#pls enjoy geralt being a DORK <3

[julek]

mortician au meet-cute. (is it a meet-cute?). read the series on ao3!

Geralt is giving Renfri some nice neck scratches when Aiden comes in through the door, the little bell above it giving a nice little chime. 

“Morning,” he says cheerfully, dropping a crisp newspaper on Geralt’s kitchen table and making a beeline for the old moka pot, stainless steel glinting in the grey morning light coming through the window. Geralt still wonders when it was, exactly, that Aiden became a permanent fixture in the Morhen house. 

Probably around the time Lambert started messing around with spells, rites, and harmless, bloodless sacrifices.

Probably.

“Morning,” he answers, his voice still a bit rough with disuse. “Please, help yourself to some coffee,” he says, eyebrows raised, as Aiden begins pouring himself a second cup. 

“Got anyone in today?” He wonders, nodding to the dark green door that leads to the mortuary downstairs. “The paper says there’s been a car crash.”

Geralt shakes his head. “No one in yet. But I’m sure they’ll start coming soon.”

Aiden nods sympathetically. This is why Geralt likes him, he’s reminded — anyone else would shudder at the dark yet accurate prediction, but he simply shrugs and begins snooping around Geralt’s kitchen, as he often does, lifting pot lids and making spoons clatter against the marble tabletop. 

“Lambert is in The Room,” he says gently, mentally nudging Aiden out of his kitchen and into his brother’s embalming room, affectionately and ominously nicknamed The Room. “If you were looking for him.”

“Oh.” Aiden deposits his mug into the sink, frowning slightly at it, and then looks at Geralt in belated recognition. “Yes! That’s why I came in, in the first place, of course. Thank you for the coffee.”

Geralt shakes his head at his retreating figure. “No problem.” The newspaper is still sitting on his table, and he turns back to Renfri, who’s looking up at him with curiosity painted on her green eyes. “Looks like we’ll have some work to do today, hmm?”

-

His apron, a sensible black, stares back at him from where it’s hanging on its little hook. The tiny and slightly crooked Morhen Mortuary embroidery at the front — Nenneke’s gift for who knows which birthday — makes Geralt smile, and he’s still smiling as he walks the stairs down to his own room. 

The car crash Aiden had noted had unfortunately taken the life of a young man, according to the paper and the EMTs who had driven the body to the funeral home. The man, they had explained, had been riding on his bike downtown when a truck appeared out of nowhere and made it impossible for him to avoid crashing into the left headlight. 

It had been a painless death, they said. Geralt could only hope so, for the victim’s sake. 

The light switch creaks slightly as he flips it on, the fluorescent bulbs flickering to life above him. Immediately, the strong scent of embalming fluid envelops him, and he breathes it in like one would a nice spring morning on a field. Nothing like a work-laden morning to bring his spirits up.

(Or sideways, he doesn’t know). (He’s been learning some interesting things with Lambert’s new hobby). (Half of those are lies, he knows, but still). 

(It’s nice to pretend).

The body on the table looks… rough. Whatever remains from the man’s clothing is rumpled and dirty, the fabric tattered and covering his body in uneven patterns. There are bruises all over his right side — his legs, his abdomen, up his neck and littering his face like a child’s painting. His handsome features are obscured by the blood trickling down his forehead.

He couldn’t have survived the crash, Geralt knows, but he has to check for vital signs anyway. He has no pulse, nothing but cold skin where Geralt presses his gloved fingers, and later, his stethoscope. His limbs are stiff and locked in place, and he’s unresponsive as Geralt touches his face, his eyes — incredibly blue — clouded. 

The perfect picture of death.

Sometimes Geralt wishes he believed in God. Any God, really — anything that could allow him to say a small prayer, to wish this person well in their path to… wherever they’re going, to honor their life and make it all mean something. 

But he doesn’t, so, naturally, he starts a conversation with the dead man lying on his table. 

“Hello,” he says politely, as he starts removing the man’s scraps of clothing from his skin. “My name is Geralt. I’m your mortician— well, I mean, I’m not your mortician. I’m… anyone’s. No one’s. It’s not like when you go to the doctor, you know— oh, yeah, that guy is my doctor. You can’t tell anyone about this experience, so I’m never referred to as anyone’s anything.” He tosses the man’s shirt aside. “But, you know, in case you do recall this to anyone, in the ol’ queue to the afterlife, you can call me your mortician. Or Geralt. Geralt’s fine.”

The man, unsurprisingly, says nothing. 

“I’m sorry I don’t know your name,” Geralt continues. “You came in without any personal effects— well, you were wearing that tiny Hello Kitty backpack, but there was nothing inside that could tell us anything about you.” The man’s jeans need to go next, but they’re so disfigured Geralt grabs a fabric scissor from the counter. “You kind of look like your name was… hmm. Nothing too generic, I don’t think. Balthazar, maybe? Or Timothy. Valdo, perhaps? That’s a name you have the face for. The eyes, especially.”

