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Geralt had taken a contract.
Geralt was late.
Geralt wasn’t answering his phone.
He’d said it wouldn’t be a big deal, but Geralt didn’t often take contracts anymore, since monsters were becoming more rare. But, with people forced inside by the pandemic, it seemed they’d become more active, and he’d been called away to deal with drowners that had stolen a child.
Geralt had texted him when he’d arrived at the town to investigate, then he hadn’t said another word and hadn’t responded to texts or calls. Dandelion had even tried tweeting at the mayor of the town, but the man hadn’t been active on twitter in two years, so he didn’t have much hope for that. Then he’d managed to dig up the phone number to the city council, but they didn’t work weekends and he’d been sent straight to voicemail. He had the fax number of the city’s police chief, but he didn’t have a fax machine.
The only person he’d been able to get ahold of was the elderly librarian at the city’s library, but she didn’t know that Geralt was even in town, let alone if he was alright. He’d nearly started crying when she said that, and she had spent several minutes talking to him, trying to calm him down. She’d exchanged contact information with him, promising to call him if she heard anything, and making him swear to call her if he needed someone to talk to.
Dandelion lost track of how long he sat on the front porch. Eventually, it began to snow and his jacket was no longer enough to protect him from the cold. He went inside and found a thick quilt, dragging it outside along with a kerosene powered space heater. He clutched his phone and paced until his feet hurt, then he sat for a while on the porch swing, but that made his back hurt, so he moved to laying on the ground instead, dragging his heating pad outside.
The sun set as he laid on his back, watching snow swirl and icicles form on the roof of the porch. But there was still nothing from the Witcher.
Eventually, all he could do was wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Geralt had taken his car and Dandelion didn’t own one, so he couldn’t even go looking for him. Roach was in her stable but Dandelion wasn’t the world’s most confident rider, it was dark, and he was afraid of getting lost on the backroads with no headlights (or hit by a reckless driver). He was effectively trapped in Geralt’s crumbling house, with no hope of helping his friend.
Dandelion chewed his nails to stubs, too anxious to even eat or drink.
It was well past midnight when he saw the headlights.
Dandelion was at the car door before Geralt had even stopped the car, pulling it open and nearly falling into the startled Witcher’s arms. “You’re alive!” he sobbed, practically crawling into the open door, dragging his quilt with him.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Geralt quickly put the car into park then wrapped his arms around Dandelion, rubbing his back. “My phone died,” he explained. “And I didn’t have a charger.”
“I thought you had died,” Dandelion managed.
Geralt turned the car off and pulled the key from the ignition, then carefully eased Dandelion back out the door. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s go inside.”
The singer clung to him as Geralt helped him up the front steps. He led Dandelion inside and sat him on the couch in the entry hall, then ducked outside long enough to gather up the heating pad and space heater that Dandelion had left outside.
When he returned to Dandelion he gave him a gentle swat on his head. “Don’t run your heating pad off an extension cord,” he scolded.
Dandelion managed a weak nod, then pulled Geralt to sit beside him, burying his face in the Witcher’s shoulder. “I’m going with you next time,” he managed weakly.
Geralt rubbed his back soothingly. “Alright, Dandelion,” he murmured. “Alright.”