Chapter Text
Geralt tries not to pull at the stiff collar of his shirt. Usually he’d be wearing a comfortable T-shirt and jeans, maybe a leather Jacket, but not today. Today he’s stuck inside dress pants that pull tightly when he lengthens his stride, let alone when he crouches. The shirt is not only tight at the base of his throat but all over, and Geralt’s pretty sure if he were to flex, buttons would be ricocheting against the sidewalk.
Why anyone would willingly wear clothing this restrictive is beyond him.
Again he pulls at the collar, shifting the knot of his tie from left to right, trying to give himself some space where he can feel it pressing against his Adams apple. Vesemir had insisted the ensemble of dress pants, dress shirt, and a dark blue tie would be appropriate for his mission today. Geralt had protested, once again reiterating he didn’t think this particular mission was best suited to him, but had acquiesced quickly enough.
Vesemir had been a district attorney long before Geralt came to be working for him straight out of high school. The man had personally given him a job and a purpose, had enabled him to keep himself and his newborn daughter afloat at a time Geralt hadn’t known up from down. If not for Vesemir, Geralt could have easily doomed himself and Cirilla to a life of impoverished misery.
After fourteen years the grizzled man is more like a father to him than an employer. Though the sentiment certainly didn’t keep him from saddling Geralt with the assignment from hell.
The job is better suited to one of the actual pencil pushers within the district attorney’s office than one of the offices investigative agents with more than ten years’ experience, as far as Geralt is concerned.
But Vesemir hadn’t budged, and now he’s here.
He looks up at one of Novigrad’s newest and highest skyscrapers. The glass panels on its sides are highly reflective and Geralt can’t help but look at his mirror image where the angle of the panels offer him a view of the street.
Even he can tell he looks uncomfortable, cars and pedestrians passing by behind him, paying no mind to the large man looking slightly sweaty in office attire he’s wearing for the first time in his life.
For fuck’s sake, even the shoes are uncomfortable.
With a quick shake of the head he reminds himself of his credentials.
The investigative agent with the highest success rate in the office, with the ability to blend in wherever he chooses.
He conveniently does not think about the fact he’s been on blue collar crime for his entire career.
At the fringes of society, bringing the monstrous side of humanity to justice. That’s where he thrives. Not in this gleaming modern building surrounded by people who look like they’ve no trouble navigating professionally polite conversation, who look like they wear these types of clothes every day.
Fuck, and he’s not even hired yet.
When he was told he’d be interviewing for the position of a mailroom clerk his ego had taken a bit of a hit, given that at 32 he’s hardly starting out in the workforce. With the nerves building low in his belly he can admit he’s kind of glad they did not try to put him in at a more high profile position. Besides, access to the mail room means access to information, which is exactly what they want.
Nowadays a lot of correspondence is via e-mail, but e-mails can be traced. The value of written messages that can be destroyed is not to be underestimated.
Especially when there’s things a company wants to hide from their government.
Geralt peeks at the digital watch on his left wrist. Twenty to three. His interview is in twenty minutes and if he goes in now, he’ll be early in a way that signals a kind of punctuality you’d want in an employee. Or so he hopes.
He pulls at his tie one more time, trying to get it to where he can at least swallow, but somehow the knot of it just seems to get tighter every time he touches it.
--000—
As soon as Geralt enters through the automatic lobby doors he is greeted by heavenly crisp air. These are the types of office buildings that come equipped with an abundance of air-conditioning to combat Novigrad’s summer heat.
He ruefully thinks back to his last mission. The hardest thing about infiltrating the drug ring being run out of a dingy looking phone store hadn’t been the threat of being found out, but coping with nothing more than fans while temperatures reached tropical heights.
He spares a quick look at the sign detailing the businesses occupying the building. He already knows what floors Dandelion Inc. is situated on. It had been in the information packet Vesemir had presented him with a couple of weeks prior, right after Geralt had caved and taken the assignment.
He makes his way over toward the elevators. Since it’s already well past lunch and the end of the office day is still some hours away, the lobby is relatively quiet. There are four reflective chrome elevator doors and he presses the button closest to him.
The door to his right dings open and Geralt makes his way inside. With every step closer to the corporate environment he’s supposed to function in, to investigate in for the next few months, the nerves he felt in his abdomen are crawling their way up his throat, joining that dam tie in cutting off his air supply.
He tries to control his breathing as the doors start to close. When they’re barely half way, someone yells from not too far off to the right.
“Hold the elevator please!”
Geralt feels uncharacteristically frozen for a moment, blaming it on the discomfort of his clothes and surroundings. He unfreezes and lunges for the doors to keep them open, at the exact wrong moment.
As soon as the sweep of his arm is between the closing doors, he smashes it into the hand of the figure that’s rushing into the elevator from the side.
Into the hand that’s holding a steaming paper cup with a coffee bean logo on it that proclaims, ‘you are my favourite human bean!’ in garish letters.
