#eskhir fic

[lambden]

back with another flash fic challenge— the first one since spring of this year! I wrote some cahir/eskel in a very loose space AU. featuring a healthy dose of weird kinky wireplay and some characterization that I entirely stole from people who write cahir much better than me. enjoy!!

E, 5.7K, angst & smut but no actual smut, sci-fi AU Also on AO3!

The meal replicator emits a simple six-note song when it finishes its task, and Cahir glances over to carefully consider the small machine. People find the sound more pleasing than a routine electronic noise, even if it serves the same purpose and triggers the same chemical reaction in the human brain. Even though his brain is not wired to receive the same satisfaction, Cahir mimics the song. His voice is far from melodic but the noise still calms him— until the replicator beeps again, then he hurries to open its door.

Cahir carries his mug out of the dining hall, humming to himself. His own quarters are right next to Emperor Emhyr’s, a fact that embarrasses and satisfies him in equal measure. He understands that his proximity to the Emperor is only for convenience’s sake, but on lonely nights like this he likes to believe that Emhyr placed him there as a sign of trust. 

He places a hand against the Emperor’s door as he does every night but doesn’t knock, just holding his palm to the solid metal. Soon, upon his leader’s return to the space station , this door will be opened again and Emhyr will call on him for evening strategy sessions. And it will be soon; Cahir is sure of that.

Naturally, his own quarters are more modest than the Emperor’s. He has no paraphernalia from home or furniture with which to entertain guests, because his role on the station is not to host or provide entertainment. But despite the lack of a bed there is a small bedside table, and Cahir sits on the ground beside it now, humming the song of the replicator. 

His fingers curl around the hot mug until his pain receptors are almost activated, then he pulls back in time to avoid burning his skin. While Cahir has no taste for hot cocoa, or most human foods, he understands the appeal. The sweet smell and warmth are comforting, and the funny gelatinous marshmallows bobbing up and down in the hot liquid coax a smile out of Cahir for reasons he can’t entirely place. He only wishes that he had someone here to actually drink the cocoa.

But his role here is certainly not to complain. Cahir raises his chin to stare out the window, taking in the expanse of space outside. In the far distance stars twinkle at him; he wonders if those are the same stars visible from Vicovaro. His home planet, though windy with unruly weather, had always had the most beautiful sunsets. He and his siblings used to stay up to watch it; of course, they never slept anyway, but waiting out the long night was always more tolerable when you weren’t alone.

Vicovaro is a subject of internal conflict for Cahir, and thus he doesn’t like to spend much time thinking about it. He holds a great deal of nostalgic affection for where he was made, but he also recognizes that the planet was politically dominated by the Empire. Had Vicovaro been less pathetic, or boasted any military strength, perhaps they could have put up a fight against the invading forces. But Nilfgaard rightfully took over the planet of small manufacturing facilities and farms, and so Cahir’s greatest journey had begun.

He turns his thoughts away from his old planet and cups his hands around the hot cocoa once more. Despite the lonely stars, the skies are devoid of movement. Cahir watches for the distant white flame that he knows will arrive any day now, signifying the triumphant return of Emhyr’s ship. His Emperor will dock onto the space station, and he’ll find it just as pristine as when he left almost a month ago. No— even more pristine.

The hope soothes him. Cahir stays silent, watching the sky for the approaching ship. He hums the song over and over, until the station’s automated lighting system reaches its morning brightness. Still no light appears on any horizon.

Cahir gets up, stretching his limbs and lifting his arms over his head. Time to prepare for his regularly scheduled rounds. He retrieves the now cold cup of cocoa and heads back out into the hall. Almost as soon as the door shuts behind him, a small shuttle careens towards the station.

-

“If this is the last you ever hear from me, I want you to know I love you,” rumbles Eskel, his thumb jamming down the communicator button as he reaches around the dashboard to prepare for docking. “And also I want you to tell everyone that I died in a much, much cooler way.”

“You aren’t going to die,” Geralt snorts, his voice tinny through the ship’s speakers. “We’ve scanned this hunk of junk over and over for any signs of life and there’s nothing on any radar. No shields, only some outdated cloaking.”

Looking up at the massive space station, it’s easy to see what his brother means by outdated. Some of the outer panels are in dire need of repair and the engines obviously haven’t been maintained in decades. The landing bay doors are swinging open, beckoning him in. Eskel is reminded of a carnivorous plant waiting to trap its prey. He shudders, glaring at the station. “The lights are on.”

“But nobody’s home,” supplies Geralt. Eskel supposes he’s right; they would have picked something up by now. “Come on, it’s basically buried treasure without any guards. Grab as much as you can carry; hell, tow some vintage parts behind your ship. They won’t notice a thing missing. Vesemir said that no activity has been flagged here in a few decades.”

“Right,” Eskel says, still uneasy. “... Keep the lines open?”

“I’m here,” Geralt reassures him, even though he’s nowhere near here. If there really is a threat aboard this old vessel, his family will never make it in time to help him. Eskel lets go of the mic, instead reaching to secure his weapon in its holster. He braces himself for whatever awaits him.

He couldn’t have possibly braced himself enough.

The ominous landing bay welcomes him aboard, although all posted signage is in a language he doesn’t recognize. A quick scan reveals it as Nilfgaardian, and Eskel frowns, forwarding the translation to Geralt. Although they tend to have their fingers in many pies, Nilfgaard doesn’t spend much time on this side of the galaxy. Their efforts have been focused on Cintra and Redania, and on claiming old, long-uncontested territories and dwarf planets. Maybe a hundred years ago he would have been scared to sneak onto a Nilfgaardian vessel, but their empire is practically archaic now.

Following the translated signs for 'cargo hold’, Eskel keeps his wits about him and explores in silence. As far as he can tell, all the lights are automated and kept on a planetary schedule; it must be mid-morning back on Nilfgaard. But the elevators are surprisingly clear of dust and none of the lights have burnt out, so this station must have some mechanical method of maintaining itself.

