Chapter Text
It was an anonymous backwater, too far from real civilization to matter to anyone but those who lived there. The only things going for it were the river landing and the crossroads. Either one of those elements might have been a recipe for prosperity, but fortune had always seemed to look the other way in this case. There were two taverns at least— the bad one, and the worse one. The locals were the rough sort, hard bitten with a propensity for greeting outsiders by way of a closed fist. In short, it was a shit hole.
And it had been your home for your entire life.
Your father, gods bless his memory, had been the blacksmith. By proxy, he’d also been the farrier, the armorer, and the dentist. A handful of times, if the cunning-woman was away delivering a baby, he’d played the barber-surgeon as well. Now in his absence, and with your brothers scattered to the wind and chewed up by the relentless appetite of Nilfgaard’s aggression, all of these duties now fell to you.
It was a quiet, undemanding life. Your days were largely solitary, apart from the comings and goings of your customers. Their visits afforded you regular breaks from your anvil, seeing you sidle up to the counter while wiping your hands clean on a rag tucked into your apron strap. Being at the edge of town had the perk of more open space around the building, and with it came more natural light. Later in the day, you would often relocate to the front of the shop, where the afternoon sun afforded you enough light to see detail work without having to resort to lighting candles.
Just such an afternoon found you tooling a simple design in thick leather destined to become a handsome pair of bracers. Those always sold well and you could use the extra cash. Your neighbors passed by, busy enough to forestall idle chatter. The sun was beginning to sink low on the horizon and you were trying to complete your work before you called it a night and walked to the tavern for a pint and a plate of whatever was on the menu. A shadow fell across your workstation and stayed there. Mouth twitching in irritation, you waited for a moment to allow the intrusion to move along on his own before you snapped.
He didn’t move. Well, then.
Drawing a steadying breath through your nose, you carefully put down your beveling iron, ready to tell this slack-jawed moron to loiter somewhere else unless he had coin. You raised your head while preparing the most brittle customer service face you could muster. But you found Imrich the brewer rooted to the spot, gaping at the sight before him. Following his gaze, you understood why.
A Witcher.
No, two Witchers.
They were an unmatched set. Different backgrounds, different specialties. One a Cat, gently curling dark hair shorn close to the scalp on the sides of his head but longer down the center. This one sat astride a steady-looking red roan. Atop the other horse was a Witcher of the Bear School. His studded blue gambeson was almost totally obscured by a heavy hooded cloak that also hid most of his flaxen hair. What hid his face, however, made your heart stutter unpleasantly. It looked for all the world like he was wearing the bleached skull of a felled enemy over his own face. Hard amber eyes held no expression, but his thin mouth was set in what could only be distaste. You willed your spine to straighten rather than tremble.
The rider of the red was listing too far forward in the saddle, seemingly relying on the pommel to do the lion’s share of keeping him upright. His face was pinched in obvious discomfort. As though he felt your eyes upon him, he looked up and met your gaze, then took in the broader picture of your shop front. He flashed a brief, sharp smile.
“Ghost,” he called, clearly aiming for nonchalance “found the armorer. Can stop in and get this repai—“
The other man scoffed so deeply that it came out as a growl.
“Your armor can wait. Need to patch up what’s underneath or it won’t matter.”
And that was your cue. Swallowing your trepidation, you rose and took a step toward them into the rapidly disappearing light of the evening. “I can take care of both problems here.” You called to the pair as they drew even with the doorway. “I’ll take a look at you and then see how I can repair your armor.”
The wounded man reined his horse with a wince and cocked his head at his companion with a look that was halfway between I told you so and Pretty please?
A long pause. That growl again, this time bearing a note of resignation. Wordlessly, the Bear swung one long leg over the flanks of his charcoal gray nightmare of a mount, boots thudding to the dry dust of the street. He stalked over to you, reins in hand, and tied off his horse at one of the iron rings provided. Gods above he was a big man. When he was satisfied that the knot was secure, he turned on his heel and went to fetch the other rider. The split reins of the roan were pulled gently to the front and secured to another ring farther down. Thus being as steady as possible, the Bear now set about getting his companion safely to the ground as well.
