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Aiden and the Wolf with a Thorn in his Paw
“Ow, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Lambert sat next to his semi-prepared fire gripping his wrist. Just his fucking luck. Chopping a bit of firewood and he gets a splinter right in the fucking nail bed. It stung. Big pain he could deal with; the kind that came with having your face clawed open by a werewolf or your thigh gnawed on by a nekker. Small pain could fuck right off. He went to take the splinter between fingers and thumb, but only ended up driving it in deeper.
“You know, every necrophage and bandit between here and Cintra can hear you moaning and groaning,” said a shit-eating grin peering from inside the nearest thicket. He recognised the voice and was unsurprised by the tall, athletically built Witcher that emerged from the trees. It took him a moment to conjure the name from the haze of a drunken memory; strip Gwent and alcohol.
“Aiden,” Lambert growled in acknowledgement. “Fuck off, I don’t have the money I owe you.” Because there were only so many clothes you could remove when getting absolutely thrashed, and the offer of remuneration in other ways had been tartly refused.
"I know you're good for it, wolf," Aiden threw his hands up and was about to head back into the forest since he'd been dismissed, but he could smell Lambert's discomfort; a sickly undercurrent to the damp soil and foliage of the landscape around them. "You know, I could help you with that. I've got some tweezers in my pack."
"Yeah, and what'll I owe you? If you ask for a fuck again, you're gunna get a slap."
"Oh, don't tempt me," Aiden purred, admiring the resulting flush that ran up Lambert's neck. He was so cocksure around everyone else, but Aiden knew how to rile him up in all the right ways. “How about next time I’m in a fix, you help me out?”
“What level of fix are we talking here?”
“Hmm,” Aiden approached tentatively as one would a wounded predator and dumped his bag down next to the beginnings of the fire Lambert had set up. “Dunno. If there’s a thorn in my hand, take it out?” He crouched and lifted the flap of the burlap sack, rummaging around until he found a roll of leather containing his finer tools. The kind one used to convince locks to open without the requisite key.
Lambert squinted distrustfully at the small pair of silver tweezers Aiden proffered in his direction. “If you make it worse…”
“Stop belly-aching,” Aiden grumbled and took Lambert’s wrist securely. The wolf tried to ignore the positioning of his hand on Aiden’s thigh - oh, well, how lovely the sky is today, what a fucking delight - and grit his teeth when the sharp prongs of the tweezers dug at his sensitive nail bed.
“Ow, ow, OW,” Lambert snatched his hand away quickly, a small pinprick of blood welling up from his finger where the splinter had been. All gone. The sting abated and he stuck his finger into his mouth, narrowed eyes examining the other Witcher closely.
“Thank you, Aiden, for saving me from the perils of The Splinter, I am forever in your debt, oh amazing, handsome, dashing, suave--.”
“Alright, alright, thanks… fucking hell, anyone’d think you’d saved my fucking life.”
“Based on the way you were bitching, I did,” Aiden packed his kit away and slung his bag over his shoulder. “See you around, pup.”
Fucking hope not, Lambert’s internal voice groused even as his eyes dropped to those sashaying hips. Who walked like that? No one. No one walked like that.
Little did Lambert know that he’d repay his small debt barely a month later. The villagers of a coastal community hired him to rid them of a ‘monstrous creature’ hiding in a cavern near the cliff edge. It’d been stealing from the barns and when men went to deal with it, they hadn’t returned. Only one body had turned up thus far. The payment was generous and Lambert snapped up the opportunity.
He didn’t expect to find Aiden, beaten and bedraggled, slumped in the deepest recesses of the cave.
The Cat had a broken arm and a deep laceration in his ribs. At first he hissed and threw threats until, through the fog of his pain, he recognised Lambert’s scent. “Fuck, come to finish me off, wolf?”
He could. Villagers counted Witchers amongst monsters. But Lambert didn’t murder his own kind, even Cats, despite their reputation as renowned bandits, thieves and assassins. “Hm,” he sheathed the sword in his hand and took a few tentative steps forward. “S’quite a big thorn you’ve got there.”
“Nah, got the thorn out,” Aiden panted. “Left behind a big hole though.”
“Huh,” Lambert dropped his pack to the floor near Aiden’s side. “Better get you stitched up then.”
“Not gunna’ just take my head and get your payment?”
“Witchers kill monsters,” Lambert murmured without looking up.
“You do know what school I’m from, right?” Aiden shifted uncomfortably against the wall. “Most wouldn’t see the difference.”
“Yeah, well. I’m not most.”
Lambert patched Aiden up, gave him a good dose of Swallow and wrapped him in his cloak to keep him warm while his body set about repairing itself. He never intended to stay for very long, but as the fire crackled and the cavern grew warm, Lambert unrolled his sleeping mat and closed his eyes. He also never intended to grow attached, watching that stupidly handsome face doze peacefully at his side and then riding with him until they’d put a good few hundred miles between them and the murderous townsfolk.
He certainly never intended to meet up again… and again… and again - laughing, hunting, drinking, getting into and then out of trouble constantly - until they ended up curled beneath some thick furs at Kaer Morhen in each other’s arms one winter.
How the fuck did that happen?
