Chapter Text
The thin paper was rough as Geralt rolled it between his fingertips. Quietly, he sneered at the idea that his psychiatrist’s office couldn’t afford more than half-ply tissues while they charged him two hundred an hour, but the sharp clearing of his therapist’s throat brought him back to the matter at hand.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Geralt?”
The man opposite, sitting in a shiny leather chair, was elderly, the furrow in his brow highlighting the fact. In his eyes was an intelligent sparkle thinly veiling something Geralt had never taken kindly to: Pity. No, not this time. Desperation.
Dr Stregobor looked at Geralt like he was a wild animal, like he’d snap at any moment and rip the jugular vein straight from his neck with his canine teeth. And it’s not that Geralt couldn’t do that. There was not a doubt in his mind that he could, and there were days when he sat stiffly on the lumpy faux-suede sofa that his psyche had somehow deemed appropriate to see clients on and imagined the old man’s anatomy like it was drawn on him in a textbook - plotting out his trachea, his larynx. But he wouldn’t, and the fact that, despite every assurance on the contrary, Geralt could practically smell the fear on the man just twisted the dagger deeper. If a trained professional flinched when he reached for a glass of water, what the fuck is the rest of the world supposed to do?
Geralt had considered walking away from his court ordered sessions many times – the balding man opposite, currently watching his every move, could hardly stop him – but no therapy meant no Ciri, and Geralt would be damned if that was something he let happen. Not now.
“Hm.”
Stregobor sighed. “Geralt, we’ve talked about this…”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good!” A relieved smile expanded across the doctor’s features. “Now, there are a few groups I send my clients to, but I think this one would be best suited to your… situation…”
Geralt looked out the window, watching cars drive by on the motorway. Red, black, white. The tissue paper was still course, rubbing the sensitive pads of his fingers.
.
.
“You’re going to a what?”
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“Have you ever even held a paintbrush? In your hand?”
Geralt met his company’s gaze with the driest look he could muster. “Where the hell else would I hold it?”
“I don’t know,” Yennefer shrugged. “You just don’t seem the type.”
“Because I’m not.”
The café they were in was crowded and loud in the way that sent Geralt the most mad – there was no singular noise to pick up on and drown out, rather a million small ones all mingling together and forming a mass that hung over his head like a plastic bag. Some awful tween pop star played on the radio above them. Middle-aged white women moaned about their unsatisfying marriages to their left, occasionally throwing far too obvious glances toward Yen and Geralt’s table, giggling behind their hands in a way that made his skin crawl. The steam wand on the espresso machine made that awful sucking noise – or was it blowing? Dinner bells ding-ed, chefs yelled Order up! Roach shuffled at his feet.
Geralt wanted to go home.
“I suppose it could be fun,” she mused, dipping a strawberry in chocolate. The way she wrapped her lips around it made Geralt’s eyes roll, and her smirk widened. “Might even make some friends.”
His permanently pinched expression obviously worsened, judging by the cackle that escaped the witch.
“I’m sure Ciri could teach you a thing or two, as well. She was a real prodigy in her youth!”
“She still is.”
“Yes, yes, Geralt. You’re very proud of your wonderful daughter, we know!” She patted his arm gently and sat back into the velvet upholstery of their booth. “Oh, stop brooding! I’m sure it’ll be fine!”
Yes. He thought. Fine.
.
.
Geralt was not fine. He hadn’t slept in three days, and the cracks were starting to show. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop the vacant expression passing over his features as fatigue fogged his mind even further, despite his best efforts to focus on Ciri’s plans for the day.
Wetness covered his hand, suddenly, and he looked down to see Roach lapping at his fingers. He pushed the chocolate Labrador away gently, only to look up and see an equally concerned expression on his god-daughter’s face.
Fuck.
“Are you okay?” She asked, picking the crusts off her toast.
Geralt forced a smile. “Peachy.”
She didn’t look convinced. “You’ve got that class today, right? At the Temeria Institute.”
“Yeah.” Like it or not, the appointment had been made, and then snuck up on him like a tiger in the undergrowth.
“I’m jealous.”
Ciri shrugged when Geralt looked at her, perplexed.
“I’d much rather be making collages or whatever you’re going to be doing than trigonometry.”
“School is important.”
“I know,” she sighed, looking forlornly at the lonely crusts now sitting on her plate. “Maybe you can suss it out, and if it’s not crap I can come along next time.”
