Chapter Text
"No, ma'am, it's not a brown recluse," Geralt rolls his eyes, leaning further back in his chair. The voice on the other end of the line is high pitched, squeaky. Insistent even. "Ma'am...ma'am..." he pinches the bridge of his nose. The voice goes higher. "Ma'am, we don't have brown recluse here." The phone is cradled between his ear and shoulder and he's pinching his nose with one hand and scribbling a spider on the scrap of junk mail in front of him with the other.
"It's probably a hobo..." ah fuck, shoulda kept my mouth shut..."Yes, ma'am, we do have hobo spiders...no, ma'am, hobos are not venomous. It's just a house spider. Parasteatoda. Take it outside." The voice on the other end reaches new heights. Call me when you're up to your eyeballs in them and then we'll talk...click.
Geralt leans over his desk, finishing his quick doodle by adding a tiny woman laid out flat underneath the much larger spider. He sighs. Rubs his left knee. The addressee on the junk mail is Gerbert River, Extermination Services. No one ever gets his fucking name right.
Geralt wears his dark blue work coveralls in to the grocery store at seven oh five. They're clean, no stains. But his logo is embroidered over his left breast and it's a rather large rat in golden thread. The same rat is embroidered across his back, too. Big. And with the words Geralt Rivia, Extermination Services underneath it.
He'd picked the design himself and is proud of it. All the same, he's very aware of the looks he gets. Can feel the pretty girl in the ice cream aisle giving him a once over and can hear the condescending thoughts she's thinking. Middle class. Working man. Pest control. Rats, bugs, gross...
Geralt flinches, just a little. Scolds himself for it. She isn't that pretty.
A frozen package of sweet potato fries and a pricey but very small six ounce grass fed ribeye goes into his basket. Eating good tonight, Geralt. Spoiling yourself...
He wraps a palm around a cold dark stout from the refrigerated section, tucks his basket into the crook of his elbow and grabs another one. He carries everything to the checkout. Yes, spoiling yourself tonight...
"ID," the kid at checkout says without looking up, scanning his beers. Geralt makes a grunting noise and reaches into his pocket for his wallet. Fuck.
"Left it in the car..." he motions outside. The kid looks up finally and Geralt motions toward his grey hair without saying anything. The kid doesn't back down. Fuck.
"I'll be right back." He sighs, walking outside. The day is gloomy and overcast but still hot, humid. Wallet in hand, he heads back in. But the checker kid has moved his four items to the far end of the conveyor belt and is helping another customer who is buying the whole store apparently. Geralt gets in line and waits and now the pretty girl from the ice cream aisle is in line behind him and he just wants to go home. He stands still, willing himself not to fidget. He's good at pretending to ignore people. While he waits, his eyes rove, picking out the cracked linoleum along the baseboards, the cracks in the cement where ants enter, searching for food. Cracks in the facade where the aching loneliness creeps in, like a six legged beast with an exoskeleton. He imagines it's...
"Do you want your meat separate?" The checker kid speaks in a monotone, like all the youths speak now. Like there's nothing going on behind those expressionless beetle eyes. No thoughts, only dumb. Does Geralt want his meat in a separate bag? Fuck, forgot my reusable bag again...Sure, what's another plastic bag?
***
Geralt rolls up the plastic bags to tuck into the larger plastic bag under his sink to save for recycling. Fries his ribeye, bakes his sweet potato fries and drinks his beer. The other one, too. The fan overhead moves the air around enough. His apartment doesn't have AC. June isn't usually this hot yet.
He's changed into sweats and a black t-shirt. And taken his sweats off again. His hair is wet from his shower and he lets it be loose until it dries. The cool damp strands feel good on his neck as he drinks his second beer. And then he stares at the tv, some Brit drama, while he wishes for a third beer. And wishes for...
***
"No one would have me," he chuckles dryly. His dad's voice makes him feel all mopey, the opposite of his father who is Mister Positive. Mopey like, missing the only human on earth who gives a shit about him mopey. Like missing his dad's fierce hugs. Missing something he can't name but feels its absence immensely anyways.
A deep, steady breath in.
"That's not true and you know it," his dad always tries to hype him up.
And a deep, steady breath out.
"Dad," Geralt is feeling suddenly overwhelmed. He should get off the phone. "It's not the end goal in life, you know? I don't need anyone." He rubs at his left knee. It hurts worse when he's been sitting too long.
"Everyone deserves someone to..." his dad stops talking, maybe sensing his mood. Geralt sighs. Sorry, Dad.
"I'll just stick to my insects. And my rodents. You know, rats, Dad. That's all I need in life. My destiny. Rats." He can hear his dad breathing over the line and he wants to reach through the phone and wrap his arms around him. He sounds old. He is old.
"Geralt..."
"I know, sorry to disappoint..."
"You're not..."
"Dad. I gotta go."
Old man breathing sounds.
"Talk to you tomorrow, Dad."
"Love you, Geralt," his dad always says it.
"Love you, too."
When he hangs up, he instantly wishes to take back that little guilt trip slash pity party, or whatever that was. Fucking rats.
Sitting commando in his living room because it's a hot and humid June fifth, guilting his poor, aging father into feeling sorry for him because his chosen profession is all he has in this sad life and because he's so fucking lonely he could...well...nevermind.
Geralt pulls his long hair back into a pony at the base of his neck. The way he usually wears it. Finger combing through the ends produces loose hair that he shakes off onto the floor. He likes his long hair. It's his favorite thing about his looks. He'd gone grey, silver, his dad calls it, in his first year of college. Completely silver, like white white. It was his first and only year of college. After that, it had been spiders, and ants, and paper wasps, and rats.
He doesn't even hate them, the rats. In fact, he thinks they're cute. Cute enough to be embroidered onto his work coveralls. Misunderstood creatures, really. Misunderstood creatures that nobody wants in their city or their homes. Cue Geralt Rivia, Extermination Services.
It's the same with spiders. Not that he thinks spiders are cute, but they're misunderstood. He'd take a spider call over an elm seed bug infestation call any day. Disgusting things. Foul smelling. Arocatus melanocephalus. Geralt's nostrils wrinkle in disgust at the thought of how they mass along a window seam. Tiny, beady eyes with absolutely nothing behind them. No thoughts. If you look a jumping spider in their multifaceted eyes you'll find they're surprisingly intelligent. It's just that hardly anyone looks them in the eyes.
Ah, the deep thoughts of an extermination specialist.
His tv is still on but his lids are heavy with tiredness and with alcohol. Sometimes he'll go to sleep right here on the couch with a show playing late into the night when he'll finally wake up and get into his bed. Commando. Because it's hot and because it's his apartment and the curtains are drawn and because who the fuck cares.