The cargo hold yields no remarkable hidden treasure, save for an extremely unusual garden. Eskel has yet to remove his helmet or suit but the presence of plants is promising; he pauses to run a quick test of the air. It’s not dissimilar from Morhen air, and the pressure is lighter than he expected for a ship. 

Bemused but curious, Eskel kneels at the edge of the garden, photographing the plants. He can’t identify all of them but the ones he recognizes are harmless, mostly herbs and flowers. The garden is only a few metres wide and the plants are short instead of overgrown. Eskel reaches to one of the herbs, twisting the stem between his gloved fingers. The growth has been carefully clipped back. Maintained, just like the elevators and halls. His blood runs cold.

“Geralt,” Eskel rumbles, pressing down the button on his arm that will signal his brother. “I don’t think I’m alone here.”

-

Two days from now, Emperor Emhyr var Emreis will have been on his crusade for a month. Cahir awaits the anniversary with nearly unbearable excitement, because he remembers his leader’s advisor, a rather unpleasant human named Vilgefortz, bragging about how the away mission would undoubtedly take little time under Emhyr’s command. ‘At most, a month,’ Vilgefortz had boasted to the gathered navigators and soldiers in the control room. No one paid him much mind, all bustling about to prepare for their imminent departure. But Cahir, the sole occupant of the station who would not join Emhyr on his journey, had clung to the words as religious humans cling to the words of their holy preachers. At most, a month.

And now, twenty-eight days after the departure of his emperor’s vessel, Cahir expects his arrival any hour now. He kicks into high gear— literally— and adopts a rigorously productive schedule. He cleans areas of the station that aren’t even on his cleaning docket, scrubbing the high ceilings of the command centre and carefully wiping down Commander Morvran Voorhis’ array of weapons. Cahir hums to himself all the while; he’s sure he sounds about as melodic as a half-dead robot bird built by a child, but he can’t help it. He wasn’t created to sing, but until his master’s return (at most, two days from now!) no one can stop him from humming.

Over the sound of his own voice he nearly doesn’t hear the footfalls from the open door. But his sensors are better than any human hearing, so Cahir whips around, rag in one hand and antique sword in the other. He half expects to see his Emperor silhouetted in the artificial light from the hallway, standing tall and strong and waiting for Cahir to come and kneel before him.

Instead, a stranger stands in the open door. Cahir’s system begins overheating as he struggles to process the sight before him. The stranger is broader than his emperor, and taller, wearing a bulky space suit and helmet unlike any technology Cahir has ever seen. In his hand is a gun that will not do much to immobilize an advanced model like him, but Cahir still shakes, afraid despite himself.

The big stranger stares through his visor. He doesn’t shoot, but he doesn’t lower his weapon, either. Instead, he speaks— it takes Cahir only a moment to translate the language. It takes him longer to try to wrap his mind around the soft, nearly kind timbre of the man’s voice. For the first time, Cahir sees his eyes: dark, and gentle. “Are you the only one on board?”

“Yes,” Cahir answers proudly, before realizing in a panic that he probably should have bluffed and said no. But he has never been expected to act in a forceful capacity, only as a cleaner— Emhyr’s most trusted cleaner, to be sure, and the last line of defense, but he isn’t exactly a security robot. He would have to download a whole new set of processes to even learn how to wield the scimitar in his hands. He clings to the blade’s grip anyway, hoping it will intimidate the stranger. “That is, I thought I was until just now.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” The man raises his other hand. “Are you… why are you here?”

“I work for the Emperor,” Cahir informs the stranger, who seems inappropriately unimpressed by this declaration. “Emperor Emhyr…? Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morv— ah. The White Flame Dancing On The Graves of His Enemies, I suppose, would be the translation in the common tongue. He’s on an away mission at the moment, so— I— why are you here?”

Beneath his helmet, the man’s face twitches. “There’s been no signs of life in this quadrant for a very long time.” His tone is still too kind. Cahir can’t remember the last human who spoke this kindly to him— he immediately distrusts it. “I’m a… um, mechanic. I was flying by and saw the lights, and I thought maybe you were stranded.”

“I am not— we are not stranded,” Cahir corrects. “We are cloaked. In fact, you should not have been able to board the vessel without our security system evaluating your threat level. How did you board?”

The mechanic blinks. “The doors were open.”

Were he human, Cahir might blush. He had opened the landing bay doors, but only because he thought a passing comet was Emhyr’s ship and he hadn’t wanted to delay the White Flame’s entry for even one moment. He should have known better than to leave them open; he curses, privately making a note to adjust his own impulses. 

“Well… that is because I saw you coming,” bluffs Cahir, taking a leaf out of Vilgefortz’s book and trying to copy his confidence. “And in order to properly prepare for the Emperor’s arrival in two days, I thought that I would enlist your services.” The mechanic’s gaze flicks to the scimitar in his hands and Cahir quickly replaces it on the shelf.

“Two days, huh?”

“Yes.” He wrings out the damp washcloth and places it over his shoulder. “Your arrival is well-timed, as I need someone to examine all the technology on board and ascertain that everything is up to date.”

Still watching him with that curious twist in his mouth, the mechanic asks, “Why not just examine the hardware yourself?”

“... I am not permitted to do that.”

“Alright.” Finally, the man lowers his weapon— only to holster it, and fold his thick arms over his broad chest. The thought occurs to Cahir that by human standards, this man would be considered very beautiful; the strange scars across one side of his face are all that mars his visage, and even those are a sign of worldly experience. What Cahir doesn’t like as much as his appearance is his persistence, and defiance, as he asks, “Well, what’s in it for me?”

“Is loyalty to the Emperor not enough motivation?” The stranger just frowns, and Cahir sighs. “Fine. What would you like? I cannot offer much.”