The hot beverage spills all over the man entering the elevator, drenching his arms and leaving large brown splashes on his crisp white shirt and dark blue suit vest.
The man curses low and filthy as he drops the papers he was holding in favour of holding the scorching fabric away from his chest. Geralt feels embarrassment stain his cheeks as he is pinned by narrowing bright blue eyes.
He was already feeling uncomfortable and still slightly sweaty despite the aircon, and now he has drenched a stranger in hot coffee. He wonders if it’s to late to make a run for it and never return. Vesemir will undoubtedly be able to find someone else to infiltrate, someone who isn’t an elephant in a china shop the way Geralt is.
Geralt is frozen under the stranger’s blue gaze and still hasn’t spoken, hasn’t apologized. Behind them, the elevator doors close with a computerized ding and the metal box starts moving upward through the building.
The man before him straightens to his full hight and Geralt can’t help but think that he seems to look down on him despite the couple of inches in his favour.
He is dressed impeccably, dark blue dress pants and suit vest over a no longer immaculately white shirt. The clothing looks like it is tailored to him, to his broad shoulders and slim waist, and Geralt doubts the stranger feels anything but comfortable in his attire. The tie he’s wearing is a dark ochry red with small dots of lighter blue. His dark curls are groomed to perfection, and besides his narrowed eyes there is a displeased expression appearing on his face the longer he looks at Geralt.
Geralt still hasn’t spoken and swallows, again feeling the pressure of his blasted tie. He feels awful in a way he hasn’t for a long time. He feels too big, lumbering, uncouth, so out of place his tongue turns thick in his mouth, halting the apology he desperately wants to spit out.
The stranger seems to pick up on some of his inner turmoil, even though Geralt makes sure to keep it hidden behind the stoic mask that has served him so well in his working life. If only he could manage to speak and clear the air, then he could leave this stranger behind and be on his way. He can still do the interview and get the job, he just needs to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth and speak.
By now the expression on the strangers face has softened, summer blue eyes no longer squeezed in disapproval while looking at Geralt. It’s a transition he’s not much used to, and he quickly flickers his eyes away from the look to the steadily increasing number of floors depicted above the elevator doors.
18th floor.
“Easy,” the stranger speaks gently, his voice soothingly melodic.
“You look like you’re about to bolt,” his eyes flicker to the buttons at the side to see which one Geralt has pressed, “and we’ve got some floors to go I see.”
Geralt swallows again.
25th floor.
“I’m sorry,” he grunts, his tongue finally deciding to cooperate, while still monosyllabic.
The stranger grins at him while leaning against the elevator wall with a relaxed posture, despite the discomfort the cooling patches of coffee must give him.
“I can see that you are, and its alright,” he says still studying Geralt like he’s something interesting.
Geralt doesn’t know what to do with the easy acceptance of his apology. First he slapped this man’s drink out of his hands, then he doesn’t speak for a whole 25 floors before he is finally able to utter an apology. He mentally kicks himself. This environment might not be his comfort zone, but he is damn well able to adapt. He’s been through much worse than facing some corporate disdain.
“Are you hurt?”
Still monosyllabic, but evidencing of some normal human concern at least, he thinks, congratulating himself.
The mans shrugs and gives him the same grin again.
“First it was hot, now it’s cold. It’s not nice but by far not the most uncomfortable sticky situation I’ve been in.” He ends with a cheeky wink in Geralt’s direction, and… and Geralt doesn’t know what to do with that.
This is not how he expected his first conversation within the corporate world of Novigrad to go, and he doesn’t know how to respond. Instead, he just stares at the man blankly for a few moments before flickering his eyes back up to the floor numbers again.
Disconcertingly enough, this only seems to amuse the stranger more, his grin widening a fraction before his eyes give Geralt a quick once over.
40th floor
Fuck. He never thought an elevator trip to the 90th floor could take so long.
When he looks back at the stranger, the man is holding out a hand to him. He has rolled up his sleeves now, hiding the worst of the coffee splatter. His forearms are strong looking, his hand long fingered and sturdy, even though Geralt expects there’ll be no sign of callouses on his palm. He realises he’s been silent again for too long, because the man introduces himself.
“Jaskier.
“Seems like we’re hitching a ride up to the same floor, I’m also on 90.”
His words are easy and his voice is friendly, so Geralt belatedly shakes his hand.
“Geralt.”
60th floor.
Only 30 more of the damn things to go. Are all elevators this slow?
“So Geralt,” Jaskier continues, what are you doing on the 90th? I’m quite sure I would have remembered seeing you there before.”
The question is innocuous, but at the same time the first real test of Geralt’s undercover story and persona. If only he could stop flickering his eyes up at the floor number.
The nervous movement does not escape Jaskier’s attention, judging by the slightly amused twinkle in his gaze as he keeps observing Geralt.
“Job interview,” Geralt grits out.