He starts cutting the man’s jeans, pausing to chuckle at the fact that he momentarily gave the man jorts, and then continues until he can peel it all off. 

“Your clothes are nice. I’m sorry they got ripped apart, though. And, well, sorry I’m ripping them apart now, too.” He starts untying the man’s shoelaces. “I hope you get some nice clothing wherever you’re going. Do you think you’ll need money in the afterlife?”

The man’s hand falls to the table in response. 

Before, Geralt would’ve jumped at the movement, but now, seasoned as he has become, he knows it’s just a spasm. His heart hasn’t gotten the memo yet, though, hammering in his chest.

“Ah, love a good postmortem spasm,” he chuckles, sliding the shoe off the man’s foot. “Keeps me vigilant. Did you know people used to think these kinds of movements indicated the deceased person’s will to live? They used to say it was a sign of perseverance— how the strongest people kept fighting death until the end.”

He likes to think there’s some truth to it; that someone could have loved their life so much that they would hang on to it with every fiber of their being. That death could be defied by stubbornness.

He pulls out the man’s other shoe, and smiles at his socks: ice cream patterned, glittery bright pink.

“You seem like an interesting person,” he says, peeling the socks off, leaving the man in his — also brightly patterned — underwear. “Would have been nice to meet you.”

Geralt turns around and moves to the counter, making sure the hose is connected to the water tap, and arranging all his instruments to his liking. He can hear the music Lambert’s playing in The Room, some sort of old-timey rock he knows but can’t quite place, and he starts humming along in his low, gravelly tone. 

“Mm, you got me so I can’t sleep at night, mmm…” 

“The Kinks? Really?”

Geralt turns around, clutching the hose to his chest.

“I mean,” the man says, facing Geralt and laying on his side like a really stiff art subject, waiting to be immortalized in a canvas, “I would’ve expected a man of your complexion to listen to something… darker. Tougher? I don’t know.” 

Geralt blinks. 

He really should have checked the carbon monoxide detectors last night.

“So,” the man says. “What kind of a place is this, anyway? Don’t get me wrong, I do, quite often, wake up half-naked in places I can’t recognize, but this is a new level of kinky shit. What is this table?” He props himself up on his hands, with effort. “Why are my movements so… bad?” He frowns. “Why’s my tongue… wrong? What is going on?”

“You’re… alive,” Geralt says, eloquently.

The man’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and he’s still so pale and mangled, it’s grotesque. Like a really bad makeup job for a school play. “Well, I mean, I know that? Because if this is heaven — and I’m definitely not complaining about the view — it’s quite… underwhelming?” 

Almost automatically, Geralt surges forward and grabs the man’s head between his hands. “Don’t move like that,” he says, smoothing down the man’s skin. “The rigor mortis won’t go away for a few hours. You could get stuck like that.”

The man’s face falls. Well, tries to. “Rigor… mortis?” 

Geralt drops the man’s head like it’s on fire. It should be on fire — the man’s skin should melt into bone and he should put on a funky leather jacket and ride his black motorcycle straight into hell and out of Geralt’s humble and sensible funeral home. 

Upstairs, an old Dire Straits song starts playing. As if the world is supposed to just go on, while the very dead man that was laying on Geralt’s embalming table mere seconds ago is now making something akin to lively conversation with him.

He was dead. Geralt checked his pulse, looked into his very dead-looking pupils. He was about to inject fluid into his arteries, for goodness’ sake. 

“So,” the man says, sitting up, and finally looking down at himself. He pokes at a purple bruise on his ribs. “Either this is all part of a very elaborate joke on one of my friends’ behalf, or you’re just a very good-looking psychopath who will now proceed to make me witness my own autopsy, or something.”

“I’m…” Suddenly, Geralt has no clue what to say. How does he break it to the man, that he was about to write down ‘John Doe’ on a nametag and tie it to his ankle, without sounding absolutely insane and/or possibly psychopathic? He feels a sudden urge to take off his apron, not feeling so fond of the embroidered information on it right now. “You were in an accident.”

The man gapes at him, his blue eyes bluer, somehow. “I… was? What happened?”

Geralt takes a tentative step forward. He was trained on how to deliver painful and sensitive information to the bereaved family; he was not, however, trained on how to deliver it to the deceased themselves. 

“The EMTs said it was a truck. You were riding your bike.” 

“Okay…” The man nods to himself, taking the information in. “Why am I not in a hospital, then? I mean— I don’t mean to assume, but this doesn’t really look like the conventional emergency room, or what have you.”

Geralt looks around the dark walls of the basement, cringing internally at the framed You look good — open-casket good sign Eskel got him for Christmas. 