“I want to look at your hardware,” the mechanic says without an ounce of shame. Cahir’s internal fan picks up speed, and he hopes the man can’t hear it. “See if you’re up to date too.”

Such an offer would be considered unbelievably rude by most, and Cahir should tell the man to get right back in his spaceship and go back where he came from. But awaiting the crew’s return has unlocked a new loneliness in him, and despite this man’s size and weapons and unfamiliarity, he doesn’t seem… bad-natured. So Cahir finally relents, hissing, “No permanent changes.”

“Hey, no, of course not,” says the mechanic, raising his hands. “You can stay online and walk me through the whole thing, alright? I just want to help.”

“I need no help,” Cahir spits at him. “... Would you like a hot cocoa before we begin?”

“What?”

-

Seemingly forgetting the rag slung over his shoulder, the service bot cleans out a ceramic mug with another dishcloth. Eskel watches from across the dining hall, fascinated even as Geralt asks him question after question. “You’re fine? Nobody’s holding you hostage? You’re not in any danger at all?”

“Don’t think so,” Eskel whispers back. The android turns to glance in his direction, and he covers his mouth with his wrist, mumbling into his communication system, “I’ll tell you later, okay? But I’m good. Found something weird.”

“You and Lambert and all your weird discoveries,” gripes his brother. “You know what I do when I find something weird on a looting run? I leave it the hell alone and mind my own business. Have you ever heard of the concept? Minding your own business?”

“Gotta go,” Eskel mutters, and switches his comms off. He’s sure Geralt won’t be happy with him, but whatever’s going on with this bot is way more interesting than he’d expected. The android is still staring, so Eskel raises his voice to clarify, “Sorry. Just my brother checking in.”

“Oh,” the android replies in an odd voice. “You have a brother?”

“Two of them, actually.” Eskel takes a seat on a hard, unwelcoming bench; he guesses Nilfgaardians prioritize function over comfort.

“I also have two brothers,” volunteers the android. Eskel stares; he hadn’t thought that robots ever followed traditional family models, not unless they were brought into a human family to act as a family member. “And three sisters.”

“Are they… Nilfgaardian too?”

“No.” He sniffs— it is such a distinctly human action that Eskel can’t help but smile. “I was made on Vicovaro.”

“Oh, I’ve been there! Beautiful place.” Last time he visited Vicovaro, he got chased off the planet by the local police for looting an old cruiser for parts. But he’ll leave that out of the story, especially since the old tech could have been parts of this android’s siblings. “So you got drafted, then?”

The android meets this question with silence. Fair enough; it’s a little personal, even though he had been the one to offer information about his family, and to ask about Eskel’s.

Unfortunately, Eskel is starting to like this weird little robot. So as the android places the mug down in the vintage food replicator, he presses, “You don’t have to tell me your whole story, but we’re gonna get up close and comfortable pretty soon here. So we can at least exchange names, right?” This doesn’t get a response either, so he offers, “I’m Eskel. I’m from Morhen.”

“I have many names,” the android finally says. “CM-DAC-1268 is what you might— um, see.” Seemingly embarrassed by the reminder that Eskel is going to open him up soon, he twists away, watching the machine pour hot cocoa through the translucent door. “Back home, my maker gave us traditional Vicovarian names in the hopes that we would sell better. So my full name is Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. But please just call me Cahir.”

“Cahir,” Eskel repeats, committing the full name to memory anyway— as best he can. Cahir doesn’t turn back to face him, not until the hot cocoa is finished pouring. The replicator plays a jaunty six-note song, and Eskel chuckles. “Catchy tune.”

When Cahir finally spins around with the mug of cocoa in his hands, Eskel catches the hint of a smile on his face. Compared to the latest model of android, Cahir is plain— no bells, no whistles. But he’s pretty, and his light blue eyes shine as he carries the drink over to the table. Eskel might be in a little bit of trouble here.

-

The space station is equipped with a standard laboratory for android upkeep, but Eskel seems to find the place wanting. He keeps asking Cahir about items that he hasn’t heard of; probably a translational error, but it gets annoying. Finally Cahir paces over to the table and strips out of his uniform to prepare for the operation; Eskel lets out a gasp, and Cahir spins to look at him. “What?”

“No, no, nothing,” Eskel bleats, very much not looking at Cahir. “I didn’t think, um. Shit! Never mind.”

Cahir glances down at his own naked body, frowning. “Surely you weren’t expecting exposed circuitry. I was made better than that.”

“Yeah, clearly,” says the mechanic, his voice thick. “It’s fine, I just… I didn’t think they made, um… service bots with… all the parts.”

Slightly amused, Cahir tells him, “My creator didn’t know what I would be sold for. I’m equipped for several roles and functions.” Eskel finally glances his way, and his gaze roams over the length of Cahir’s exposed skin. Nervous goosebumps travel along his arms and thighs, and his system begins whirring a little faster. “Is that… is there something wrong with that?”

“No,” Eskel says quickly. “You’re beautiful, that's all.”

The words stun him. Eskel still has yet to remove anything other than his helmet, but judging by his broad neck and kind eyes and the shaggy hair that falls over his brow, Cahir thinks he’s rather beautiful too. But he’s never had any opportunity to return any sentiment like this, because it’s never been directed at him before. Puzzled, he frowns, and then proposes, “You should take your suit off too. I don’t want to be the only one on display here.”

“Ha,” Eskel huffs. He doesn’t immediately move to undress, though, fidgeting with one of the tools Cahir laid out. “You might not like what you see.”

Cahir’s confusion deepens. “Why?”

The man just stares, his own frown tugging down in the scarred corner. He doesn’t offer any further explanation so Cahir returns his stare. After a long, charged moment, Eskel reaches up to unfasten the top of his suit. He slowly pulls down a zipper to reveal his chest, and instead of the undersuit that Cahir had expected, he’s only clad in baggy shorts and a loose tank top. Some scars are visible under his clothing; their webbing stretches around his shoulder and pectoral muscle to his back. 

