Jaskier waits at night. (1.3k, kind of sad ☆ also on AO3)
No, no, no. He is not sleepy no matter how much his head is drooping. The night is young, and he mustn’t fall asleep.
The chair digs into Jaskier’s bum uncomfortably, so he curls his legs despite the faint ache in his joints. The door to their inn room remains shut, the corridor outside quiet without the footsteps of a witcher returning. He strains his eyes open, keeping the frame of the door in his vision.
The hunt sounds dangerous from the too-brief description Geralt gave him in reluctance. He could get injured. He could need Jaskier’s help when he gets back bleeding half to death—but still insisting he’s fine, of course. Jaskier has not stayed with the witcher for long, but he knows better than to believe those lies.
He knows quite a lot about the witcher, even though Geralt never admits they are friends, even though they’ve only been traveling together for two years.
Or is it three years already? Four? Time flies when adventure awaits at every corner, and Jaskier loses track of the days between monsters and ballads.
But, yes, he knows a lot about Geralt. The subtle smile on his face when Jaskier tells a particularly cheeky joke, the silver glint of his hair in the shimmering morning light, the elegant stance when he readies for a fight, the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the softness of them when he kisses Jaskier—
In his fantasies, at least. Jaskier shakes his head to chase away those unbidden thoughts. It’s truly too late and his mind is jumbled. Geralt cannot learn the thoughts he harbors. He tolerates Jaskier as it is, and this will certainly be the last straw.
Geralt would leave, if he learned how much Jaskier loves him.
And it’s not like the witcher hasn’t tried. At the beginning of their acquaintance, Geralt has sneaked away one too many times while Jaskier slept, being the quiet witcher he is. Or, he has also fled right after a hunt, leaving Jaskier in a room that was no longer theirs, not realizing until sunrise.
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