold stitching. He closed his eyes and imagined her in various colors, red, orange, blue and gold… he was no champion for frivolous clothing himself, always opting for practicality and muted, earth toned colors but there was something about the image of Yennefer, usually made even more untouchable by the shroud of black she dressed herself in, in jewel tones or pastels that made him smile.
Geralt prepared himself for a reaction of her in the dress that wouldn’t make her want to curse him into something unnatural as he dozed, her breathing yet again turning to soft snores.
He didn’t believe he’d enjoy it more than he enjoyed her now, in his old tunic off white and nearly the color of her pale skin.
As the sun grew brighter, the white of her skin turned golden under his hand.