Cahir pays his scars very little attention, too wholly consumed by how broad his entire body is, even without the spacesuit. His arms and shoulders are tense but even if he wasn’t flexing his muscles he’d still be a good deal larger than Cahir. His stomach presses against the tank top and his shorts hang low on his hips, revealing a patch of hair that creeps down his stomach and leads between his massive thighs. His chest has thick, curly hair too. Cahir was not built to want. Inexplicably, defying science and his own system, he wants.

Voice shaking with obvious nerves, Eskel shatters the silence between them: “It’s a little cold in here.” A flimsy excuse, especially when he won’t meet Cahir’s wandering eyes. He reaches down to grab his suit where it’s gathered around his knees, and Cahir launches forward to stop him, touching the backs of his hands. Eskel stops, startled, and finally looks up at him. His eyes are the exact colour of cocoa.

“I can assist with that,” Cahir says. Eskel’s pupils balloon out until they nearly eclipse his irises, but he does not move away or push Cahir off. Carefully, Cahir scoots around him, heading for the temperature control panel on the wall. Eskel watches him go with a slightly amused expression that Cahir doesn’t know how to begin to understand, so he doesn’t worry about it. He raises the temperature, and somewhere deep in the station the heat kicks on. “I’m not used to hosting humans,” he explains. “Like I said, everyone else has been gone for a month; I suppose the settings are not exactly suitable for mammals.”

Eskel’s eyes are still dark but this gives him pause. He begins to say something before thinking better of it. “Here,” he mutters instead, kicking his suit away and carefully moving Cahir’s uniform to a chair. “Lie down,” he instructs, and Cahir does. 

The mechanic carefully drags his fingertips down Cahir’s sternum, looking for something— he doesn’t find it. Cahir frowns, trying not to shiver, and he reaches for Eskel’s hand. He pulls the mechanic over to the right place; the button to access his command centre is on his right side, around where the human liver would be. Guided by Cahir, Eskel finds it and presses down gently.

His chest cavity pops open— Cahir feels nothing, thankfully. Androids are never given pain receptors in their chests or backs to allow for easier access when they need hardware updates. Eskel still winces, his eyes bulging out of his skull. Cahir snorts softly. “I thought you were a mechanic.”

Distracted, and almost slightly guiltily, Eskel replies, “What?”

“I only meant that you should be used to this by now.” Cahir gulps, glancing at Eskel’s thick wrists. “Right?”

“I mostly work with ship parts, not robots,” he concedes. “But I… um, the models I have worked on have been. Different. Their chest opens up…” He raises his hands so that Cahir can see, and parts them down the middle. “Two doors, not one.”

“Two doors?” Derisively, Cahir snorts. “I don’t know how they do things on Morhen but I have yet to see an android with two chest doors.”

“They’re called rib plates,” Eskel tells him, his voice as gentle as his touch. “They’re quite common, actually.” He reaches down into Cahir’s wiring, picking up a fistful of crossed wires to examine it closely. 

Cahir’s breath hitches, and he abruptly regrets getting fully undressed. His body is immune to most physical reactions, but androids tend to react in other ways when touched— and Cahir’s insides have always been exceptionally sensitive. He considers warning the mechanic, just so that if Eskel glances down between his thighs he won’t be surprised. But before he can say a word Eskel carefully separates a bundle of wires, and Cahir bites back a gasp. 

Abruptly, the man stops. But his fingers are still tied up in Cahir, whose breaths are coming faster and harder now. “Does that… hurt?”

“Not hurt,” Cahir pants. “No! Definitely not hurt. It’s— I’m sensitive.”

“Oh.” Eskel swallows, hard. “Would you like me to stop?”

Violently, Cahir shakes his head. Eskel seems to get the message; he eases up a little, but the gentler touches just drive Cahir crazy. It’s like he’s riding the edge of satisfaction, and Eskel won’t just give him what he needs. He can’t focus on anything— not until Eskel pulls a stopper out of a port and plugs him into a smooth, small tablet. 

The wire is sleek, dark and thin and Cahir can’t feel it at all; he reaches to touch it, mystified. Eskel looks at him sharply, surprised, but Cahir doesn’t pull his hand away. He demands, “This one doesn’t feel like anything at all. Why?”

“It’s newer,” Eskel mumbles. “Usually, they don’t— um, usually androids aren’t sensitive the way you are. So hardware updates are a very routine process. If I’d known it was going to be like this, I would have wined and dined you a little more, I mean; uh, that is to say, I, I feel, you know, sort of awkward.”

“Don’t feel awkward.” Cahir frowns, letting go of the wire so that he can hold Eskel’s wrist instead. The veins inside are a comparable size to the wire, except they’re pulsing quickly. His blood must be rushing— Cahir’s system speeds up at the thought. Then he realizes that Eskel can probably see the strain on his system performance on that little tablet, which, of course, only makes his fan run faster. “I like it,” he hastens to say. “It feels good.”

“Yeah. Fuck, I bet it does.” Nilfgaardians have their own curse words, and hearing something as common as fuck goes right to Cahir’s exposed anatomy. He leans his head back against the table, baring his throat; Eskel glances right at his neck, and swallows hard again. 

Once more, Cahir is overwhelmed by a wave of wanting. The desire does not fall in line with his programming, and doesn’t make any scientific, rational sense. But try telling that to his cock. “Touch me,” he begs, his eyelids sweeping shut. “Please, it feels… Please touch me, Eskel.”

“I want to,” Eskel groans, sounding almost pained. “You have no fucking clue how badly I want to. But I… I think something is wrong.”

