Somewhat Clear

Rating: NSFW
Fandom: The Witcher (games)
Relationship: Geralt/Eskel, background Geralt/Regis/Dettlaff
Tags: Mutual pining, Retirement in Corvo Bianco, non-explicit sex
Wordcount: 4568
Notes: Entry for the Fisstech & Succubi exchange.

Summary:
Eskel is invited to winter in Corvo Bianco by Geralt, whom he hasn't seen since the battle in Kaer Morhen. A happy reunion, despite old wounds and painful memories. Featuring: two nosy vampires and a busy majordomo.

Excerpt:

They were embracing before they knew they had moved towards each other, laughing in each other’s necks. Eskel smelled like sweat and travel, like dust and rain, and he was in Geralt’s home. There was a hysterical, manic edge to their laughter, but neither of them pointed it out, and Regis seemed to have disappeared in thin air like he was wont to do sometimes, so they kept laughing and clutching at each other.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

All things considered, Regis found the cellar in Corvo Bianco wasn’t that different from his sanctuary under the graveyard, when he thought about it. It was cool, it was dark, it was full of alchemical contraptions, shelves lined with books and alcoholic beverages. Plus, he could enjoy the company of not one but two of his oldest, most beloved friends of all the time.

One of them, the technically-wanted-by-the-law-but-hiding-under-their-noses vampire one, was completely absorbed in repairing a little cluster of gears, some kind of tiny mechanism that looked even tinier in Detlaff’s large hands.

The other, the technically-retired-but-still-itching-for-the-Path-sometimes witcher one, was coming down the cellar’s stairs with a deep frown etched on his handsome features, a length of wrinkled parchment in his half-clenched fist. Geralt smelled like the late autumnal sunlight, and witcher-sour sweat, and a tinge of distressed anticipation mixed with something else.

Regis closed the book he was reading. Detlaff barely looked up, a distracted nod of his head to acknowledge Geralt’s arrival. “Geralt,” Regis greeted him out loud.

“Remember how I told you that I’d sent word to my brothers to ask them if they were willing to come to Toussaint for the winter?” Geralt said. “Well, Eskel wrote me back—he’s going to be here in a couple weeks, if the weather holds.”

“Ah, the famous Eskel.” Regis smiled. “That’s good, isn’t it?

“Yeah, it’s good.” Geralt didn’t sound like he entirely believed it himself. “Honestly, I didn’t think he’d accept,” he admitted, a little sheepish.

Regis frowned. “Why? I thought you usually spent the winter together.”

“We used to, in Kaer Morhen. But since Vesemir- since the battle we agreed to let the keep go, to leave the wild reclaim the area. Not that it’s going to take much, the damn thing was already falling to pieces before the Wild Hunt tried to bring it down. Anyway. We’ve been wintering separately for a few years now—I heard from Yennefer that Lambert has been holing up with a sorceress somewhere in Kaedwen, and Eskel—” Geralt hesitated. “I’m not sure, actually.”

“Well, you’ll definitely have time to catch up in the next few months,” Regis commented.

Geralt hummed, noncommittally. He was frowning at the letter in his hand.

“Are you regretting inviting your friend here?” Dettlaff suddenly interjected from his corner near the table.

As before, he wasn’t actually looking at Geralt, the delicate gears claiming all his attention, so he didn’t see the complicated array of emotions that flitted across the witcher’s face, but Regis did; Geralt was feeling conflicted about it, for whatever reason.