“You’re… This is…” Geralt leans back against the counter, steeling himself for whatever will happen next. “This is a mortuary. My name’s Geralt. I’m… I’m your mortician.”

The man’s eyes are so wide Geralt fears he’ll pop a vein. “A mortician…”

“You died,” Geralt says gently. “When you crashed into the truck. It was a painless death. Instant.”

“And now?”

Geralt grimaces. “And now… you’re alive. Allegedly.”

The man splutters. “Allegedly?!” He hops down from the table, and Geralt manages to catch him before his legs give out. “You mean to tell me I was dead and now, supposedly, I’m alive?”

This close to the man, Geralt can see small green dots in all that sea of blue fury. He shakes his head. “Yes. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. This doesn’t happen.”

“You don’t say!” The man sits back up on the table. His bruises are slowly fading away, and his cheeks are bright red, whether from the blood flow or the indignation, Geralt doesn’t know. “So it’s not routine for a legally dead man to come back to life on your table? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, sheepish. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, aside the whole hey Jask, remember everything you thought you knew about life and death? Well, scrape all that, because it’s bullshit thing? I’m just peachy,” he snaps, glowering at Geralt. “And cold.”

“Of course. Sorry,” Geralt apologizes. “I’ll go get you some clothes.”

“You do that,” the man says as Geralt walks to the door. “And do stop apologizing so much.”

His hand on the door, Geralt looks back at the man. “Sorry.”

-

“So, your name is Jaskier?”

They’re sitting at Geralt’s kitchen table now. After offering the man a pair of Lambert’s sweatpants and a t-shirt, and showing him the guest bathroom, he emerged a new person, his hair curling at the edges and his skin soft-looking.

“It is,” Jaskier says with a shy smile, pulling his knees up to his chest on his chair. Geralt feels an immense urge to wrap him in a hug. The closest thing is pushing a mug of coffee in his direction. “And you’re Geralt.”

“That’s me.”

“And I was dead,” Jaskier says, recounting the incidents. He’s calmed down now. “And now I’m alive.”

“Yeah.”

Geralt wishes he had something more eloquent to say.

“And this has never happened to you before? You’re certain?”

Geralt snorts. “I think I would have realized if any of the people I poked at with needles were alive.” 

“Okay, okay,” Jaskier replies with a smile of his own. “Just checking.”

Now that Jaskier is officially alive, Geralt can allow himself to really look at him. He’s young — maybe in his late twenties — and there’s something about his eyes that just draws him in; something other than the way they’re blue the way the ocean is when it’s about to storm, no, it’s something about the way they move. About the way they look at things, about the way they look at Geralt. Piercing yet unobtrusive, harsh yet soft.

He should really stop watching so many romantic films. 

His brown hair falls into tiny waves, shining in the mid-morning light pouring in through the windows. The hand that’s gripping the mug is dotted with freckles, his fingernails black and chipped. He’s swimming in Geralt’s shirt, an old one from his university days, and there’s something about his small smile that makes Geralt’s heart try to skip a beat.

They sip their coffee in comfortable silence. Geralt offers him an apple, and Jaskier takes it with grace. 

“So, what now?” He asks between bites.

“What do you mean?” Geralt replies.

“Well,” Jaskier says, leaning forward on the table. “I can’t die. For now. I’ll sort out the specifics later. But— what comes next?”

Geralt doesn’t know. “Well, what do you want to do next?”

Jaskier considers it. “I think, after I finish eating this apple, and after I’ve washed my cup and thanked you for your hospitality — ha, hospitality,” he snorts, “I would very much like to ask you for your number.”

Geralt chokes on his coffee. 

“Unless you’re already seeing someone, or you’re not into men,” Jaskier says immediately, “or just not into someone who came into your home as a dead man and came out walking of his own volition. Also because you kind of saw me in my rubber ducks underwear which I love but man I should really think about what I wear under my clothes because you know, my mother was right, you really never do know where your day will go— I would completely understand that. That would make you a very reasonable person, but it’s just that I’m very scared for my life— and my death, I guess, too, fuck— and I would like a friendly face around me. I can tell you I have not had any of those lately— but, just, you know, I understand if—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “I would be honored to be a friendly face.”

Jaskier breathes out slowly. “Thank you.” 

“It’s no problem,” Geralt says, reaching for his hand.

Jaskier twines their fingers together, looking at him with a sweet smile on his lips. It belongs to one of Geralt’s movies, this moment.

But Jaskier breaks it almost immediately.

“Actually, you know, I’m glad you said yes, because you kind of owe me, anyway, because some memories are coming back to me now and I have the distinct recollection of you telling me I looked like my name was Valdo, and boy do I hate—”

tagged: @writingmysanity

#mywriting #mortuary au #geraskier fic #geralt x jaskier #temporary MCD #immortal jaskier #mortician geralt #pls enjoy geralt being a DORK <3 #blood mention #death mention