A sudden sinking feeling erupts in Cahir’s stomach. Fighting off the dread, he opens his eyes to see Eskel frowning at the strange tablet. He props himself up on his elbows, trying not to jump to any fear-based conclusions before he sees the evidence for himself. “What is it?”

“I don’t want to overload you, so I’m going to say this as gently as I can,” Eskel tells him, unnaturally calm. It feels forced, and sets Cahir off more than if he’d just blurted out the bad news. But his chest door is still swinging open and he’s still connected to Eskel’s computer by a wire, so he’s helpless to do anything but watch as the mechanic pulls up a seat beside the table. “You said that you’ve been waiting on your crew for thirty days.”

“Twenty-eight,” Cahir corrects, his erection flagging instantly. “They said it would be a month, at most.”

“They were wrong.” Eskel flips around the tablet; on its screen is a list of tiny, bright statistics. Cahir sees the attribute ‘system date’ and the fact ‘actual date’, but the glowing numbers swim before his eyes and he can’t make any sense of it. Eskel sighs, but he doesn’t look away. The weight in his eyes is heavy, pitying; Cahir doesn’t understand why. “They’ve been gone much, much longer than that.”

Cahir’s mouth twitches downwards into a pout, and he blinks rapidly. “Thirty days,” he suggests.

“No.”

“A… a few months.”

“Cahir—”

“I can read it,” he insists, furiously, even though for some reason he can’t. It’s like his programming won’t let him process the information on screen; as soon as he has that idea, the sinking dread in his stomach solidifies into a stone. With horrid certainty, he knows that that’s exactly what’s going on. Still, he pleads, “They’ll be back soon. They promised!”

Eskel’s kind, brown eyes fill with tears, and Cahir can no longer bear to look at him. But he has no way to block out the sound as the human tells him, sadly but firmly, “That was ninety-three years ago, Cahir.”

Behind his eyelids he sees it all so clearly: the mission succeeding, Nilfgaard establishing a new trading port and taking control of another planet. They command other space stations, bigger ones; soon they have command over sprawling metropolises. Maybe someone challenges the Emperor and his empire— their empire succumbs. Maybe Nilfgaard grows and grows until it becomes an intergalactic power. A universal empire. 

Either way, they move on from the space station that they assigned a service bot— Emperor Emhyr’s most trusted service bot, but a service bot nonetheless— to maintain. They decide that the trip back to reclaim the station wouldn’t be worth the fuel. Not when the station’s only occupant is an antiquated android with no status and no ambition. His greatest drive above all, to serve Emhyr and happily await his return, had kept him occupied. They had ensured that it would; they had fucked with his internal clock. For him, it’s only been twenty-eight days. For everyone else, nearly a century.

Which means Emhyr is dead. A dull thrill races through Cahir’s system at that, which he instantly and violently denies and rejects. But it is— it must be the truth; the emperor is dead, his advisors dead, his commanders dead, his subjects all dead too. Except for one lowly, lonely robot; his only remaining subject. Not dead, but locked in purgatory. Abandoned but not wiped. Forgotten.

“That’s fine,” Cahir hears himself say, quite neutrally and levelly despite how badly his voice is shaking. “That is fine.”

He opens his eyes to see Eskel staring at him like he’s lost his mind, which he sort of has, really. “What?”

“You checked to see if I was up to date,” he says. “And obviously, I am not. That’s fine. I still have a mission; I still must keep the station maintained for when Nilfgaard returns.”

Eskel’s hand meets his, and their palms slide together. Humans are so warm— Cahir had forgotten. With tremendous, unbearable sympathy, Eskel says, “Cahir, they aren’t going to return.”

“They still may.” Cahir sniffs. “I cannot abandon my post just because of a programming error.”

“It wasn’t an error.” Eskel flips the tablet around. Unwillingly, Cahir reads it. The ‘system date’ and ‘actual date’ data are now accurate to each other, but underneath is another date that he has trouble processing. ‘Termination date’: six years and nine months from now. Cahir glances at Eskel for confirmation, and he nods, devastated. “They only insured this place for a century. When that runs out, they won’t care about maintaining it anymore, and you’ll go offline.”

“Well— well— they— well—” Cahir rereads the date over and over. “They might come back then. In six years and nine months.” Even to his own hearing, he sounds desperate.

Eskel squeezes his hand. “But if they don’t?”

“Then I’ll have served my purpose.” In his mind, the White Flame extinguishes itself.

To his credit, the man actually considers Cahir’s wishes before gnawing on his lip, and finally shaking his head. “I… No, I… I can’t. I’m not going to leave you to die here for no good reason! Listen, I’m not— I haven’t worked with vintage parts before, so I don’t know how to fix this. But I have contacts, and they probably could find a way, alright?”

The room suddenly seems smaller than it ever has before. Eskel’s hand in his is warm, like the hot cocoa he makes to hold every night. It takes him a millisecond to compute that he must have made over thirty four thousand mugs of cocoa. What a ridiculous waste of Nilfgaardian resources— he bankrupted his own empire without even knowing it. And all so that he could cradle something warm in his palms and stare out the window for a light that would never, ever come.

“I’ll come with you,” Cahir agrees, surprising them both.

Eskel launches forward to hug him— in doing so, his chest presses against the exposed bundle of wires, sending a thrill through the android’s system. After a moment of trying to get his synapses back in order Cahir hugs back, awkwardly and probably incorrectly. But Eskel doesn’t complain about his technique, just holding him tightly and muttering under his breath, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. And thank fucking god.”

Cahir doesn’t believe in any god, and doesn’t know anyone else alive who does. But Eskel’s zeal inspires a similar fervour in him, and he grips the human tightly in response. “And in six years and nine months,” he breathes into Eskel’s bare shoulder that tastes of sweat and salt, “you’ll bring me back here?”

After a heavy pause, Eskel nods against his throat, and releases him. “If that’s what you want.” 

