Chapter Text
“You wanted to see me, your imperial majesty?” Geralt asked, somehow making the title sound like “you bastard” - it was a knack - while flinging himself into the leather armchair in front of the fire.
Emhyr looked up from his paperwork and sighed under his breath. “I thought you’d have grown tired of this churlish nonsense by now. No-one at court even bats an eye any more.” He put his quill down, ink stained fingers massaging his cramping wrist as he leaned back in his chair.
A few years ago he had given Geralt leave to be seated in his presence for the rest of his life as a gift for saving Cirilla. Of course the witcher had taken this to the extreme and made a show of sprawling, lounging or otherwise using his privilege to demonstrate how much he didn’t fear Emhyr.
It had been amusing for a while, especially watching Mererid splutter when he had been informed of the fact and been instructed to discreetly tell the other staff in order to prevent an incident. But the novelty had worn off and now it just seemed like a petty display of defiance.
Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What? You expect me to prance and bow now? It’s been two weeks.”
“I’m aware,” Emhyr replied flatly.
Geralt sighed. “Why did you want to see me?”
Emhyr pushed away from the desk and walked over until he towered over Geralt who glared up at him.
“As intended, your presence at court has stayed the would-be assassin’s hand for now.”
“Great, does the would-be assassin have a name by any chance so I can go cut their head off?”
“Patience. I’m close to uncovering the extend of the conspiracy.”
With one unfairly graceful movement, Geralt sat up straight. “Then, hurry up! Or let me help. Witchers live a long time but not forever. At this rate, I’ll be the first one to die of boredom.”
“Then find something to do beside trying your level best to upset my staff,” he didn’t add “or me” because that would have been an admission that Geralt’s behaviour was getting to him.
What he did say was, “I need you to be less subversive and more vigilant, or else I’ll be forced to publicly reprimand you.” When he noticed Geralt’s blank look, he added, “That means I’d have to send you away and that can’t happen, not now.”
“Then, let me help. For fuck’s sake! I’m a witcher—“
“Precisely. And this is a job for spies, something you’d be absolutely pathetic at.”
“Thank you,” Geralt replied tartly.
Emhyr tilted his head. “That wasn’t an insult. Spies are conniving, lying schemers. You’re none of those things.”
Geralt narrowed his eyes and sniffed. “That almost sounded like a compliment. Have you been drinking?”
Taken aback, Emhyr froze. It had been an offhand question, but—
Geralt shot out of his seat and stepped into Emhyr’s personal space. He sniffed again. “Est Est and…anise? Araq?”
“Witcher!” Emhyr growled, his body tense with the effort not to back away.
As usual, Geralt ignored the threat and looked, really looked at him as if he was a new species of monster that merited closer inspection. It made Emhyr’s skin tingle.
“You look like shit.”
Emhyr’s eyes flew open. He opened his mouth, only to be cut off.
“When did you last eat? When did you last sleep?”
“When I asked you to be more vigilant I meant around Cirilla, not me, you idiot,” Emhyr barked, temporarily forgetting his resolve not to let on how much Geralt bothered him.
“Answer the damn question.”
“This conversation is over. See yourself out,” said Emhyr and turned only to be stopped by a strong hand wrapped around his biceps. It took every ounce of willpower not to flinch or gape for that matter. His glare, however, should have turned Geralt to ash.
“So, it’s true. There really is a threat, isn’t there? And it’s serious. Very serious.”
“Have you ever known me to jest?” Emhyr asked, wrenching his arm out of Geralt’s grip but not backing away. “Did you really think I was only keeping you here for the pleasure of your irritating company?”
“No,” Geralt replied and sighed. “Alright. Go to bed, I’ll see you in the morning.” And with that, he turned on his heel and left Emhyr standing in front of the fire, having to fight down the irrational impulse to remind the witcher that he was the emperor here and Geralt had no right to give him orders.
“What is this?” Emhyr asked, looking up from the latest report, when Geralt let himself into his private rooms again at the crack of dawn. Maybe it had been a mistake to instruct his staff that Geralt should have access to him at all times.
“Breakfast.”
Emhyr stared at the tray which had been dropped on top of his paperwork. Geralt lifted the silver lid and pointed. “Eat.”
Emhyr stared a bit harder.