“I’m not regretting it,” Geralt finally said. “I missed Eskel. I can’t remember when it was the last time we spent so long without seeing each other, and we’ve known each other for basically all our lives. But Eskel isn’t—Eskel is a witcher,” he insisted. Regis patiently waited for him to explain. “Not that it ever meant anything, with only the three of us alive and no mage left, but—he’s the true heir of the School of the Wolf. It was always meant to be him. Lambert and I were never on his level, despite everything. Lambert never accepted himself and I—”

“You’re a wonderful witcher, Geralt,” Regis interrupted him, feeling hollow at hearing his friend putting himself down. “You accomplished so much—”

Geralt snorted, bitter. “That’s the whole point. Witchers aren’t supposed to accomplish things. Witchers kill monsters, they don’t meddle in human affairs, they don’t get involved in politics, they don’t become knights and landowners. I don’t regret my life but—” he gestured at the barrels stored in the back of the cellar, the wine that came from the vineyard that Geralt had taken care of for the past few years. “A witcher wouldn’t do this. Witchers don’t die in their bed. Hell, Witchers aren’t supposed to even have beds.”

“Are you afraid he’s going to judge you?” Dettlaff asked, bluntly.

“Eskel never judged me,” Geralt said, answering the wrong question. “But he’s going to live his life as a witcher. Walking the Path, fight after fight, until the bitter end.”

His bright-honey eyes seemed to grow distant for a moment, and then he shook himself, turning towards the stairs. “Sorry, I have to go, BB asked to meet and he’ll be really really unhappy with me if I’m late. See you at dinner?”

Regis could recognize a conversation ender. “We’ll be there,” he promised. “Bring our regards to Barnabas-Basil.” He listened to Geralt’s quiet steps walk away and into the house, until they joined the familiar vibrations that betrayed the presence of the majordomo and the cook moving around on the wooden floors just a few feet over their heads.

He sighed. “Did you find that peculiar, Dettlaff?” he asked, opening his book again, to have something to do with his hands more than with the intention of resuming his reading.

“Not exceedingly.” The vampire hummed. “I was wondering why his mate doesn’t live with him. That explains it.”

Regis almost let his book drop in his haste of turning around to look at him. “Do you think Eskel is Geralt’s mate?”

“I know that humans—and witchers, by extension—don’t work like that. But he’s mentioned Eskel quite often in the past—it never seemed like a good moment to bring it up, but I always figured they had some kind of long-term partnership, given the way he smells when he talks about him.”

“I know what you mean,” Regis agreed, pensively. Because of the mutagens they were injected with, witchers smelled strange, less like humans and more like vampires; and for a vampire it was second nature to take advantage of smells to gauge an individual’s intentions, feelings and relationships. Regis still melted a little whenever he caught the clear tang of friend wafting from his skin when Geralt was in his company. “He smells the same when he talks about Yennefer—though he has been sort of shy about her since we moved in.”

Dettlaff smiled. “It’s probably good manners not to mention other lovers while sharing a bed.”

---

Geralt had always liked Toussaint. The food was good, the money was good, the people were friendly, and the place was just plain pretty. Still, he didn’t think he would ever settle down there of all places—or settle down at all.

“What do witchers do when they retire?” Dandelion had asked what now felt like a million years ago.

It had been before Destiny trapped him in its claws, before he accidentally got involved with politics. It had been before he lost and got his memory back, before they left Kaer Morhen to rot, the secrets of the School of the Wolves lost and buried. As close as they were, his place had never been in Nilfgaard, at Ciri and Yennefer’s side. He had never questioned the notion that he was going to die on the Path.

And then he had Corvo Bianco. At first, it was just nice having a place he could come back to, where he could keep his things and repair his armor, where he could eat food without being stared at, where Roach could rest. It was nice having a bed that he could call his, old witcher adages be damned—but it was also weird. He would stay put for a few days, then grab his swords and leave to clear an archespore’s infestation in a nearby vineyard, to solve a dispute between vintners, to follow rumours about cursed artifacts buried in the middle of elven ruins—and then he’d come back, exhausted and bloody, and BB and Marlene would be there, smiling and welcoming.

It was getting very hard just wanting to leave in the first place. After all, there was so much to do at the vineyard.

And that’s how, during the past couple of years, Geralt of Rivia, witcher, had slowly leaned into his role of Sir Geralt of Rivia, knight and vintner of Corvo Bianco. He still took monster contracts from time to time (those fucking archespores were really persistent) but he spent most of the time learning things from his seneschal and helping in the vineyard.