“Ah, good thing I’m the one covered in coffee then,” Jaskier answers with a tilt of his head while taking in Geralt’s attire.
He tries not to shift nervously under the blue gaze, strangely feeling as if some type of judgement is being passed on him.
“What position are you up for?” the man, Jaskier, asks.
He can’t help the slight flush of renewed embarrassment that heats the back of his neck as he says, “Mailroom clerk.”
Jaskier nods with understanding, still leaning back against the elevator wall. There is nothing mean or judgmental in his gaze and Geralt feels strangely relieved because of it.
He shifts his eyes away again to avoid giving away more than he wants, and suddenly sees the papers still strewn against the back of the elevator. They have slid across the floor and landed at the back when Jaskier had released them in favour of cooling his skin. By the looks of them they have thankfully avoided any of the coffee spillage.
Geralt mumbles something to that effect and bends to retrieve them.
Some of them have slid under the metal seat that’s attached to the back portion of the elevator. He can’t quite reach and has to get on his knees to gather the rest of them into a neat stack.
When he shifts to hand the stack over to Jaskier the man is suddenly closer, gaze terrifyingly focussed on where Geralt is still kneeling on the elevator floor.
He wants to get up and hand the stack of papers over, apologize again for good measure, but before he can, Jaskier’s hand lands on his shoulder.
It is hardly more than a brush, the pressure barely there, but it’s enough to keep Geralt on his knees while he looks up at the man above him. He swallows, fighting the urge to lower his gaze in the face of the intensity directed toward him. Again his Adams apple catches against his tie and he can’t help but make a small sound because of it.
Both of them seem caught in the moment for a long while, Geralt barely daring to breathe in his confusion.
It’s Jaskier who breaks away first.
He let’s go of Geralt’s shoulder, allowing him to find the strength to rise, and then it’s Jaskier’s turn to flick his eyes up to see what floor they’re on.
80th
Only ten more floors and Geralt can get out and go do what he came here for. Ace the interview and then…. Start working here, at Dandelion Inc, which clearly is Jaskier’s place of employ as well.
Great.
Jaskier has resumed his position leaning against the wall. His amused expression has been replaced by a gentle smile that coupled with the unrelenting focus Geralt doesn’t know what to do with at all.
In the back of his mind he’s aware that this is not good, not what he wanted for the start of his assignment. He had planned to fly under the radar and be a fly on the wall for the first couple of weeks at least.
That plan is already shot to shit.
Jaskier doesn’t look like he’s a low level employee, and he has most certainly noticed Geralt. Coupled with the fact offices are notorious rumour machines, by the end of the day it’s likely the entirety of Dandelion Inc. will know that the aspiring mail clerk has doused someone important with coffee in the elevator.
If he even gets hired.
The other man now knows what position he’s interviewing for and might just give HR a call not to employ the big bumbling buffoon he encountered in the elevator.
Geralt wants to stop the negative thoughts racing through his mind. The way he’s going, his conviction he’s not cut out for investigating anything other than blue collar crime will become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
As a solution he thrusts the stack of papers into Jaskier’s direction.
The summer blue eyes keep their focus on Geralt before looking down at the papers in his hands, then back at Geralt again.
Instead of Grabbing the papers from his hand like he expected, Jaskier steps into his space and lifts his hands to the contraption constricting against Geralt’s throat.
Geralt has to do his best not to flinch away when deft fingers start undoing the tight knot, momentarily tightening the silky fabric even further.
“Easy”
Is al Jaskier says, the timbre of his voice low and warm as the fabric loosens.
This time when he swallows, the movement is unobstructed and he feels a slight wash of relief flow over him, it makes him relax under the clever hands, and Jaskier gives an approving hum.
Breathing is suddenly very difficult and Geralt tries his utmost to be still and unmoving as the other man completes the task of retying his tie.
With a final gentle tug on the fabric, the knot is finished at the base of his throat, tie perfectly in place over the buttons of his dress shirt.
Geralt realises he’s been looking down at the papers still in his hand and looks up to find Jaskier once again observing him, something indecipherable in his blue gaze.
“There,” he says, the same warm notes in his voice as before. When he removes his hands he lets them slide off Geralt’s shoulders before he takes the stack of papers from his slack hands and turns towards the elevator doors.
Geralt looks up.
89th floor.
Before he can say anything Jaskier looks back at him over his shoulder.
“Good luck at your interview. I’m absolutely positive you’ll get hired. You’ll do good, Geralt.”
Before Geralt can do anything other than register the strange sensation behind his sternum the other man’s words, the elevator dings and comes to a halt.
When the door opens Jaskier winks at him and strides out with purpose.
Geralt follows him with his eyes while he makes quick work of crossing the lobby of Dandelion Inc. and disappears through a pair of glass doors.
His mouth is dry and his heart is pounding and he doesn’t know why.
As he exits the elevator and registers his presence at reception, he belatedly realises that he hadn’t even thanked the other man for fixing his tie.