“You’re not getting out of school for an art therapy session.”
She huffed and sat back in her chair, arms folded in an adorably petulant expression.
“…I can… find one that runs on the weekend… if you’d like…” Geralt stuttered out. Fuck, he needed to get better at this. Cirilla had been through a lot in her short little life, and the least she deserved was an emotionally competent guardian.
Ciri pouted slightly as she considered the offer, before her face split into a bright smile.
“See how you go first. I don’t want to waste my time on some new age bullshit if it’s not worth it.”
“Language!”
“Yeah, yeah!” She laughed, scooping up her school bag from the foot of the stairs. “Bye, Roach!”
“What about me?”
“You didn’t let me go to your painting class!” Ciri yelled as she closed the front door, but Geralt saw her wave madly through the window all the same.
A smile tugged at his lips as he watched Roach yip and run up to windowsill, licking the glass that separated her from Ciri’s increasingly silly faces.
.
.
The Temeria Institute was, for all intents and purposes, a warehouse in North London. It was a nice warehouse, carefully rebricked on the outside to maintain its industrial charm, with floor to ceiling windows that flooded the foyer with autumn light. The water cooler in the corner hummed, and Geralt noticed that they’d need to refill the supply of plastic cups soon.
“Can I help you, sir?”
The man at reception had a phoney smile plastered onto his face – classic customer service type. It wasn’t his fault, but Geralt probably would’ve preferred a grimace all the same.
“I’m here for the, uh… 10:30 meeting…” The receptionist watched him expectantly. “Geralt du Rivia.”
“Art therapy?”
“Hm.”
“Wonderful, sir,” the man said, tapping away at his keyboard. “Your doctor has sent all your information through, so I won’t burden you with any of that,” the receptionist laughed at what Geralt assumed must have been a receptionist joke. “Your group will be on the second floor, first door on your left out of the elevator.”
Geralt nodded. “C’mon, Roach.”
“Oh, will your dog be joining you?”
Stupid fucking question, Geralt thought, turning to the man.
“Is that okay,” he read the nametag pinned to the smaller man’s tie, “Ostrit?”
The man faltered. “Of course,” he said, too-big smile quickly re-placed.
Geralt eyed Ostrit for a moment. “Hm.”
A few metres away, the elevator ding-ed. A young woman held the door open, smirking in Geralt’s direction.
“Come on!” She called.
Slipping inside, Geralt nodded in appreciation.
“Don’t worry about him,” the woman said, flipping short brown hair out of her face. “Ostrit’s a prick, but you learn to drown it out.”
“I’d ask what he was doing working here, but we seem to attract assholes.”
The woman snorted. “They love to act like even being in the same building, let alone working with us grants them some kind of saintly status. Like we’d all fall to pieces without them.”
Geralt grunted.
“Maybe some of us would.”
“But not you?”
She shrugged. “Life goes on – difficult or less so.”
Finally, the doors opened, Roach bravely leading the way out, stopping only to sniff the contents of a potted plant.
“Stop it,” Geralt chastised, pulling her along.
The woman smiled. “She’s cute.”
Just as Os-prick had promised, to the left of the elevator were a set of double doors, opening into a studio. White walls bounced light from leaded windows, illuminating the space and showing off the variety of paper mache sculptures and amateur watercolours displayed around the room.
Geralt tensed instinctively. He had never been more out of his element.
“Hi, you two!” A kind-faced woman wearing a paint splattered apron met them in the doorway. “I’m Triss, I’m your facilitator. Feel free to take a seat anywhere,” she said, gesturing around the room to the easels set up in a semi-circle, all pointing towards a desk on the far wall. “We’ll be starting in a few minutes.”
She sent another warm smile their way before gliding over to speak to a kid who didn’t look much older than Ciri, beanie pulled low, picking at his sweater sleeves.
“Looks like we’re buddies now,” Geralt’s elevator companion said, taking her seat at an easel and setting up the sketch pad.
“Guess so,” Geralt replied, sitting next to her.
“In that case,” she said, turning towards him and sticking out her hand, “I’m Renfri.”
“Geralt.” Her grasp was firm, much firmer than he’d expected from the slight woman. The pressure stayed with him as they pulled apart, fingers tingling. He didn’t dwell on it.
Triss cut through the centre of the room and jumped up to sit on the desk, clasping her hands together and smiling wide at her sullen subjects.
