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Lambert genuinely does assume that Vesemir will notice that the oh-so-special White Wolf and his ever-present shadow are working themselves into a state of collapse. Surely the old Wolf knows that his favorite sons aren’t using the winter for resting the way witchers are meant to do. Surely he knows perfectly well that they’re getting up too damn early and spending all day every day doing the hardest, heaviest, nastiest chores they can find and then falling into bed again far too late in the evening without even the excuse of Gwent or White Gull to keep them awake. Surely he knows they aren’t even taking any time to bask in the hot springs, the only good part of coming back to this ruin of a keep. Surely he notices that they’re doing more work than any four of their remaining brothers put together.
It takes until the day Lambert sees Eskel go to one knee, panting, and brace himself against the wall for a long moment, then haul himself to his feet again and follow Geralt - who evidently hasn’t noticed that his brother is exhausted, probably because he is moving like all his bones are filled with lead and he’s got blinkers like a horse, focused on the next bucket of gravel to be taken up to the top of the wall - that Lambert realizes that in fact no, nobody but him has noticed that the prides of Kaer Morhen are going to work themselves right into an early grave if they’re allowed.
Gods damn it, is he the only one who gives a fuck around here? So much for the vaunted brotherhood of Wolves.
Fine. Fuck it. If he has to take care of everything himself, by the gods he doesn’t actually worship, he’ll do it well.
(He believes in gods. Only actual directed malice could make the world as shitty as it is. He just doesn’t worship them, because fuck them sideways with a spiked mace anyway.)
Lambert may be the forever-youngest and littlest and least of the Wolves, but he’s not going to stand by and watch the best of his brothers work themselves to death.
His first stop is Vesemir. “If you say a damn word to Geralt or Eskel about slacking for the next week I will fucking end you, old man,” he growls, and stomps out again while Vesemir is blinking at him in confusion.
His second stop is the pantry; his third is the linen closet. His fourth is the little hot spring in the corner, tucked away so it’s as private as anything gets in this fucking echoey ruin.
By the time he’s done fussing, it’s well past sunset; he bolts his dinner, not even caring that it’s cold, and sets an alarm candle for too fucking early in the morning, and sends himself firmly to sleep.
He wakes when the candle’s bell chimes into its dish, indulges in a few choice swear words at the dark and the cold - Ofieri has some very good curses for just such occasions - and gets up.
The keep is utterly silent around him as he stalks up to the room Geralt and Eskel share. Good; he’s early enough. He slips in through their door and closes it silently behind him, leaning back against it, and takes note of just how exhausted they must be that they don’t even twitch at his intrusion on their space. Yes, everyone sleeps deeper in Kaer Morhen, knowing they’re safe once the snow has closed the Trail, but there’s sleeping deeply and there’s not noticing someone in your fucking room.
It’s another full hour before either of them twitches. Lambert spends the time considering ways to improve the taste of Swallow and enjoying the scent of his favorite brothers untainted by stress or pain or general misery. He’s never said anything about how much he genuinely enjoys their scent and their conversation and their general company - never felt like he could or should interject himself into their tightly-bonded little pack, especially after Gweld died and they grew even closer in their grief - but he really does like them, which given that Lambert almost never likes anyone is saying a whole hell of a lot.
It’s still dark out, given that it’s winter in the far fucking north, when Geralt finally shifts slightly, snuggling closer to Eskel and pressing a kiss to Eskel’s scarred cheek. Lambert doesn’t let himself ache at the easy, unhesitating affection.
Eskel makes a quiet, formless sound and stretches, and Geralt sits up and then notices Lambert, which is a frankly worrisome lapse in alertness.
“Lam?” Geralt rasps. Shit, he sounds exhausted already and he just woke up.
“Lam?” Eskel asks blearily. “What? Is something wrong?”
“Yeah, what’s wrong is the two of you are running yourselves fucking ragged and I’m not having it anymore,” Lambert bites out. “You’re taking the next entire godsdamned week off and I’m going to fucking make sure you actually relax, if I have to fucking sit on you to do it.”
There’s a pause while they both blink at him. “On both of us?” Eskel asks at last, sounding amused.
“I will figure out how,” Lambert swears. “You’re both too fucking wrung out to stop me.”
There’s a long pause. Geralt looks at Eskel - really looks, Lambert thinks, for the first time this winter, instead of just seeing what he expects to see. Eskel gives Geralt the same sort of thoughtful contemplation. Lambert glares impartially at both of them.
Geralt is too thin, very nearly gaunt, and by this point in the winter he should have regained a layer of healthy padding. Eskel has lines of pain and weariness etched on his face, emphasizing the scars, and is moving more slowly than he ought, as though his bones ache.
“Shit,” Geralt murmurs, and curls down to rest his forehead against Eskel’s. “‘Skel. I’m sorry.”