It is the first time in Cahir’s life that any human has ever acknowledged what he might want. He makes a note to treasure the memory forever.

[jaskiersvalley]

Just me running to you inbox to tell you i love and adore you and your writing makes me swoon. Maybe one of these days I'll finally slide over the belated and very much over due crack fics. 💖💖💖💖💖

Much love for my dearest socks 😘😘😘😘😘

Cheese, my beloved! You brighten my inbox and DMs every time you appear. Please don't worry about the fics, you know I don't hold you to those. If inspiration strikes then wonderful but I would hate to have you forcing yourself to write just for me. But speaking of fics. You did give me free choice on who Eskel's idiot is so....I'm really rather predictable, here's some Eskhir.

The Peanut Conspiracy

As far as parties went, it was quite a lavish one. There wasn't just one table of snacks, there were two which really did mean Lambert and Aiden had gone all out. As Eskel and Cahir stepped into the room they were met with a range of greetings, ranging from Jaskier's hug to Yennefer's cool nod.

"You made it!" Lambert bumped shoulders with Eskel while Aiden appeared next to Cahir on silent feet.

He gestured to the two tables with barely concealed pride. "The one with the red napkins and bowls are all things with peanuts in. So please don't have those. But the ones with the green napkins and bowls are peanut free."

"That's most thoughtful, thank you," Cahir muttered. He didn't glance at Eskel who was smiling indulgently at him. "I'll try not to eat from the red table and die."

Pleased and reassured that their guests knew what was what, Lambert and Aiden returned to their spot on the sofa, letting everyone get comfortable as they wished. It was common knowledge among them all that Cahir had a peanut allergy. Any discussion of it almost always led to the fact that he was an unfortunate soul to never even sample the beauty that was peanut butter. Each time it was mentioned, Cahir pulled a pained face while Eskel patted him on the arm reassuringly.

"It's not all it's cracked up to be, don't worry," he'd say.

Which was like fuel to Lambert's fire, an ever devout believer in the greatness of peanut butter. Of course from such a declaration onward he and Aiden got lost in their bickering of whether crunchy or smooth was the superior kind. It left Eskel to pull Cahir against him, an arm around his shoulders and chuckle lowly.

"Neither are that great."

"I know. Both are foul." Thankfully nobody heard their quiet exchange and snickering, too caught up in Lambert and Aiden's debate which usually resulted in stomping to the kitchen to prove points. Only once did Geralt follow them out of curiosity but he beat a hasty retreat, tight lipped and almost traumatised. Only weeks later did he ask Jaskier "Does peanut butter taste different depending on whether it's served on the collarbone or the navel?" out of the blue. Their very scientific investigation proved inconclusive.

At the party Eskel and Cahir drifted to the food eventually. They wandered together, Cahir helping himself to peanut free snacks before they moved to the red table where Eskel gleefully piled various treats onto his own plate. He didn't miss the way Cahir's eyes were glued to one particular bowl. So caught up in Cahir's wistful stare, Eskel didn't manage to avoid his plate being ripped from his hands by a tipsy Lambert.

"What are you doing? Eat that, kiss him and you might as well shove peanuts down his throat with your bare hands!"

Yanking his plate back, Eskel deliberately popped a peanut M&M into his mouth and crunched it loudly. "I can put my mouth to different uses tonight."

"And give your boyfriend dick hives?" Lambert scoffed and gave Cahir a sad look. "I'm sorry you have to live with someone so selfish. You should tie him up and have your own fun tonight, teach him a lesson."

"Is that how you got Aiden to behave for you?"

The quip from Cahir held a teasing edge which Lambert couldn't help but rise to. "No. That's how he got me to behave." Frowning, he went back over what he just said and held up a hand. "No. Wait. He didn't tie me up. I tied him up. But you're still wrong."

Eskel laughed and handed Lambert a slice of coffee cake to help shut him up. It worked, they managed to sit down before a mournful declaration from Aiden went up. "Aw, all the M&Ms are gone."

Ever magnanimous, Eskel held up the last one on his plate and offered it to Aiden. Like an excitable puppy Aiden munched it, careful not to bite the fingers that had fed him.

"Hey, only I get to feed you like that, kitten," Lambert grumbled. Alas, there were no more M&Ms and feeding Aiden a cupcake didn't go quite as smoothly. At least they all laughed wildly at the crumbly mess they were making. If there was any intent for it to be sexy or sensual, the happy couple missed it by a mile.

Eventually the party wound down. Eskel and Cahir left hand in hand. Flopping into the passenger seat, Cahir let out a yawn and almost chocked when something was popped into his open mouth. His eyes widened as he looked at Eskel, slowly chewing the surprise snack. Rather than say anything, Eskel reached into his pocket and held up another peanut M&M. "If only Lambert knew I'm literally using my bare hands to delicately shove peanuts down your throat."

"He will never find out," Cahir said, leaning forward to take the next treat with a modicum of grace. A doubtful hum from Eskel had him straightening up with a mock glare. "You saw how he reacted when you said peanut butter is overrated. I don't want to get dragged into that."

"I know. Their pity is so much better than their refusal to understand you just don't like peanut butter."

Rather than reply, Cahir glanced hopefully at Eskel's pocket. Dutifully, Eskel pulled another M&M out and handed it over. Munching on it contently, Cahir settled back in his seat and let Eskel drive them home. The neighbours weren't best impressed with the squeal he gave when he watched Eskel tip his pocket into a bowl, a veritable flood of M&Ms pouring out.

"Is that the whole bowl?"

Smirking, Eskel strutted closer, cupping Cahir's cheek. "Only the best for you, baby." He kissed Cahir and pushed an M&M over into his mouth with his tongue, satisfied that he had done well.

[lambden]

Hello! Tis I, Socks. In the most predictable of ways, could I ask for some Cahir content please? 50 from the list (writer's choice). And I'm always happy to see him shipped with Eskel, Lambert and/or Aiden. Or, if you're feeling platonic then BroTP with Letho or Fringilla?

