Work Text:
Geralt’s late.
Jaskier leans against the wall of the bakery he just visited, the still-warm bun forgotten as it cools in his hand, eyes scanning the small marketplace. It’s one he’s become fairly familiar with over the years; it belongs to a tiny town halfway between Oxenfurt and the Kaedweni mountains. He’s been meeting Geralt here every spring for the past decade or so.
They never verbally discussed their little agreement— it just had happened naturally. Ten years ago, while Jaskier was travelling north to meet Geralt halfway, the witcher had happened to be travelling south with the same intent. They’d met in this very marketplace three weeks after the official start of spring.
And they’d just sort of… done the same thing the year after that. And the year after, and after, and after, for about a decade. They’d never talked about it: they would simply find each other at the same place and the same time. Then they would travel together as if nothing had happened, as if an entire winter hadn’t separated them.
Except this year, Geralt is late.
Now, Jaskier could wave away a day or two, maybe three. But Geralt is nothing if not punctual, and he was supposed to meet Jaskier a week ago.
There’s a lot of things that could happen to a lone witcher between Kaedwen and this tiny town. There’s a lot of things that could happen during a winter in a crumbling keep in the harsh mountains.
Geralt’s never late.
The sun starts to set on the small square and Jaskier ignores the questioning look the villagers give him as they head home for the night. The bun remains forgotten in his hand.
Evening turns to dusk, turns to night— the light slowly fading, the colours of the sky waning and darkening. Stars appear. The moon smiles its crooked grin, and yet Jaskier still leans against the wall- eyes trained on the north road.
Still, he stands alone.
It’s only when a drunkard passes him on the way home from the tavern that Jaskier moves, heading to the inn to warm his stiff limbs and fill his empty stomach. He doesn’t catch sleep that night; he waits. Waits and listens for the sound of hooves on stone.
Another day passes, and still Geralt is late.
---
It’s been two weeks since they were supposed to meet and Jaskier finally spots a familiar brown horse and an even more familiar head of silver hair making their way towards him.
At first, he thinks it’s a mirage, a trick of his mind to desperately fill in the empty space he’s been staring at for the past fourteen days. He has to rub at his dry eyes before he finally believes it.
Geralt’s here.
His feet nearly trip over themselves in their hurry to carry him towards the witcher, his grin so wide it makes his cheeks hurt, the tears of relief stinging in his eyes.
Geralt lets out a small oompf as he suddenly catches an armful of bard, tentatively returning the tight hug after a few moments.
Jaskier almost immediately pulls back, hand slapping against the witcher’s armored chest, relief making way for anger. “Where the hell were you?”
Geralt merely shrugs. “There was a contract for a wraith. Couldn’t refuse.”
“I was worried sick, Geralt! You were supposed to be here two weeks ago; I thought you were dead!”
Geralt furrows his brow. “Hmm.”
“Don’t you hmm me! I thought I would never see you again.”
The witcher seems to consider that for a moment, and Jaskier is about to tell him not to shrug this entire thing off, when Geralt Furrows his brow, his golden eyes turning thoughtful. “Sorry. I didn’t think you would worry.”
“Of course I worry, you big oaf.” Despite everything he’s been through the past two weeks, he can’t stay mad at Geralt.
“Why?”
The question takes him aback, and he needs a few moments to gather his wits and not blurt out the first answer that comes to mind. The words burn on his tongue, but he’s not ready for Geralt to hear them just yet.
“Because you’re my friend,” he says eventually.
It’s not the full truth but it’s not a lie either, and Geralt seems to accept it well enough for now.
“Hmm,” the witcher says eloquently, before turning and taking a few steps towards the marketplace, the crowd swirling around him like waves around a rock. “I need some supplies.”
The words that were burning on Jaskier’s tongue a few moments ago now fight for attention, taking up every part of his mind until he can’t think of anything else.
“I worry because I love you,” he whispers; the same way he’s whispered them during quiet nights in the woods, between the sheets of shared beds whenever he was sure Geralt was sleeping. The same way he’s whispered them to the trees, to the grass, to the flowers, to the stars as silver as Geralt’s hair. Just to feel the way his lips formed around the words, to see them hang in the air for a moment before falling flat, and to wonder how it would be if they were heard, just once.
“Hmm?” Geralt looks over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
Jaskier plasters on his most convincing smile, “Nothing.”
One day, Geralt will hear it. Just not today.