“This,” Geralt gestured to the bread, butter and spreads, “is what we mortals call food. And, you eat it.” He had the nerve to pretend to stuff things in his mouth.
“Witcher!” Emhyr growled between clenched teeth.
“Your chamberlain told me you haven’t eaten anything since noon. Did you work all night as well?”
Emhyr just glared at him which would have been more impressive had it not been for the dark shadows under his eyes.
“Come on, it will make you feel better. Trust me, I’ve lived long enough to know you can’t keep going on bloody-mindedness forever.”
A snort escaped Emhyr, a testament to how exhausted he really was. He didn’t know what vexed him more, his slipping defences or the fact that Geralt had been the one to notice. Maybe he was overdoing it?
Reaching for the bread, he asked, “Who prepared this?”
“I did. Witcher metabolism. I eat so much, it’s easier to get it from the kitchen myself rather than troubling your staff every five minutes.”
When Emhyr raised an eyebrow, Geralt added, “I’ve some Golden Oriole in my pocket if it makes you feel any better. Now, eat up. I won’t leave until you do.”
As a seasoned commander, Emhyr knew when to accept defeat and ate while Geralt did push-ups. It felt oddly domestic but not unpleasant.
“Feeling better?” Geralt asked, jumping back on his feet when Emhyr shoved the now nearly empty tray away.
He did. It was incredibly annoying. “You promised you’d go away if I ate.”
To add insult to injury, Geralt swept into an elegant bow which conveyed more sarcasm than any biting remark ever could, picked up the tray and left. Before the door closed behind him, Emhyr heard, “See you at lunch. I’ll bring Ciri, so don’t even think about skipping out on me.”
“Why are you doing this?” Emhyr growled when Geralt showed up again for supper, carrying another tray.
Lunch with Ciri had been nice. Even Geralt’s presence hadn’t spoiled the moment when Ciri had reached for Emhyr’s hand and given it a light squeeze when he had admitted to her how serious the situation was. It had been somewhat less pleasant when Ciri and Geralt had insisted they should help and proposed various strategies - all of which lacked subtly and put Ciri in even more danger.
It had taken all his willpower and cunning to stay calm and talk them out of it. By the end they had reached a truce of sorts where they agreed to wait another week if Emhyr’s spies hadn’t uncovered the whole scheme by then they would move on to plan C and G. A week wasn’t much but doable, provided the witcher would stop interfering with his day like he was now.
Geralt shrugged, “You told me to find something to do and I have.”
“Are you saying, I’m your new hobby?”
“Something like that,” Geralt confirmed Emhyr’s worst suspicion and sat down opposite him. He had brought two plates laden with food.
“Witcher, I’ve staff who cater to me day and night.”
“Yeah, but they’re all afraid of you and wouldn’t dare to suggest you need looking after.”
Emhyr narrowed his eyes. “Are you somehow under the impression we’re friends?”
“Tsk. No!” Geralt mumbled around a piece of pork.
“Then, indulge me and tell me why?”
“Why, what?”
Emhyr let out a long suffering groan, hands balling into fists. By now he had completely given up on not letting Geralt see how much he had gotten under his skin. What was the point? It wouldn’t change a thing and, quite frankly, he didn’t have the energy to spare. He could feel a tension headache creeping up his neck.
“Listen,” Geralt pointed his fork at him. “I get it now. You’re running yourself into the ground trying to protect Ciri the only way you know how. And I respect that. But you’re no use to her if you drop dead from exhaustion. Besides, a wise man once told me a drained witcher is a dead witcher. I’m sure it applies to emperors as well. So, stop overthinking this. Eat, sleep, drink in moderation and use that brilliant brain of yours to get to the bottom of this. Speaking of drinking, you got any more Est Est lying around or do I need to go raid your cellars?”
Emhyr stared at Geralt for a couple of heartbeats before he gestured toward a low cabinet next to the window. Geralt got up and brought back the bottle.
“To Ciri,” Geralt said.
“To Ciri, long may she reign,” Emhyr agreed, defeated in the face of Geralt’s sheer determination. They clinked their cups together. It felt like another truce and just like that the tension drained out of Emhyr and he allowed himself in what felt like forever to relax. He even enjoyed the meal.