Kicking a foot sluggishly out of the stirrup, the Cat swung his leg over the cantel, though with markedly less grace than the chilly blond hunter. There was a heartbeat’s pause when you heard a strained “Ow—“ and before your feet had checked in with your brain, you were right up under the two of them, both you and the Bear supporting the injured Witcher between you with his arms across your shoulders. Between you, his head lolled drunkenly, tanned complexion blanching with pain. You really hoped you hadn’t bitten off more than you could chew with this one.
Up close, the smell of them was strong. Seared metal, blood, wet leather, sweetgrass, muddled herbs.
“Help us out, Soap. You’re heavy enough without your armor.” Grumbled the Bear, hoisting gently.
“Ach, don’t make this bonnie girl think about me without m’armor, Ghost.” Slurred the Cat, hurtling towards delirium. You turned your face to hide the heat that bloomed high on your cheeks. Even covered in grime and seriously injured, you couldn’t deny that he was handsome.
“Quiet, fool.” Hissed the one called Ghost.
As the three of you turned carefully toward the entrance of your shop, you noticed the brewer was still standing there with his mouth open like a landed trout.
“Imrich, a little help, maybe?” You huffed. Your voice seemed to snap the man out of his stupor and he hurried forward, only hesitating to touch the Witcher for a moment before he relieved you of your burden. “Back here, come on. I have a cot in the back room.” You called over your shoulder as you dipped through the threshold ahead of the shambling trio.
Quickly clearing the cot and opening the shutters to let in some of the waning light, you motioned for Ghost to lay the other man down, which he did with unexpected ease. Imrich was wedged in the corner, looking unsure of himself, so you put him to work.
“Hey,” you called to him. “Go find some lamps and candles. I have one up front with a reflector that I need most of all. Can you do that for me please?” Evidently still mute from the events of the past few minutes, he simply nodded and peeled himself away from the wall to go search for illumination.
Turning back to your patient, you were alarmed to see the pallor that had already begun to set in. A thin sheen of sweat had formed on his brow, sticking locks of nearly black hair to his temples in little curls. Still, blue eyes shot through with the gold that was expected of those in their occupation looked up at you steadily. There was interest in his expression, as if he wanted to ask you a question. Instead, he sighed softly and let his eyes drift closed. He wasn’t unconscious yet, simply exhausted.
The weight of the other Witcher’s gaze was a palpable thing as you began to unbuckle his pauldrons and cuirass as quickly as you dared.
“Tell me what happened while you help me, Witcher.” You said, not meeting the flat honey amber eyes boring holes into the side of your head. A moment later, gloved hands were replacing your own, deftly peeling away the layers like he knew them as well as his own kit.
Oh. Oh.
You hadn’t suspected they were partners in any sense other than that of their occupation, but now that you were looking for it, you were seeing confirmation in every touch and glance.
Steel plate and boiled leather thudded carelessly to the floor, but the silence stretched between you and Ghost. You thought he was going to ignore your question. But then, with a terse exhalation, he began to speak.
"Thought it was rusalki in the millpond. That's what we’d been told. Easy job, didn't even need the both of us. But it’d really been a sizable nest of drowned dead. Soap had been caught off guard in the reeds and got hit with the poison. When he went down he crushed the last of our Golden Oriole against a stone." Hitching the hem of the Cat’s shirt, he inclined his head sharply, indicating a bruise and clustered lacerations near the hip, right where a soggy bandolier meant to hold potion vials had just been removed. You took in the sight of the shredded straps of Soap’s cuirass and braced yourself for what his side would look like. As expected, it wasn’t pretty. But it wasn’t bleeding freely, so it wasn’t the priority. The priority was that the damned drowned things defended themselves with poison, and even with his augmented body, Soap was working too hard to make progress against it. He needed help. Help that you hoped you could provide.
