Work Text:
In the early springtime, when the meadowlarks are crafting their nests from tufts of dried grasses, hidden on the ground under rock and sagebrush, the little wild buttercup that grows like a weed across the countryside begins to bloom.
Geralt, as rested as a witcher can be after a winter spent at his snow covered home in the Blue Mountains, rides his chestnut mare down from said mountains. He follows paths known only to him and his kind, avoiding main roads until necessary. The mare is eager after a winter stabled, and surges forward at the least amount of freedom given to her, flickering her ears back and forth at her rider's softly spoken words.
"Good girl, good girl," he says to her, letting her choose her own way for the most part. "We'll be to your meadow soon now." The horse remembers the word. Meadow. It means grass. And lots of it. Rolling in grass and eating grass and saddle off and wonderful magically cool dew covered mornings when the man sleeps in long enough for her to nose through the early spring greens, finding the sweetest pieces to eat. Roach pictures her meadow at his word and her step is light and quick at the thought of it.
Geralt has begun to associate this meadow with the bard. Early springtime means returning to the hunt, to the Path, to civilization. But the meadow means buttercups. Roach's meadow is a solid mass of gold this time of year, every curve and dip that isn't filled with sagebrush or grasses has sprouted the delicate butter yellow wildflower. And Jaskier, the bard, had let slip one year, whilst journaling, and discussing his journal with Geralt, that his real name wasn't Jaskier. That was only his stage name. His nom de plume. And further, his stage name had a softer meaning. It meant buttercup. Jaskier had seemed shy about this revelation at the time. Like he hadn't chosen the name for himself. Like it was something to be ashamed of, something a bit too feminine perhaps, and especially maybe to be admitting such a thing to a man like Geralt.
Geralt, upon reaching Roach's meadow filled with the most beautiful, brilliant flowers, absorbing and reflecting sunshine back out into the world like tiny yellow mirrors, feels his lips open in the kind of smile he would never display to another living being. Well, beyond his horse anyway. But Roach is too busy imagining herself rolling in her meadow and eating her spring grass and does not give two fucks that her witcher is beaming like a fool up on her back.
Geralt continues to beam, imagining the bard and his ridiculous music, his silly and frivolous clothing, the soft wave to his hair, the way he might embrace Geralt on first sight, without any reservations. He throws a leg over the saddle, boots thumping to the ground. His horse attempts to remind him how long it's been since she's tasted spring grass by tugging at her reigns but Geralt isn't paying attention. He's stooped to pick a buttercup from the cluster of them at his feet. He stands and twists it between two fingers, a warmth flooding him unexpectedly. This year he would embrace Jaskier first, before the bard even opened his arms. He stoops again, picking a fresh blossom and Roach nudges him in the backside and he laughs softly at her.
"Alright, girl. You are patience itself and you do deserve a rest." He pulls her bridle over her head and unbuckles her saddle and promises a full rub down when they've set up camp. And the red mare wastes no time listening to anything more the man has to say, immediately going down to her knees before rolling all the way over to her left, then right side, pulling a mouthful of grass out as she kicks and grunts.
Before they've left the meadow behind for lower elevations, Geralt has a moment of regret that he can't keep a buttercup preserved until he meets up with the bard, as he has been counting on doing. He tucks a few of them into his saddle bag anyway, poking their fuzzy stems into an old potion bottle that he fills with water, carefully nestling it between an extra pair of underthings and a bag containing a strong smelling cheese.
But Jaskier isn't waiting for him in one of their oft frequented taverns. He isn't waiting for Geralt by the wayside either, not a dust covered bard looking out sheepishly from under his mop of waves, no blue eyes twinkling in welcome for the witcher.
At his next stop, Geralt takes the little vial of water and buttercups out of his bag to check over and, other than a small crease on one petal they are fresh and bright still. He imagines gifting them to the bard. But the bard isn't here and Geralt is suddenly embarrassed that he would be foolish enough to think he would be. He puts the flowers back where they were in his bag anyway, shoving his disappointment in along with it.
It's been three days and the witcher still looks up hopefully from his tankard of ale at every new face that walks through the doors. He's sat so he can easily see the doors. And so, when Jaskier does come in, looking like a bit of sunshine that's just turned up to casually part the clouds, Geralt feels that familiar rush of warmth work its way from heel to cheek. And even though he'd said to himself that this time would be different, that this time he'd be the first to offer his embrace, Jaskier beats him to it. He swears under his breath at his own sluggishness, boots planted into the stone floor beneath the table as the bard comes round to his side, leans down and pulls him in. Geralt quickly recovers himself and luxuriates in the familiarity of his friend. It had been a long cold winter. The other man's fingertips trail across the back of his neck causing the gooseflesh to come up there. Jaskier hums a soft greeting.
"Roach will be glad to see you." Geralt leans away, just barely hiding his pleased grin.
"And I her. I've missed the view of your horse from my customary position on the ground." His eyes are dancing, enjoying Geralt's immediate defensive scowl. He tells his tale of wrongful accusations, of being chased down and escaping with only a small bite taken from his calf by a very angry spaniel. Despite his woes, Jaskier is in good spirits. His lute looks to be only slightly more scuffed than the last time Geralt saw it, and he has got himself a new strap for it, sea blue with a yellow embroidered design around the edges.
Jaskier follows him to the stables when he's finished his drink and paid his bill. Roach is the only equine occupant and she does appear to be delighted to see Jaskier, blowing softly through her nose and pestering him for the peppermint she can smell on him.
"Sweet treat for my sweet," Jaskier croons, stroking and scratching her neck.
And Geralt suddenly remembers the small gift he's brought with him. He unbuckles his saddle bag and reaches in carefully, peering in to check the integrity of the little petals. They look surprisingly unharmed and still whole and Geralt takes them from the vial of water, shaking the majority of it off. Jaskier is still talking to his mare and Geralt says his name softly to get his attention, using the shortened version of it, Jask. The stables are quiet, other than some robin's song coming in through the open doors and Geralt, not even bothering to check first to see if anyone is watching, reaches up to tuck the little cluster of buttercups behind Jaskier's ear. The bard makes a sweet little gasp in his throat and brings his fingers up to feel them and Geralt leans in to kiss him. The two men spend a long minute reacquainting themselves with each other, kissing languidly. Geralt moves into Jaskier's space so that the other man's back is up against the horse and Roach doesn't fidget or make any sort of judgemental snorts. She stands still, working the peppermint around her mouth while the witcher and the bard kiss.
"Told you Roach missed you," Geralt says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips buzz pleasantly with the taste of the other man. He adjusts the yellow buds behind Jaskier's ear, letting his fingers caress the back of his head and rest at the base of his neck. His skin is warm and soft and Jaskier grins at him in the dim stable lighting, showing his teeth.
"Been saving that peppermint for her. Bought it off a one legged gypsy selling them by the handful." He reaches up to cover Geralt's hand with his own. "It's been sticking to the insides my pocket ever since." He gingerly fingers the blossoms behind his ear again, and his cheeks are perfectly rosy. "What are they, Geralt?"
The witcher has his arm protectively round the bard's waist, underneath his doublet. His heart is full. He is looking forward to the season ahead. He is looking forward to dispatching drowners and to washing himself clean of their stench. To making good coin and spending it on good food, and to sharing a bed at an inn with Jaskier. He looks forward to slow summer evenings under the stars with the bard singing some ridiculous new song, and to pointing out the various untruths and inaccuracies in the song.
"They're buttercups," he tells him. When he describes the meadow from whence they came, painting for his friend the entire scene with all his most descriptive words, his mare tosses her head. Next spring she'll get back there to have a good roll in that meadow.