Work Text:
“Oh no. A wyvern!!!”
Was all the warning Geralt got before he was tackled to the floor by a fourteen year old girl. He could have stayed standing if he wanted to. Ciri was strong for her age and stature but she was hardly a witcher. However, she’d also had a shit time recently and if wrestling made her feel better then he was more than happy to comply. He fell back on the ground, rolling them both to break the fall. Ciri laughed as she tried to push back against him. After a few seconds of holding her attacks at bay he relaxed and let her overpower him so she was sitting on top of his chest with a smirk on her face and fire in her emerald green eyes.
“Master witcher!” The alderman stuttered.
Geralt’s smile fell off his face as he scowled up at the alderman who was staring at the pair of them with wide eyes. He raised an eyebrow at the man as Ciri giggled, a little manically as she got up. “What?”
“I. The contract?”
Ciri snorted and crossed her arms across her chest. “I got you, Dad! Maybe I should take the contract?”
Geralt rolled his eyes but allowed Ciri to help him to his feet. He ruffled her hair which caused her to glare at him and wrinkle her nose. “No.”
“I could do it!” She insisted with a pout that reminded him a little too much of Dandelion. Apparently he was fated to adopt blonde strays with pretty eyes and a masterful pout.
“No.” He repeated. “Yen would have my neck if she found out that I let you take on a contract.”
Ciri scoffed and tossed her ashen hair over her shoulder. “She doesn’t need to know. What is it anyway? A drowner. I could kill a drowner.”
Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose and let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re fourteen. You are not taking on a contract.”
Ciri glared at him. “You’re just being a sore loser.”
“I let you win.” Geralt muttered.
“Did not!”
“It’s not a drowner. You are not taking the contract.” He said firmly. “End of conversation.”
Ciri jutted out her bottom lip and huffed. Geralt sighed. He really needed to keep her away from Dandelion. They were terrible for each other, but at least Ciri had learned when to keep her mouth shut, unlike the poet. He turned to the alderman as he pulled Ciri into a side hug, ignoring her protests. “Three Hundred Orens for the Basilisk.”
“Two Hundred.” The alderman countered.
Geralt growled under his breath. “Two Fifty, or you can find another witcher.”
The alderman paled and huffed indignantly. “Two Fifty.” He agreed.
“I’m coming!” Ciri chimed up.
Geralt sighed. He really should be used to this argument by now but it was tiresome nonetheless. “No, stay with Dandelion in the inn. It’s too dangerous.”
“But Dad!!” She whined.
Geralt sighed again, maybe the poet was rubbing off on him too. It would make sense after so many years. This was his life now, but at the end of the day he had something to live for beyond killing monsters, so he supposed it wasn’t all that bad.