"It was my fault for not preparing more poison resistance. Rusalki don't use poison and..." He shook his head, bitterness and regret coming off of his stiff shoulders and clenched jaw in waves. The breath he heaved out sounded much like the big stallion he'd ridden in on.
"But you got them, right?" You asked softly.
"What?"
"The drowners. You killed them, right?" You clarified. He shifted his attention back at the other man's still form, seeming to look through him rather than at him.
"Drowners are different than the drowned dead, but... yes. The problem is dealt with." He said darkly. You only nodded, unsettled in your realization that while you lived in a world full of monsters, you were woefully uninformed on the subject. Those lessons were for another time though; right now you needed to wear your healer’s persona.
In the meantime, Imrich had returned with an armful of candlesticks and your shining candle reflector cradled carefully in one paw-like hand. He set about arranging them nearby for maximum visibility and safety. You rose to light a rush from the dying coals of the forge, but with a twitch of his hand, the Bear had conjured a small flame instead. Smiling at the novel display of magic, you nodded in thanks and began lighting the candles from the sparks.
“Imrich, thank you for your help. I know your wife must be wondering where you’ve been by now. If you wouldn’t mind double checking the horses out front when you leave?” You smiled at him, briefly squeezing his arm in familiarity. The older man glanced between you and the two monster-slayers, quirking an eyebrow in uncertainty. “I’ll be fine. They don’t seem like trouble.” You whispered reassuringly, nudging him toward the door. “Go home. You know I can take care of myself.” You added with a wink.
“Yes, Miss.” Was the only thing Imrich said to you that day, bowing slightly at the waist before taking his leave.
You were already turning toward the corner cabinet, rifling through jars, pots, and small boxes of healing compounds. A discrete glance towards the pair of Witchers let you catch the way the Bear had let the back of his hand ghost across the Cat’s brow as though checking for fever. It was a tender act that wasn’t meant for your eyes, and it made your heart clench with a feeling akin to grief. What if you failed?
Crushing the doubt under your heel, you cleared your throat—both to center yourself, and to jog the masked one back to the present.
“Now,” you said bracingly “I don’t have the types of decoctions you have back at Haern Caduch, but I think we can make do with good old-fashioned components, hm?”
At the mention of his old school, Ghost’s head shot up in surprise. You grinned, having anticipated the reaction. “What? Amell isn’t terribly far from here, after all.”
Needling him gently seemed to be working well enough at providing a distraction. But you paused, suddenly less confident. “I know you’re both functionally human, just with… differences. But if you see something that isn’t right, let me know. I don’t want to harm him.”
Ghost met your gaze levelly. “I think I can trust you,” he said softly.
You nodded then, and began your work. Tiny toadstones plinked into the waiting mortar as you prepared your remedy, mixing it with a healthy pinch of Theriac and valerian root. While you worked, you imagined seeing Soap sit up under his own power, crack a joke, and go on his merry way with his Bear. It was a wish you tried to pour right into the herbs you were using. You ground the ingredients together into a smooth gray powder, mixing it with half a gill of white liquor to make a slurry, which you decanted into a shallow cup for ease of consumption.
“Need you to sit him up. It’s going to taste like shit, but— down the hatch.” You grimaced in sympathy. Nodding, he leaned close to the pallid Cat, murmuring in his ear as he snaked a hand under the broad, scarred shoulders to prop him up. You could have sworn you heard his name whispered as Johnny.
“Let me,” The Bear said in a voice clipped with worry. Without hesitation, you passed the cup to his outstretched hand as the Cat’s eyes flickered open blearily. You busied yourself tidying up your work station as you watched them out of the corner of your eye. With one hand supporting the back of his head, Ghost gently tapped the other man’s chin with his finger. You blinked when his mouth fell open automatically, waiting. As much as you wanted to deny it, you knew immediately that you would be revisiting that image later.