Eskel runs a hand over Geralt’s hair. “I shoulda said something.” He looks over at Lambert, and there’s something odd in his eyes - something Lambert would almost call respect, if he didn’t know better. “We’re lucky our Lam’s looking out for us.”
“Hm. Yes,” Geralt agrees, to Lambert’s blank astonishment. He thought this was going to be a much longer argument.
Eskel gives Lambert a small, weary, rueful smile. “Well, Lam? Apparently you’re leading this hunt. What’s our next move?”
Lambert blinks several times, trying to mentally skip past the half an hour he’d budgeted for arguing vociferously. “Uh. You two go the fuck back to sleep and I go bring up breakfast.”
“We should help,” Geralt protests, sitting up again.
Lambert glowers. “You should shut the fuck up and rest, you great pillock.” Geralt frowns back. Lambert huffs - and then thinks about something Geralt taught him, years ago, about how to deal with horses.
“You stay right fucking here while I go get breakfast, and I’ll bring up an extra pot of jam,” he says slowly. “And an extra sweet roll for Eskel.”
Eskel actually grins. Geralt makes a grumbly little noise deep in his throat, but he also lets Eskel pull him down into the furs again. Lambert lets himself out quietly, feeling tentatively pleased with the way his plan is going.
He’s flatly astonished when Vesemir greets him in the kitchen with a wordless nod and a gesture at a very full tray of eggs and sausage and griddle cakes, easily enough for two hungry witchers. Hell, it looks like almost enough for four. Lambert adds the promised jam and sweet rolls to the tray, nods back to Vesemir, and heads back upstairs.
Gardis passes him going down, and reaches out teasingly for one of the rolls, only to recoil with a startled yelp when Lambert full-on snarls at him. “Not for you,” Lambert snaps, glaring, and stomps upward glowering, leaving Gardis looking baffled behind him.
Geralt and Eskel are still in bed, Eskel petting Geralt’s hair as Geralt dozes on his chest. Lambert huffs in satisfaction and puts the tray down on the battered old table next to the bed. “Breakfast, idiots.”
Eskel chuckles. “Sweet-talker,” he teases, and lets Geralt sit up. “Pull that armchair over, then.”
Lambert blinks. Geralt nods and pushes one of the boiled eggs towards Lambert. “Eat with us.”
Lambert pulls the armchair over to the table, feeling a little wrongfooted. This wasn’t in the plan, but there is enough food, so…
He eats his share of the meal while keeping a close eye on the other two, to make sure they don’t try to scant themselves for some stupid self-sacrificing reason. And they have been eating too little, that’s plain enough, because the tray Lambert thought would be generous for four is empty by the time they’re done, and Lambert only ate as much as he usually does.
“Thank you,” Eskel says, once he’s finished savoring the last few bites of his sweet roll. “Now what? We probably should go help with the wall, at least a little -”
“No you fucking well should not,” Lambert snaps. “The rest of our brothers can fucking well cope without the two of you working like beaten donkeys.” He glares at Eskel until Eskel actually looks away. “What you’re doing next is coming down to the hot springs and actually basking the way I know for a fact you haven’t been.” Lambert hesitates, then - well, it worked for breakfast. “And if you don’t put up a fuss I’ll wash your hair for you.” He knows Geralt, at least, turns into a little puddle of witcher when someone fusses with his hair - he’s seen Eskel do that often enough - and Eskel - “And get your shoulders, too.”
Eskel chuckles ruefully. “Rank bribery,” he says, sounding amused.
“Yep,” Lambert agrees. “Is it working?”
Eskel and Geralt glance at each other. Geralt smiles slightly and shrugs. Eskel nods. “I suppose it is,” Eskel allows.
Well, thank fuck for that.
“Come on, then,” Lambert says briskly, and herds them downstairs.
Geralt sinks into the hot spring with a long sigh that sounds like it comes from the bottom of his soul; Eskel groans just as fervently, and they list against each other, clearly too exhausted to stay upright. Lambert gathers soap and scrubbing cloths and slides into the water without any ridiculous noises at all. They both give him rather odd looks when he lathers up one of the cloths and scoops up one of Geralt’s arms to start scrubbing, though.
“Lam?” Eskel asks warily.
“You’re supposed to be fucking relaxing,” Lambert grumbles. “Sit back and let me work, you ninnies.”
“Yes, Lam,” Eskel murmurs, which for some reason makes Lambert go hot all over, and then to his delight both of the older Wolves lean back against the wall of the pool and close their eyes, relaxing utterly. Trusting him to do whatever he chooses.
Lambert swallows hard and starts working on Geralt’s arm, keeping his touch firm and steady, and is rewarded by Geralt’s breathing evening out until he’s very nearly asleep beneath Lambert’s ministrations. The great White Wolf, malleable as putty in Lambert’s hands.