“Okay, it’s 10:30 now, so why don’t we make a start. There are a few new faces around, so once again, I’m Triss, I’ll be facilitating these workshops. Please remember, this is not an art class. You will not be graded; we are not comparing. This room acts as a safe space for you to explore yourselves and your relationships with the world.”
Geralt noticed Renfri’s smirk broaden.
“You’re all here for your own individual reasons. All I require from you, is an open mind - ”
Suddenly, the room’s attention shifted to a kerfuffle in the hallway, revealing a disheveled man at the door.
“Sorry! I’m sorry! Sorry I’m late!” The man’s voice was loud, and not just to Geralt’s acute senses. Multiple group members reeled back at the onslaught of noise, a few even grimacing.
The doe-eyed man had the sense to look a little sheepish as he shuffled into the studio, heading towards to final free easel next to…
Fuck.
Geralt.
The man’s eyes got impossibly wider at the sight of Roach sitting patiently at his side. He gasped, “Doggy!” and leapt to pat her.
A deep rumble erupted from Roach – not a threat, but certainly a warning. Geralt’s chest bubbled with pride.
“Welcome, please take a seat – and thank you for reminding me,” Triss said, voice level and sweet, but smile more brittle than before. “We’ve got a lovely service dog with us today, so let’s get into some etiquette for anyone unaware. Um…” She held her hand out towards –
“Geralt.”
“Geralt. Anything in particular we need to know?”
Roach looked lovingly up to him, like butter wouldn’t melt in her vigilant, protective mouth. Geralt had to hold back a snort at the cheeky mutt’s feigned innocence.
“This is Roach,” he said, and then looked directly into cornflower blue peepers. “Don’t touch her.”
The culprit slid onto his stool, a nervous and watery smile gracing his pink lips.
Geralt decisively ignored that last observation.
“Yes, good,” Triss said, breaking the uneasy tension present in the room. “Roach is not a pet, she’s a working dog. Just like you wouldn’t cuddle a paramedic while they’re performing CPR, don’t invade her personal space either.”
Roach wagged her tail at all this newfound attention, shuffling over to lay across Geralt’s feet.
Triss then went into an explanation of the different art mediums they had access to and a little bit on how to use them, but Geralt didn’t really hear much of that. He was too busy pointedly trying to ignore the young man next to him who seemed dead set on burning holes into the side of Geralt’s skull with his staring.
The group disbanded to collect what they wanted to use in today’s session, Renfri arching an eyebrow at Geralt as she got up. He stayed sitting, deciding to wait out the mad rush and take whatever was left. Unfortunately, it seemed that his owlish neighbour had a similar idea.
“I’m Jaskier,” the man said, visibly vibrating with nervous energy. “I’m sorry,” Geralt turned to see his knees bouncing wildly and fingers fidgeting, “about before.”
“Hm.”
The crowd around the paints and pastels was starting to thin.
“I just get so excited about - !” The man continued, unperturbed by Geralt’s overt lack of interest.
A new plan of action was needed, then. Evasive. Geralt rose and strode over to an extensive pack of coloured pencils. He turned to return to his seat, only to freeze at what he saw waiting for him.
Roach had sat up from where he’d left her, and was now laying her head in Jaskier’s lap. The poor man was stock still, seemingly terrified to move a muscle and irritate the dog. The sight shifted from shocking to humorous in seconds.
“The chosen one!” Renfri teased when Geralt arrived back at his station.
“She’s trained to pick up on panic and stress,” he explained. “Guess she decided you needed her more than I did.”
Jaskier huffed out what could’ve been a laugh if he wasn’t working so hard on imitating a statue.
Geralt held back a smile. “Once she touches you it’s fair game.”
The way Jaskier’s entire body turned to jelly after hearing that one sentence was almost laughable. Almost. The pout that formed on his lips when Roach left him, deeming her services no longer necessary, was even more so – almost succeeding in drawing a low chuckle from the bigger man... Almost.
Geralt had never seen a human being so animated before. The man was like a one-person pantomime, wearing every emotion on his sleeve all at once. It was dizzying to look at, so Geralt didn’t.
Instead, he focused on getting a nice sketch of Roach on paper, and if she was lying on pink converse in the picture instead of beat up old boots, no one needed to know.
Renfri definitely noticed.
But she wasn’t going to mention it.