That day was no exception. “We had an excellent crop this year,” Barnabas-Basil was saying, before launching in a detailed exposition of data, pointing at a bunch of numbers on a sheet that barely meant anything to Geralt’s still inexperienced eyes. BB was very good at his job and Geralt blindly trusted him, but sometimes he really had a hard time following him. “…and if quality matches the one from last year’s vintage, we’re basically set for success. I’m not saying that we might be ready to grow but—I’m feeling optimistic about sales. I feel like it might be quite in demand.”

“Last year’s vintage—that red from last week?” Geralt asked. He didn’t know much about making wine yet, but he had decades of experience in drinking it. “It was quite good.”

“It was very good, sir. Better than anything Corvo Bianco has produced in the past decade,” BB confirmed, sounding as proud as a father about his first born. “I already had a couple crates sent to the duchal winery—as it is customary—and to the Adder and Jewels Winery in Beauclair,” he added, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial tone. “The owner is a friend. Many people stop at the Winery for a glass after a long day, the word-of-mouth helped the sales in the past.”

“Good thinking.”

“We’ll have a list of buyers in two weeks, and by the end of the month all the orders will be bottled and shipped off.” BB closed the thick register and cleared his voice. “I obviously haven’t forgotten about your guest, sir. I already had Therése prepare the spare room.”

“Oh, he won’t need—” Geralt started. Then he swallowed. “I’m sure it’ll be adequate. Thank you. Are we done here?”

Barnabas-Basil nodded. Geralt fled the study, barely stopping to pick up a coat from the rack next to the door, suddenly itching for a ride. Roach was happy to see him; he got her ready with quick, practiced gestures, absently noticing that the tack was new. He didn’t remember replacing it—but then he figured that one of the stable hands did. When had it been the last time he had taken care of his horse’s gear himself?

They rode on the dusty trails surrounded by vineyards and fields, and along the Sansretour bank, until the cold started to sting. It never got as cold as up in the north, but it was a reminder that winter still existed in the world, a far cry from the sultry, sticky heat of the toussaintois summer that sometimes filled him with regret.

Eskel would arrive soon.

---

“Oh!” the innkeeper gasped, startled, noticing Eskel’s eyes as he slid a bowl of the inn’s apparently famous and highly recommended crayfish chowder across the counter. Eskel sighed internally and steeled himself for the usual refrain of insults.

“Are you a friend of Sir Geralt?” the innkeeper asked instead, surprising him.

Eskel blinked. “Uh. Yes. Do you know him?”

“Not really,” the man admitted with a chuckle, rubbing his mustache. “But he’s the only witcher with a vineyard in Toussaint these days. Hard not to know of him, at least. Probably naive of me to think that all witchers know each other.”

“Well, you weren’t wrong this time.” Eskel couldn’t help but smile. “Do you know how to get to Corvo Bianco?”

“Oh, it’s just over the hill, on the other side of the bridge. Half a hour on horseback, tops.”

Eskel’s stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

The smell of Vesemir’s ashes had still been on the wind the last time he and Geralt had seen each other, in Kaer Morhen. They had swapped a few letters in the meanwhile—a way to let each other know that they were still alive. Small stories about monsters, complaining about pricey gear and scammy contracts, unspoken promises and reassurances. The address of an inn or a tavern at the bottom of the paper to keep the conversation going, different each time—and then always the same: Toussaint, Sansretour Valley, Corvo Bianco Estate.

Geralt’s letters from Toussaint had started out as normal—several in the span of a few months, full of frustrated ramblings and frammented details about a hunt that involved higher vampires, politics and a curse that neither of them wished to remember—but as time went on they became shorter and less frequent, like he didn’t know what to say. Like he didn’t know that Eskel spent months riding and dying to read every word traced by his hand—like he was too busy with that damn vineyard, too busy to remember how bad the life on the Path was, and how terrifying it was to be alone, forgotten by the world—

Then the invitation. To winter together, like when they were kids, like when Witchers were still part of something.