G, 2.3K words, Cahir/Eskel, no warnings Prompt: “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?” Also on AO3!

Geralt’s invitation is anything but simple, and the shape of it eludes Cahir’s usually bright mind. He cannot begin to consider it properly or fathom what it might mean for his future— a future that has been carefully planned out, and destroyed, and painstakingly crafted again, and destroyed again. He has grown tired of tending the ruinous garden of his career and life (two synonyms). So he considers, although only obliquely, Geralt’s invitation.

He finds it easier to think of the invitation in tactical terms, as though the witcher has proposed a mutually beneficial arrangement. Cahir, the parasite, will take refuge in the high walls of the secret fortress untouched by politics. Geralt, the host, will keep the Nilfgaardian menace who plagued his daughter’s nightmares within arm’s reach. Cahir is under no illusion that his stay will be one of comfort or luxury, but he only hopes it might mean a new life.

Upon his arrival at Kaer Morhen, Cahir re-evaluates the strategy in an instant. The walls are not high but crumbling, clearly maintained over several centuries by the dwindling numbers of the School of the Wolf. The occupants are not fearsome prison guards who track his every move, but ruggedly handsome mutants who drink until they’re sick and trade stories of slain monsters. And Geralt, the traitor, is nowhere to be found.

Abandoning his imagined hierarchy adds extra difficulty to Cahir’s perfect plan, and the confusion leaves him floundering when he meets another witcher who should rightly be the leader of Kaer Morhen: Vesemir, the eldest of the Wolves with enough scars to tell several lifetimes worth of stories. But Vesemir ladles out soup for Cahir without measuring the portions, teasing him about needing some meat on his bones.

Then perhaps in Geralt’s absence, the unlikely authority here is one of the other Wolves. Cahir watches them as closely as he can without arousing suspicion, but all he can glean from their interactions is that in Kaer Morhen, camaraderie and affection flow as freely as ale. The witchers clap one another on the shoulder and pull each other into hugs and offer compliments with no obvious ulterior motives. Despite having no blood relation and spending most of their summers apart, they are a family so closely knit together that Cahir feels ill just watching them. What a massive mistake he made by coming here.

Cahir sways to his feet, thinking absent-mindedly of finding one of Geralt’s sorceress friends to portal him away— maybe to Vicovaro. This is another mistake, as multiple sets of witcher eyes snap to stare at him, each more handsome than the last. Cahir winces but before he can apologize for the inadvertent interruption, the rudest Wolf shakes his head and softly tut-tut-tuts. “Where are our manners? We’ve been gabbing away the whole night; you must be fucking exhausted. You haven’t even had a drop to drink!”

“Forgive us,” the most handsome of the witchers, Eskel, pleads. Cahir thinks he would forgive a man with a face and body like that for just about anything. But he doesn’t share the thought, already feeling uncomfortable with the extra attention. “We aren’t used to hosting humans here.”

“Except Ciri, I guess,” Lambert retorts. “… But she drinks like a fish, so that doesn’t apply.”

They hadn’t offered Cahir anything except the soup. He elects to keep this observation to himself. “Is there somewhere here I can rest?”

Eskel begins to say something but Vesemir interrupts. “Geralt told us you were coming.” He rises, standing remarkably well for someone who put away that much liquor. “We prepared a room. It isn’t much, but it’s got a bed and some candles. We’ll have to get you some warmer clothes tomorrow too!” 

Grimacing at the idea, Cahir nods anyway. He’s only made it through tonight by the virtue of the magical firepit that the witchers keep relighting. If he’s to survive the winter here, he’ll have to learn to dress like one of these men.

“I can show you to your room,” Eskel starts, but Cahir is already shaking his head before the witcher even finishes speaking. “Alright, uh… it’s down the two sets of stairs over there, hang a right, walk down that corridor, up that set of stairs, and then second door on the left. Got all that?”

Cahir nods, grateful for the literal and clear, albeit detailed, instructions. “Yes, thank you!” Eskel shoots him a big goofy grin like he’s proud or something, and the directions evaporate right out of Cahir’s brain along with every other coherent thought. But Eskel’s still beaming, so there’s nothing to be done— Cahir bows good-night to the other witchers, then heads in the direction of the indicated staircase.

Down two sets of stairs, to the right, down the hall, up one set of stairs, second door. Easy enough. He gets slightly distracted by the hall decorated with grandiose portraits of witchers long past, and then distracted once more when he spies an armoury through an open door before the final set of stairs. Cahir definitely wants Vesemir to give him a full tour of this place in the morning.

Cahir frowns and recoils as he quickly remembers himself. He’s only here thanks to Geralt, so he can hardly be considered a guest whose presence would warrant a tour of the facilities. He hurries up the stairs to his room, only stopping when he sees the rows of doors on either side. The Wolves could house a whole army of recruits in here; hell, once upon a time they probably had.

Down the stairs, turn right, down the hall, up the stairs… “Second door,” Cahir mutters. The second door on the right is shut but not locked, as he finds out when he gently pushes it open. From Vesemir’s meagre description Cahir had expected only a bed and candles. He hadn’t thought that the candles would be lit already, flickering silently as if to welcome him in. 

The other furniture also throws him off his rhythm. Had Geralt really asked his family to set up the room like this? In the corner is a hideous suit of handmade red and gold armour that Cahir prays he won’t be expected to wear. The mannequin stands proudly next to a desk with a small amount of writing supplies. The stationery and decor is nothing like what he had in Nilfgaard, but Cahir imagines his role here will be very different from there.

His focus is immediately pulled to the bedroom’s centre of attention. The mattress is thick enough that he won’t feel the stone frame, although the bed looks comfortable enough. Cahir had expected a dungeon but this place is dressed like a palace. When he finally steps out of the entryway and the door swings shut behind him, the bed pulls Cahir in. He could resist it no more than a hungry drowner could resist a loud swimmer.