Lambert feels about ten feet tall, and also like he’ll bite anyone who dares approach this pool right now.
By the time he’s finished washing Geralt’s hair, Geralt is asleep; Lambert rolls up a towel to prop beneath Geralt’s head, and moves on to Eskel, who has been watching with half-lidded eyes and a little smile as Lambert cared for Geralt and still manages to look startled when Lambert reaches for him.
“What, did you think I was just gonna leave you hanging?” Lambert grumbles under his breath.
Eskel’s smile goes strange and crooked and soft. “I’m starting to realize how wrong that assumption would be,” he murmurs back, and very deliberately closes his eyes and lets himself go lax and easy. Lambert feels another wave of that strange defensive, possessive pride, and sets to work. He’s a little more forceful than he was with Geralt, digging in his thumbs where the muscles are tight, and Eskel makes soft half-pained, half-pleasured noises and melts beneath his hands.
Lambert steps back with a sigh of satisfaction when he’s done, looking proudly at the older Wolves draped against the side of the pool, so relaxed they’re almost puddles, eyes closed and slumped against each other. Now that’s a good morning’s work.
Geralt cracks one eye open and raises a snow-white eyebrow in silent question. “Just rest a bit,” Lambert tells him quietly. “That’s all you need to do right now.”
Geralt hums and closes his eye again, resting his cheek against the top of Eskel’s head and sighing. Lambert gets out of the pool and dries off briskly, puts away the soap and drapes the wet cloths over a bench to dry, pulls his trousers back on, and trots barefoot back up to their room to bring the tray down to the kitchen and retrieve a full lunch, bread and cheese and venison and baked apples under an upturned bowl to keep them hot, and sticks that back in their room, and goes back down to the hot springs.
Geralt and Eskel are just starting to rouse from their nap; Lambert grins at the evidence of his good timing, and grabs a pair of towels. He can’t dry both of them off very effectively, but he at least gets their backs for them, and then insists on Geralt sitting down on a bench and letting Lambert comb out his hair. He does Eskel’s, too, because fair is fair, and gets them into their sleeping trousers and back upstairs without encountering anyone. He’s glad of that: he doesn’t want anyone asking any questions. He can’t explain even to himself why he’s so determined to fuss over his brothers like a broody hen over her eggs; he certainly doesn’t want to try to defend his odd impulse to Gardis or Berengar or Clovis.
Geralt’s eyes light up when he sees the food waiting, and Eskel makes a soft pleased sound, and they both sit down on the edge of the bed and dig in without any objections, though Eskel does give Lambert a pointed look until Lambert takes the armchair and joins them. Thankfully he grabbed enough food for that.
He’s planning to chivvy them into lying down again and go bring the tray back to the kitchen, and then grab a book so he can come keep watch and make sure they don’t get any bright ideas about going down and helping with chores this afternoon -
And his plans get thoroughly baffled when Eskel finishes licking his fingers clean from the baked apple’s honey-sticky skin, glances over at Geralt for a moment, and says, “You fuss like Gweld used to.”
Lambert makes an undignified sputtering sound of shock. Geralt chuckles.
“You do,” he agrees. “‘S nice.” He glances at Eskel and his shoulders slump a little. “He’d’ve slapped my head for being a damn fool.”
“Yes, well, he had head-slapping privileges,” Lambert manages faintly. Gweld was their match and mate - Lambert’s just their forever-youngest brother. “I don’t.”
“You could,” Eskel says softly, rendering Lambert thoroughly speechless again. “Not - we’re not pretending you’re Gweld come again. He’s dead, and you’re nothing like him. But we - we care about you, and we didn’t realize you cared about us so much. So.” They both give Lambert hopeful looks, and he stares back in what would be terror if the mutagens still allowed him to feel it.
“You’re being good to us,” Geralt says. “Let us be good to you, too, Lam?”
Lambert’s throat is dry, but somewhere he finds the wherewithal to croak, “Yes.”
Eskel shifts back on the bed and opens his arms. “Come here, then,” he says. “You can make sure we behave ourselves easiest from in the bed, right?”
Lambert stumbles a bit getting to his feet, and lurches to the side of the bed, and then they’re drawing him down and curling around him, Geralt pulling the furs up over all of them. Lambert lies there in dazed confusion as they both tuck their noses against his throat and fall asleep, arms wrapped around him snugly and one of Geralt’s legs slung over both of his.
This was not part of the plan. He was honestly just hoping he could use their surprise at his daring to order them around to get them to rest for a day, two if he was lucky and their bodies took advantage of the opportunity to sleep. He wasn’t expecting them to - well - to appreciate it. To offer him a place between them as their equal, not their forever-youngest brother. To see his irritable grumbling as the affection which it truly is, and welcome it.
Well…fuck it. They let him in.
They’re never getting rid of him now.