Eskel had not hesitated to accept; he was now hesitating to pick up his spoon and eat his meal, to put their encounter off. It had been so long since they saw each other face to face. Would Geralt still be the same? Had Eskel changed?

But Eskel was a witcher, and witchers knew how to manage their fears. He thanked the innkeeper for the indications, ate the chowder (whose fame was admittedly well deserved) and led Scorpion to the other side of the bridge, over the hill.

He took his time on the dusty trails—he was enjoying the view, he told himself, he was trying to find the few things that Geralt had described in his letters. It wasn’t entirely a lie; even as brown and yellow and dying with the first winter frost that was starting to cover the fields, Toussaint was beautiful. The colors looked more vibrant, the air more fragrant. The workers in the vineyard gave him curious glances, and then raised their hand in greeting before going back to work.

He was met at the gate by a man in a great green coat, a wide ruffle around his neck and a pair of smoked glasses perched on his nose. “Master Eskel, I presume?” he greeted him as Eskel dismounted. “My name is Barnabas-Basil Foulty, I’m Corvo Bianco’s majordomo. I’m afraid your timing was unfortunate—master Geralt had to leave for a quick commission in Beauclair. It won’t take him long, hopefully, but in the meanwhile I am at your service.”

“Nice to meet you, Barnabas-Basil,” Eskel replied, awkwardly nodding at the slightly flustered majordomo. “Uh, just Eskel is fine. Can I get some water for my horse?”

“Oh! Naturally. Fabian can take care of your horse and your bags, if you wish.”

Eskel hesitated. Scorpion didn’t like strangers, he was used to Eskel handling him. He also wasn’t entirely comfortable at the idea of having to wait for Geralt with the stuffy majordomo as his sole company—

“Fabian is an extremely capable stable hand, if that’s your concern. He has to handle Roach, after all.”

Eskel startled away from the man that had suddenly appeared at his side. He was tall and while he looked quite old, with grey hair and stained skin, he had a considerably youthful demeanor and a playful smirk on his mouth. Eskel had not seen him or heard coming. “Well, if he’s used to Roach he probably wouldn’t have problems,” Eskel said. “You must be Regis.”

Regis clapped his hands together once. His nails were noticeably inhuman, practically claws, but the majordomo didn’t seem concerned. “My fame precedes me! How delightful.” He turned towards the majordomo. “I can entertain our guest until Geralt’s arrival, Barnabas-Basil. I know you’re quite busy.”

The majordomo nodded stiffly. “Thank you, master Regis, my apologies. It was a pleasure finally meeting you, mas—Eskel,” he added, with an actual formal bow.

“Likewise,” Eskel managed to say, before the man scuttled away. “Busy little man, huh.”

Regis sighed. “There has been a mishap with one of the shipments, all the estate is in a tizzy. It wouldn’t be a big deal normally, but this is Toussaint. They all take wine quite seriously.” He smiled, and he didn’t hide his fangs.

“So Barna—the majordomo knows you’re a vampire?” Eskel asked, bluntly.

“You can call him BB, he doesn’t mind. Geralt does that all the time.” Regis said. “And yes, obviously. We live here, it would be irresponsible to hide something like that from the person who manages most of the house. Would you like a tour of the estate? It’s quite beautiful. Geralt really did something with the place.”

Their first stop were the stables, where they situated Scorpion under the care of Fabian. Eskel was surprised to see another horse in the stable—another Roach, of course. Next to the stable, there was an armor and weapon repair station, as well-equipped as the one in Kaer Morhen had been. Then they moved through a small but flourishing garden, filled with well tended plants and flowers; there were aromatic herbs, medicinal plants and witcher ingredients. Some of them were quite rare; Eskel made a note to ask Geralt if he could harvest some, later.