As fast as possible, Cahir strips out of his chilled, sweaty clothes and folds them carefully, leaving the pile on the chair. He sends one last withering glare in the direction of the horrible Wolven armour before clambering up onto the bed in only his smalls.

The pillow is cool beneath his head and neck but the pelts are warm and heavy, and it isn’t long before the insulation starts to make Cahir feel drowsy. He curls up on his side and pulls his knees to his chest, sticking his hands between his thighs only to cling to the warm flesh there.

He has no desire to do anything more— not while he’s a guest here, anyway. It wouldn’t be polite, and the witchers have been so polite. In return, Cahir wants to be good for them. That’s his last conscious thought before sleep claims him.

-

-

Every night of carousing must eventually reach its end, and when Lambert finally starts yawning, Eskel takes it as a cue. He sets down his tankard, ignoring the baying of his fellow witchers and rising to stand. “See you out on the Killer in an hour?”

Lambert receives his joke with a rude gesture and a jumbled, colourful mixture of profanity. Eskel grins, glancing around the room to regain his bearings before he heads to bed.

Despite the winding, complicated floor plan of this place, Eskel never worries that he’ll lose his way. He hasn’t been turned around here since he was a trainee, and even then this place had been a home and thus he knew its vague layout. A rough and murderous home, sure, but a home nonetheless.

He stumbles down the hall, nodding nonsensically to a portrait of some dead old Wolf and then taking the stairs up to the living quarters two at a time. While Geralt and Lambert have migrated to different parts of the fortress, Eskel likes staying in his old room. The memories remind him of how far he’s come, how much he’s grown, and all that he has sacrificed to get where he is now. Without those reminders he might get a better night’s rest, but he would sorely miss the splinter.

Being a witcher and all, Eskel can tell that something is awry before he even touches the knob of his closed door. There is a strange scent clinging to the air, and a muted thumping noise. At first he touches his medallion, fearful of an intruder, but… whatever has entered his room is not monstrous in nature, or at least not magical. Eskel braces himself, feeling around for his sword before quietly cursing; he had foolishly used it to chop up a melon for their dessert. If this is how he dies, Vesemir will resurrect him just to give him the lecture of a lifetime.

The door swings open easily and no one stands awaiting Eskel, but someone is lying in wait. He stares, dumbfounded, at the sleeping figure with messy hair and bare shoulders. Sleeping in his bed, under his covers. And wearing, according to the pile of clothing on his chair, not much at all.

“Cahir,” Eskel murmurs, too drunk to try to remember Cahir Mawr Different aemon Ceallach Whatever-the-shit. The man doesn’t stir, completely still aside from his gently parted mouth, lips moving so shallow breaths can pass. It’s a very pretty mouth. Eskel stares for perhaps a moment longer than he should. “… Cahir!”

“Yes,” replies the former officer without really stirring. Then a current seems to pass through him, jolting him back into consciousness— Cahir sits up ramrod-straight, the pile of blankets falling into his lap and revealing his pink, bare chest. He stares dead ahead but doesn’t seem to really process his whereabouts, let alone the identity of the witcher who interrupted his sleep. Despite his state of undress, Cahir repeats with practiced severity, “Yes?”

Eskel snorts, amused. Cahir’s dreary gaze finally lands on him, and the man’s pulse quickens at a speed that gratifies Eskel greatly. He asks, “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”

“Your…” Cahir drifts off, before blanching and struggling with the pelts. Eskel accidentally sees that he isn’t really naked, although his smallclothes leave little to the imagination. As Cahir thrashes about in panic he trips over his own words, stammering, “I was— I must have gone to the wrong room. This explains why it’s so nice! Shit! I truly did not mean to intrude upon you, and I will leave you posthence— ah, posthaste, I mean, shit—”

“That isn’t necessary,” Eskel waves away the increasingly frenzied complaining, and although Cahir clearly has more to say, he falls silent when Eskel approaches the other side of the bed and kicks off his boots. Still wearing his loose shirt and trousers that smell of apple cider and sharp liquor and sweat, Eskel tumbles down onto the mattress next to Cahir. The other man doesn’t move— he hardly breathes. If not for his racing heartbeat and wide eyes, Eskel would think him asleep again. “I don’t mind sharing.”

“Oh.” All the air deflates from Cahir but he offers no protest, even when Eskel gently removes one of the pelts tangled up around his knees so as to snuggle under it. There is a sizable amount of room between them but their breaths are still loud enough to make the large room feel cramped, and Eskel wonders if Cahir can sense his own emotions and desires the way he can hear the human’s heart. “Then in that case, I’ll take advantage of the warmth for the night, thank you.” If Cahir hears how that sounds, he doesn’t acknowledge it or even miss a beat. “I will return to my own room in the morning.”

“Sure, it’s across the hall.” Eskel adjusts the pillow under his head before turning to stare at Cahir. He finds the man already watching him, which definitely makes things easier. With as much purposeful innuendo as Eskel can shove into the words, he says, “But I don’t mind if you take advantage again tomorrow. This is the most I’ve heard you talk since you arrived!”

Cahir blinks, chest rising and falling minutely. Eskel’s gaze dips down once more to the blush of colour between his pectorals, but Cahir surprisingly doesn’t move to cover up his body. Funny— Eskel assumed he’d be a bit of a prude, based on everything about him. Cahir finally protests, without any real fight in him, “I only just arrived at Kaer Morhen.”

“Hope you stick around for a while,” he rumbles, the comfort of his own bed mingling with the alcohol still clouding his brain. “We’re not so bad, you know.” Before Cahir can reply, Eskel drifts off; not just into meditation, but true sleep. Even in his dreams, Cahir’s proximity and warmth soothe him through the night.