“Come on, drink it down.” Rumbled Ghost when Soap balked at the alcoholic burn of the first sip. With a resigned shudder, Soap put his hand over Ghost’s and took the tonic like a shot at the tavern. Initially, you were convinced he was going to be sick and you shoved the chamber pot into his hands. He surprised you though, shaking his head like a dazed dog and coughing once, but managing to hold it down. From under heavy brows, he peeked at you as though the gentle candlelight hurt his eyes. Given how dilated his pupils were, this may have been exactly the case.
“Glad you’re not the one running the tavern, lass. I ken it’s no’ polite to say, but your drinks leave something to be desired.” He croaked, still clinging to his sense of humor. You snorted and removed the chamber pot to its place beneath the bed once you deemed it was safe to do so.
“Come on, let’s get those scratches cleaned up while the antidote works from the inside. You’d probably be able to heal up normally at this point, but I’d rather you use your energy to get rid of the poison.”
Still looking pale and queasy, the Cat just nodded, teeth chattering audibly as he settled back against the pillows once more with Ghost’s help. Pulling more ingredients down from the cabinet, you set about preparing a poultice that would help draw from the wound, thus speeding up the detoxification. A linen chest was cracked open, revealing soft white bandages, boiled and pressed recently. You grabbed a handful and passed them to Ghost, who was proving to be an adept medical assistant. He dipped a bandage in a waiting basin of warm water and began carefully wiping the debris and dried blood from the wound. Cleaning wounds was obviously familiar territory for him.
Breathing deep as you ground the fresh herbs and powders together, you imagined little sparks of life force being poured into the mix. The dense aroma made your head swim a bit as you added witch hazel to the brew to make a thick paste. It would sting, but it would draw, and that was the important part. Having spooned the poultice into a waiting square of linen, you motioned for Ghost to help Soap roll a bit to his side so you could more readily access the claw marks. Though now as clean as they were likely to be, they had reopened under the attention and were seeping slowly.
The Cat was clearly making an effort to hide any outward signs of pain, but his breath still came too shallow and too quick. Warning him softly about the incoming pain, you pressed the poultice to the array of gashes and held it there firmly while he was mostly able to stifle a groan in the pillow. Securing the poultice with absorbent padding and strips of cloth wound around his rib cage had him panting through clenched teeth.
“I should have put you under for this part, I'm sorry. Would you like to sleep now?” Ghost murmured. Soaps’s eyes were glazed but he nodded. The pale Witcher’s thumb swept fondly over a scar that bisected Soap’s heavy black eyebrow, whispering a single word under his breath that you didn’t catch.
The effect was instantaneous. You felt your own shoulders relax as Soap’s breath evened out, and the tension eased from his face. Again your heart ached at the barely concealed darkness evident in Ghost’s eyes. You surprised yourself a bit by blurting,
“You’ll both stay here tonight, obviously.” There was more authority in the statement than you thought you possessed. Sensing no room for argument, the pale Witcher settled into the corner chair, looking as though he had already decided he would sit the bedside vigil for a century if he were asked to do so.
While you moved quietly around the room, snuffing candles with spit-damp calloused fingertips, you added, “I’ll take first watch. My room is just above this one. I’ll bang on the ceiling to wake you if I need help. Go on, you look like you haven’t slept in days.” You added a bit meanly.
He cocked his head, still nearly as tall seated as you were standing. When he didn’t make a move to leave, you appealed to reason as best you could.
“Look,” you said gently “We both know you can hear everything that goes on in this building. You’ve probably figured out how many squirrels are in the attic just by hearing them moving around. Get some rest. You’re no good to him if you’re falling over too.”
The muscles of his jaw worked for a moment, silvery scars flashing like moonlight across his jawline. After looking at the peacefully sleeping Witcher on the too-narrow cot, he rose abruptly and ducked his head toward you as though making an effort not to tower over you.
“Thank you. For everything. For… giving him a chance.” He reached out and squeezed your hand in what seemed like an unfamiliar gesture of gratitude, the touch warming your fingers and then gone in a flash. Turning away, he covered the distance to the doorway in two and a half long strides, where he paused with his hand on the frame.
