Work Text:
The county morgue hums with the sterile scent of iodine beneath fluorescent lights, their cold glow catching the dust motes suspended in the air like tiny, drifting stars. Ravi Chakrabarti sits cross-legged atop a stainless-steel exam table—the same one where Liv Moore once cracked open skulls with practiced ease—his fingers plucking the strings of a polished sitar with reverence. The notes ripple through the chilled space, weaving between autopsy trays and dormant microscopes, wrapping around Liv where she leans against a cabinet, arms folded, watching him with amused curiosity.
"You know," she says, smirking, "most people propose with violins. Or, like... a fucking jukebox."
Ravi doesn’t stop playing. The melody dips and coils, something ancient and warm in the precision of his movements. "Ah, but most people," he counters, grinning, "aren’t proposing to an undead woman in the exact spot where she once spooned out a cerebellum like crème brûlée."
Liv snorts, but her fingers tighten on her sleeves. Then he shifts—just slightly—and the scent hits her: garlic, sharp and unmistakable, tucked into the pocket of his waistcoat. Her nose wrinkles instinctively before she realizes—he’s grinning wider now, triumphant—it’s fresh. Deliberate.
"You bastard," she breathes, halfway between outrage and laughter.
The sitar’s last note lingers as he slides off the table, landing with a soft tap of Oxfords on linoleum. His hand slips into his pocket, emerging with a ring—and a single clove of garlic, held out like a dare.
"Marry me," he says, "and I promise never to season your dinner with it."
For a long moment, the morgue is silent. Then Liv throws her head back and laughs, loud enough to wake the dead.