Regis chattered nonstop about one thing or the other. He seemed to know a lot about the estate, and about plants, and about Geralt’s activities. He smelled weirdly familiar—and it was just a little depressing how long it took Eskel to recognize Geralt’s scent on him. For whatever reason, it seemed like he thought Eskel needed to be persuaded that Geralt had turned into a capable vintner, yes, but also he was still a witcher, and a noble-hearted one at that.

By all means—Eskel should’ve probably been annoyed about that. He knew that Geralt was good and noble and a great witcher, nobody else in the world had known Geralt for as long as he did, now; in the span of a century, Eskel had watched Geralt lose his human baby teeth, had caught him with a hand down his pants while he watched two older witchers fuck in the stables, had teased him when he had teared up reading a romantic scene in a trashy courtly love novel, had held him in the night while the mutagens warped his joints and pulled his muscles and twisted his guts, had helped him raise a daughter, had knocked his shoulder with his as they watched the last witcher of Kaer Morhen turn to ash. For fuck’s sake.

Instead, he felt relieved. Without even meeting Geralt, he could tell that Corvo Bianco, with its endless vineyards, its capable stable hands, its stuffy majordomo, and that slightly bizarre vampire roommate, had been very good to him.

“You’re right,” he told Regis. “Geralt really did something with the place.”

---

The afternoon was the worst afternoon of the season, until Geralt came back home and knew that Eskel had arrived. He’d known even before seeing Scorpion in the stables, from something that had changed in the air, like a smell but subtler.

He found him sitting on the veranda with Regis, laughing about something, a cup of mulled wine in hand, flushed and energized and probably making fun of Geralt. He didn’t care; his face hurt for the smile that threatened to split his cheeks. Eskel looked up before he could call his name. “Geralt!” he cried and stood up.

They were embracing before they knew they had moved towards each other, laughing in each other’s necks. Eskel smelled like sweat and travel, like dust and rain, and he was in Geralt’s home. There was a hysterical, manic edge to their laughter, but neither of them pointed it out, and Regis seemed to have disappeared in thin air like he was wont to do sometimes, so they kept laughing and clutching at each other.

“Let me look at you,” Geralt panted, breathless with happiness and nerves. “Fuck, you look as ugly as I remembered.”

“Fuck off.” Eskel laughed. “What is that? What are you even wearing? You look ridiculous.”

Geralt smoothed out the dark red doublet he was wearing and laughed, self-conscious. “You fuck off, I had the worst afternoon. In fact, I can’t wait to take this shit off.” Heat flashed in Eskel’s eyes and Geralt smirked, relieved and happy, happy. He hadn’t been unhappy before—shipment fuckery aside—but Eskel made things even better. “How was the trip?”

Time had healed their wounds, dulled the sharper edges of the painful memories, but it was like they had picked up from where they had left off; Eskel told him about the crayfish chowder he ate at the Cockatrice’s Inn on the way to Corvo Bianco, and Geralt complained about his afternoon, about court etiquette and stuffy aristocrats. They teased each other about looking older, about looking uglier, about new scars. They shoved and slapped each other like they used to do when they were kids, and said a thousand stupid things not to admit that they had missed each other like breathing.

“Your pet vampire gave me the shovel talk, I think,” Eskel mentioned at one point during dinner, as Marlene walked away with a graveyard of empty plates and bowls in her arms.

Geralt almost spat a mouthful of wine on the tablecloth—expensive stuff,a gift from one of his new neighbors—but he managed to swallow it before gasping out, “What?”

“I don’t know, it was a very cheerful affair—kept telling me how efficient you were at clearing that archespore infestation despite your new wine maker obligations, how kind you were to help him and his friend, how generous to give them a place to stay—but also threatening, somehow. I couldn’t quite tell if he was encouraging me to pursue you or trying to scare me off.” He took a sip of wine. “Oh, this is very good. A bit too good. Is this expensive?”

