GT Fluff prompt 15 with Geralt and Jaskier
15. Person B accidentally frightens tiny Person A. A hides under the bed and cries while B apologizes profusely and begs A to come back. Just as the giant is about to give up, A comes out and hesitantly accepts B’s apology.
There are times in Geralt’s life wherein he does, in fact, feel like the asshole he sets out to be. It isn’t often, typically he doesn’t care, but having stomped into the room throwing down a bloody sword and a monster’s entire head with all his Witcher glory on full, aggressive display just to see the smallest little human-shaped creature on the floor before him– well, it wasn’t a great first impression.
He can hardly blame the thing for bolting under the bed.
After taking the time to wrap his head around what it was he saw, the subtle frustration at himself is still in his voice when he unconvincingly calls, “You can come out. I’m not going to hurt you.”
But it sounds like he’s done with this entire fucking world, it sounds mean and snappish even to his own ears, and it’s to no one’s surprise that there’s no answer from the entity beneath his rented bed.
He sighs deeply.
He rolls his eyes to the ceiling.
For the love of all the gods.
“You really want to stay under there all night? I don’t sleep, you know. It’s bound to be uncomfortable.”
Distantly, quietly, he hears a tiny voice faintly call from beneath the bed, “Fuck off.”
Geralt’s lips twitch, half annoyed and half amused. Another labored sigh, and with no small amount of resignation he lowers himself to the floor at the side of the bed, and gently lifts the bed skirt to peer underneath it.
There the poor pathetic thing is, all the way at the back holding a tiny little lute by the neck like a baseball bat as though he intends to whack any venturing fingers.
Truly, truly he can’t help but be amused - except the little man is wide-eyed and practically shaking, so he stows his expression for now and struggles to figure out how it is people do the thing where they… look… empathetic or at the very least not exceptionally terrifying.
“I give you my word,” He says with solemnity, “If you come out I won’t touch a hair on your head.”
To which Jaskier barks out an incredulous scoff, “Right, sure, you don’t need to touch the hair if you chop it off at the neck like your beast over there.”
Geralt flicks his eyes to the severed head across the room, some mangy gnarled thing with a big snout and a long tongue hanging out to drag the floor. A beat, and he does a sort of wavering shrug as though to say yes, okay, I see how that might look bad, however, “It was eating people. I’m taking it back as proof for the coin. I have no interest in valiantly slaying something the size of a little girl’s doll.”
“Excuse you,” he squalls out, lute wavering like he means to swing anyway, “I’ll have you know that for my people I’m above average in both height and– size, so, again, if you’ll fuck kindly off–”
Geralt’s lips press into a flat line, and he drops the bed skirt.
“Suit yourself,” He says in a very put-on I don’t care tone. A deliberate pause. “I suppose you wouldn’t be interested in any of this wine, then.”
A second passes.
Two seconds.
Then a little hand lifts the skirt and tentatively peeks out to repeat, “Wine?”
Amusement flares again.
“That’s what I thought.”