“Eight.”
“Pardon me?” You said, bewildered.
“There are eight squirrels in the attic. Wake me before midnight.” And he disappeared up the stairwell, taking them two at a time.
*********
It didn't take long for the house to go silent. After watching Soap for a while to make sure he was in sound condition, you padded to the shop front, leading both horses to the area around back that had served your father's farrier side of the trade. You unsaddled them and apologized quietly for not giving them a good brush down. Hopefully the oats would be enough to convince them to forgive you.
Collecting what you needed for the repairs to the Cat's armor was the last stop before you resumed your vigil. Leather in a color close enough to match, strong waxed thread, a wickedly sharp short blade, and an assortment of hardware. The noisy riveting process would have to be completed tomorrow when both Witchers were awake. Before starting on the cuirass however, you needed to check on your patient.
He'd regained some of his color, his skin tanned from a life outdoors. Scars littered his skin, a map of his trials. There was still a sheen of sweat on his brow, and a quick touch revealed a low fever. Most likely the mutagens burning off the dregs of poison, but worth keeping an eye on. You carefully flipped the side of the heavy wool blanket up to check on the bandages without letting too much cold air in. Satisfied, you glanced back up at his sleeping face once more.
You had to stifle a shriek when you realized he was staring right at you.
"Soap, hey," You whispered softly to him, leaning closer, even though your heart was still gamely scrambling up your throat. His eyes were unfocused and he blinked slowly, gaze drifting towards your face like clouds skating across the summer sky. Every bit as blue and gold.
"You're beautiful," He whispered.
Then, just as abruptly, he faded out again. You scrabbled for his pulse and found it, steady and strong. Relief washed over you as though from an upturned bucket, and you sat heavily in the corner chair. As much as you had enjoyed their company thus far, you were going to be almost glad to get these Witchers out of your house. They would surely be the death of you.
*********
When you’d come to fetch him sometime after midnight-- you'd let him sleep too long, damn it-- Ghost was surprised to find Soap's armor nearly whole again. The cuirass had been frightfully damaged, slashing claws having severed the connections between the two halves of the rig. In one case the buckle and strap were simply gone, rivets and all. But you had been able to copy the fittings simply by studying the unharmed side of the piece.
Ghost regarded the craftsmanship with a keen eye, noting that it would have been difficult to tell which side of the armor had borne the brunt of the damage if it hadn't been... well, for the blood. He let his fingers trace over the stains and felt his chest ache. The leather was ordinarily a deep earthen brown, but here it had been stained nearly black. He could see you'd done a good job of removing the bloodstains, but what remained was there to stay.
His jaw clenched again, the only outward indication that he was getting lost in the memories of the previous morning. As though sensing his lover’s distress, the Cat stirred, eyes finding Ghost immediately. The injured Witcher reached for him and frowned at the lingering weakness in his limbs. Ghost met him halfway, kneeling beside the cot.
“Just a changing of the guard. Go back to sleep.” Ghost whispered, nuzzling into the close cropped dark hair. Soap responded with a sigh that was just a hair too close to being a whimper for Ghost’s liking. “Pain?” He asked, easing up from the floor while trying not to jostle his partner over much.
“Better than it was.” He rasped. “Beginning to understand the phrase ‘weak as a kitten’” That earned him a snort from Ghost, and even the unspoken praise made him purr with satisfaction. He saw the familiar gear in the other man’s hands and grinned at how it was nearly whole again. “Lookit tha’ work, aye? ‘S nearly bran’new,” He grinned, fatigue making his brogue thick as mud. “Got a real gift f’the craft. Bonnie girl to boot, and tha’ ars—“
“Johnny.” It was spoken as a command. Not malicious, not more than a whisper. It was just meant to be heeded. “Go back to sleep, love. Would you like me to use Somne again?”