“Hopefully. Doesn’t have a price yet,” Geralt muttered while covering his face with one hand. “Did Regis seriously tell you that? I’m so sorry.” Geralt cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on the table. “He might have picked up on the fact that I was. Nervous. About having you here. It’s been a while since we saw each other and—well.”

“You were busy,” Eskel teased him, not unkindly. “I admit that when you told me that you were ‘cozying up with a couple vampires’ I didn’t think you were being quite that literal.”

Geralt groaned. Eskel laughed. “I don’t mind! I was a little nervous about coming here, too,” he admitted then in a quieter tone, surprising him. “We never spent so much time apart. The letters helped but I couldn’t stop wondering how different we were going to be when we finally met again.” A beat. “Why did you stop writing?”

“I didn’t,” Geralt replied, but he knew what Eskel meant. “I didn’t think you were interested in, well. Husbandry. That’s pretty much all I’ve been doing, lately. Well, not taking in account the fucking archespores. Those goddamn things are persistent.”

“Of course I’m interested,” Eskel replied. “Well. Not in husbandry, specifically, but I’m interested in you and in your life, and if your life is husbandry rather than monster killing now, well. I want to know about the damn husbandry. I always looked forward to your letters, while I was on the Path, you know?”

Geralt nodded, and finished his wine, not trusting his voice. Eskel’s hand found his over the tablecloth, and squeezed it.

“You can always tell me about your vampire sexapades. Do you do both of them at the same time?”

“Fuck’s sake, Eskel,” Geralt cried out, laughing. “Is this payback for teasing you about that succubus?”

Eskel smiled, bright and handsome, the scars stretching along his cheek. “Maybe.”

---

Eskel was pleased to see that he still remembered how to make Geralt gasp and laugh and moan, despite the time spent apart. The ticklish spot under his jaw, the sensitive area on his side, the way his eyes fell closed when Eskel sucked on his neck—secret knowledge from half a century ago, still printed in his mind like the recipe of a healing potion. Geralt was no slouch; Eskel had forgotten how good he was with his mouth, how careful he was with his fingers, how good his body could feel. Words weren’t needed as they moved together against each other, caressing skin instead of parchment, finally.

“I missed you,” Geralt murmured in the darkness afterwards—forbidden words mumbled against the pillow.

“I missed you, too.” Eskel wrapped his arms around Geralt and breathed him in.

“I used to resent you for being too good at it, you know.”

Eskel smiled. “What? Sex?”

“No. Being a witcher.”

He frowned. “What the hell are you talking about? You were the one who was too good at it.”

“I was a teacher’s pet,” Geralt scoffed. “It didn’t mean I was good. I just did what they wanted me to do, and they were happy about it. I always knew that I was going to fail them, one day.” He rolled on his back, to stare at the ceiling. “I can’t stop thinking about the fact that you’re going to die in a ditch somewhere while I’ll die here, in this bed.”

Eskel reached out and petted his hair, a silent apology. He wasn’t going to deny it. They each had their weaknesses; Geralt could never stand to be alone, and Eskel could never stand to stay still. They’d talked about it, fought about it, years ago, when Kaer Morhen was crumbling around them, the rotting skeleton of something that wasn’t meant to be anymore.

“I said, I used to resent you,” Geralt insisted. “I had to forgive you, in order to forgive myself. I learned to, in the years we were apart.”

“There’s nothing wrong with retiring,” Eskel mumbled against the pillow—forbidden words murmured in the darkness.

Geralt sighed and rolled to face him. “I know that now. Anyway, I’m not actually retiring—elven ruins full of wraiths, lesser vampires nesting in ancient cellars, the damn archespores… I’m still doing my part. I’m just—local. Maybe I will die on the Path anyway.”

“And maybe I’ll die in the winter,” Eskel said. “In this bed.”

Geralt kissed him, and then smirked. “We’re truly getting old, speaking of death while we’re naked in bed.”