Soap shook his head, looking a bit sheepish in spite of himself. He was more exhausted than he wanted to admit, and he knew he would be able to drift off in an instant under the watchful eye of his Bear. There were so many things he wanted to discuss with him. But his eyelids were just so heavy, and he found himself drifting away again.
“Si,” he rallied for one more question. “How did they get to me like that?” The Bear regarded him levelly for a moment before answering.
“I’m not sure, Lynx. I’m going to find out though, yeah? Now sleep.” Ghost had barely finished the sentence before Soap was out again. The big man sighed, pinched out the last remaining candle, and began his watch until dawn.
*********
You jolted awake. The events of the previous night had gotten jumbled up with your dreams and you were left with only a few certainties: you were dead tired, your bed smelled like a stranger, and there was someone downstairs.
As you swung your legs out from under the covers, pieces began to fall into place while your brain began to knock down the cobwebs. You remembered the Witchers, Soap wounded and Ghost wound so tight he looked fit to implode. You remembered sharing your bed with Ghost— Wait, that wasn’t right.
You shook your head in annoyance, as though the action could separate your memories from the chaff of your dreams. Ghost had slept the first half of the night in your bed and then you switched after midnight. There was no sharing a bed about it. Not in real life. In your dreams, however…
Groaning with mortification, you pulled on your boots and slipped down the stairs after a quick glance in the tiny brass mirror by the door. You desperately hoped Witchers couldn't read minds.
First things first, you needed to check on your patient. You were surprised then, to see him sat upon the edge of the cot, bare feet flat on the floor and braced as if to stand.
“Whoa, hey!” You yelped, rushing forward to ease him gently back down. “Don’t push yourself too hard, too fast. And definitely don’t try to start moving around without anyone nearby.” You scolded.
“Ach, dinnae fash yersel’ hen.” He grumbled.
The back door banged open and Ghost stopped short in the doorway, gold eyes rapidly shifting between you both. He’d removed his hooded cloak since you last saw him, and you took in his appearance like you were seeing him for the first time. You realized he was, somewhat unexpectedly, strawberry blond.
It was the warmth of the dark Witcher that made you aware of your proximity. You were still stood between his knees, hands on his bare shoulders, while he looked up at you through unfairly long black lashes. If you’d felt heat rising in your face before, you felt as though you’d been tossed onto the pyre. Your hands dropped to your sides and you stepped back quickly, face burning as though you’d gotten too close to the forge. Besides a minuscule twitch at the corner of his mouth, the Bear didn’t seem to react except to sigh,
“Johnny, don’t be a pain in the arse. Listen to what she tells you.”
The Cat you now knew was called Johnny looked chastened, and deflated slightly, wrapping an arm around his ribs. He still looked weary, but there was a vibrant spark that shone in his eyes now.
“Ahm jes’ getting stir crazy is all,” He nearly pouted.
“Well you won’t have to worry about that if you’re staring up at the grass. Rest. We don’t have a job right now. The horses are fine. I am fine. And you will be fine if you stay put.” Ghost snarled in such a way that even you felt like you’d done something wrong.
Johnny stared up at him petulantly, pupils constricting to pinpoints. Ghost stared flatly back.
Before they came to blows, you tried easing the situation somewhat by suggesting breakfast. “How about this: Soap, would you be up to helping me cook? Can you handle making the porridge?” You said, trying to sound both diplomatic and chipper.
“With an accent like that, of course he can handle making the porridge.” Snarked Ghost under his breath. Soap’s eyes shot indignant daggers at his partner, but nevertheless he agreed saying,
“Aye of course lass. Let me put a shirt on. Preferably one not drenched in blood— Ah, thank you, Si.” He added sheepishly as Ghost held a neatly rolled tunic out to him, presumably retrieved from the saddlebags when he’d gone to check the horses.
“Before you put that on, let me check you.” You said, stepping back into his space. He put his hands behind his head, fingers laced together, so that you had access to his side. Unwrapping the bandages, you were astonished to see the wounds had not only closed, but were starting to scar. They looked as though they had been inflicted days ago when it hadn’t even been two sunrises.
“You’re pretty remarkable, Soap. Likely don’t need me anymore after I finish reassembling your gear.” You said, tossing the soiled bandages into a waiting bucket in the corner.
“Ach, don’t inflate my ego, bonnie. Be impossible to live with.” Soap said with a wink.
Ghost grunted and rolled his eyes. You smiled in spite of yourself. Seeing the opening, you asked them how long they'd been together. You laughed outright when they both spoke at once, saying,
“Twelve years.”
“Too long.”
This was apparently enough for them to shake them out of their spat, and you felt fortunate to glimpse the first genuine smile flitting beneath the edge of Ghost’s mask. Soap slipped on the clean shirt and half-heartedly swatted away your motion to help him stand, stubbornly making his way towards the hearth under his own power.
It was oddly easy to slip into the domesticity of the morning routine with two strangers in your home. Ghost busied himself with stoking the fire with splints of oak. You would need a good bed of embers for the racuchy, a treat you felt compelled to treat your guests with. For the same dish, he began to peel apples with a wickedly sharp blade. You tried not to think about what it may have impaled. As if reading your thoughts, the big blond Bear glanced up and grinned wickedly.
"Don't worry, love. I didn't gut a kikimora with it. This knife only gets used to eat with."
Soap snickered beside you, lightly knocking his upper arm against your shoulder as the three of you navigated the close quarters of your kitchen together.
"Ach, try not to scare her off before she feeds us, Si. Starved over here." He practically purred over the top of your head towards his partner. Goosebumps prickled along your skin. You decided to push your luck.
"Si?" You asked, turning toward him but not quite meeting his eyes. Soap stilled beside you, gauging the reaction. After a beat, the Bear straightened in his seat and softly said,
"M'names's Simon. Everyone calls me Ghost though. 'Cept Johnny, of course." He added with a hint of a smile. You watched as he glanced up through tintless lashes, seemingly having an entire conversation with the man he was regarding over the top of your head.
"Ye can call us by our names if ye'd like, lass. Saved m'life most like. Least we can do is let you call us something proper." He nudged your shoulder again, this time intentionally.
Just like the generations of those who came before you, you understood the power in a name. To be made privy to the Witchers’ names so soon after meeting them could only mean that they had looked at you—really seen you—and been comfortable enough with their knowledge that you wouldn’t cause them harm. You couldn’t fool yourself into thinking it didn’t feel good to be trusted by those who found it hard to trust anyone or anything.
“Alright. Simon—“ you tried it out tentatively, forcing yourself to meet the hawkish eyes. “And Johnny.” You looked up into the gold eyes that must have been a stunning forget-me-not blue before the trials his body underwent to become what he was today. Even still, it looked as though the yellow coloration had spilled outward from the pupil, not quite reaching the edge of the iris and leaving a thin ring of blue, rather like seeing the ocean from a great distance. A smile abruptly split his handsome face and he leaned in close.
“Ah could get used t’hearing ye calling me Johnny, lass. Feels a whole lot nicer than when that big brute in the corner growls it at me, ye ken.” You laughed in spite of yourself and, turning to the big brute in question asked,
“Is he always like this?” With a long-suffering sigh, Simon nodded.
“Believe it or not, oftentimes he’s a great deal worse.”
*********
The rest of breakfast was uneventful. The apple pancakes were decadent, the porridge dense and honey-sweet, and the sausage and eggs were just right. Toward the end of the meal, Johnny seemed to be leaning heavily on the edge of the table. Your instincts told you that even though his healing capabilities were remarkable, something about this last fight had taken more out of him than either of the Witchers had anticipated.
“Johnny go lie down. Simon and I will clear this away and I’ll come check on you in a little while.” He looked poised to argue, but one look from his partner had him grumbling while he made his way down the short narrow hallway to your exam room. You noted the way he kept one hand on the chair rail along the wall, and the other wrapped protectively round his middle. The injuries he’d sustained would have surely been the end for a normal man, but something told you he still wasn’t bouncing back as quickly as Simon had hoped, and that worried you.
You poured a bit of water in the frying pan and set it over the fire to loosen the charred bits of breakfast still clinging stubbornly. Simon crouched next to the copper basin on the hearth, scrubbing off the wooden trenchers you’d eaten from. Sensing your attention, his eyes flicked up to yours briefly.
“The way your kind heal is unnaturally efficient,” you began. “But I sense Johnny isn’t healing as well as you were expecting him to, yes?”
Simon hummed noncommittally.
“Ghost, talk to me.” You said, sounding snappier than you’d intended. It seemed to get his attention. You expected Johnny did the majority of the talking in their relationship. His jaw flexed and he huffed.
“You’re right, it’s not going as well as I was hoping it would. But as I said last night, we weren’t expecting drowned dead. We weren’t expecting poison. We were expecting things that looked like gorgeous women in a pond, truth be told.” He scraped a stubborn piece of egg off the trencher with more force than strictly necessary before continuing. “We’ve received poor intel before. We don’t expect everyone to know the difference between a harpy and an erynia, yeah?” Your blank look seemed to prove his point and he swept his hand in a small open gesture to indicate the same. “But there’s a glaring difference between bloated shambling corpses and ethereal beauties in a millpond. Either the alderman is blind or we were purposely misled.” The rag was dropped roughly into the basin by way of final punctuation.
A chill crept up your spine at the possibility. Your brow furrowed as you came up against concepts that didn’t mesh.
“Humanity depends on Witchers to slay the things that would take our children in the night. Why would anyone purposefully try to set you up to be harmed?”
His thin, scarred lips turned up in a grisly mimicry of a smile. “Darling, you may be one of the most accepting people we have ever met, and I swear that on my blades. You’ve done nothing but treat us kindly—treat us as human—since we laid eyes on you. Even kind Imrich was more than happy to flee as soon as he knew you weren’t being threatened.” He sighed. “By and large, we’re met with horrified fascination. Casual prejudice is normal. Sometimes outright hostility, but I have yet to come across someone who simply wanted us dead in such a manner. They’ll have to try harder, clearly, but as soon as Johnny is fighting fit again, we’ll be going to have a little chat with the alderman.”
The words hung in the air between you like river fog. Even though they could more than take care of themselves, you found yourself feeling somewhat protective of them. Gods above, you hadn’t even seen Simon’s face. Perhaps it was the knowledge that they walked alone together, but you felt a lonely kinship with them. A deep and lonely ache had taken root under your ribs after your family had been taken from you, and something in Simon’s dark bronze eyes spoke of an understanding in that regard.
Throwing back the dregs of your tea, you pushed off from where you’d leaned against the counter. It was well past time to start the day. The mental checklist starts up, Soap’s armor at the top. As much as the eventuality makes your stomach turn, he’ll be needing the armor before the cart horses need their next shoeing, so he takes priority.
Before you get a chance to fetch the box of rivets you need to reattach the hardware, though, a pounding at the front door makes you jump. Simon already has one arm out in front of you and the other reaching towards his lower back, presumably for a blade. Moving soundlessly to stand behind the door, he nods to signal that you should answer the door. Wiping your sweaty palms on your apron, you obliged him, cracking the door just enough to peek while your boot blocked it from opening further.
You weren’t expecting to see a frantic woman about your own age standing with her fist raised to knock again. She let out a little “Oh!” when the door opened, her eyes wide and red-rimmed as though she had been crying. She wasted no time getting to the reason behind her visit.
“Please, Miss. Are the Witchers still here? Imrich said they might be. Please, it’s my daughter. She went to find gooseberries at the edge of the woods and I haven’t seen her since just after dawn.” Her voice cracked as though she were about to start weeping again as you opened the door fully. You watched as her eyes tracked movement behind you in the doorway, looking up, up and she gasped. You could only imagine what Ghost looked like, materializing from the shadows like the wraith king he was.
“Take me there.” Was all he said.