Chapter Text
Martin wanted to scream. He simply could not believe he had agreed to fake date Jonathan fucking Sims who;
A) was his boss.
B) Hated his guts
And C) was the man Martin had been unfortunately and hopelessly in love with since he had started working in the archives.
Those 3 factors aligned to make the perfect reason why Martin SHOULD NOT have agreed to this, but the fact that he would do almost anything Jon asked him to and that he was a people pleaser to the highest degree, led him to where he was now. Standing outside of a small cafe on a Saturday, hyping himself up to go inside and have a *completely fake* trial date with Jonathan Sims.
Martin tugged on the bottom of his jumper. He had stressed an unreasonable amount over what to wear, he didn't want to be too formal since it wasn't a real date, but he also didn't want to seem too underdressed, god forbid Jon find more reasons to judge him. He had settled on one of his favorite mustard yellow jumpers, slacks, and a simple button-up underneath.
He took one final deep breath, before walking up to the cafe door and opening it. The interior of the cafe was warm and simply decorated, but still provided a sense of comfort.
Martin looked over to the furthest corner table, right up against a large window, where Jon said he would be sitting. And sure enough, there he was, haloed by the wintery light from outside.
Martin quickly approached the table. He was briefly taken by surprise as Jon looked over to him from where had been gazing out the window, and for a moment he had looked so calm, almost serene. His face held none of the tense grimace he almost constantly wore at work.
As Jon registered his approach his posture straightened and Martin was reminded that this was his boss. When he reached the table, Martin realized there was already a cup across from Jon, with him having one of his own.
“I wasn't sure what tea you enjoy, so I hope that Earl Grey is amenable.” Martin thinks that if he hadn't been so violently nervous, he would have giggled at Jon’s formality. He sat down, removing his coat from his shoulders and placing it on the back of the chair.
“Oh yep! Er- thank you, Jon.” Jon was looking at him with his usual intensity as if psychoanalyzing his every move. Martin really hoped that Jon was not doing that but he wouldn't put it past him.
“So… what's the plan?”
Jon reached into his bag, pulling out a notebook, he flipped to a page filled with writing, and various highlighted marks.
“Well, I figured we should come up with an entire story, if asked any questions we need to have consistent answers and it should be as close to the truth as we can possibly get it… I have been told I'm not the best liar.” Martin could vouch for that, the one time Tim and Sasha had managed to convince Jon to come to one of their game nights, they had played a secret role-style game and had very quickly discovered his lacking ability to make a conceivable lie on the spot.
“So what have you got? From the looks of it, you’ve already got a head start?” Martin felt a slight amount of relief at the fact that Jon was approaching this from a strategic perspective, it alleviated at least some of the awkwardness. Jon nodded and scanned his page before continuing.
“I figured it would be easiest to say we met at work, which would technically be an entire truth. We should decide on how long we’ve been together, and probably who asked who.” He paused for a moment. “I suppose that for who asked who, it would make the most sense for it to be me, I'm the one dragging you into this after all…” Jon scribbled that down into the notebook, between two of the lines.
“Time could be around three months? At that point, we’d be serious enough for you to invite me to the party but not so long that it would be suspicious you hadn't mentioned it to your friend…”
Jon nodded, writing that down as well.
Jon looked up at Martin, a grimace on his face. “Alright. So since we are… pretending to be together, we should probably set some boundaries, since its likely not going to be a convincing act if we aren't… at least slightly physical.” Jon seemed to be pointedly avoiding eye contact, not that he made it usually, but this was a very purposeful avoidance.
“Oh, I suppose that makes sense. I really am fine with anything? Whatever you are comfortable with.” Martin really hoped that his wording hadn't come across as him WANTING to, y’know, hold hands with or even hug Jon. NOPE! Not in the slightest, Martin did NOT want that and had NOT spent more than a reasonable amount of time thinking about it. Not in the slightest!
Jon narrowed his eyes for a moment, in thought.
“Well then, I'm fine with, hand-holding and physical contact. Only on the uh- upper half though.” This was clearly a dreadfully uncomfortable conversation for him. Jon continued, sounding as if the words were being pried out of him; “And I suppose that, if it is entirely necessary for the act to remain stable, a kiss on the cheek or lips would be… tolerable. Although I suppose for the latter we would need a form of silent signal, as to not have it happen as a surprise…”
Jon trailed off, lost in thought. Martin cringed internally, of course, the idea of kissing him disgusted Jon.
“Maybe a very deliberate tap on the palm of the hand, would that be acceptable?” Jon looked up from his notes and Martin came back to the present
“Oh- um yep! Sounds good!”
This was going to be a nightmare.
Jon continued, bringing up the fact that if they were ‘together’ they would know things about each other that they certainly did not already, Jon started asking Martin various icebreaker questions such as ‘What is your favorite color’ (it’s yellow, Jon’s was green) ‘are you a cat person or a dog person’ (Martin had no preference, Jon was strong in the direction of cats.)
Ect. Eventually, they sank into the conversation, growing surprisingly comfortable, the air of professionalism that Jon had been keeping up the entire time slipped a bit as they spoke, at one point, they got into a friendly debate about poetry (Martin was a fan, Jon was not) and it must have been terrible for Martin’s health, as he could not focus on half of the words Jon was saying, but instead the way he became more animated when talking about a subject he was passionate about, it really was endearing. He was so screwed.
By the end of the day, Martin had gained a little bit more confidence in the idea they could pull it off and had only grown more sure that he was NEVER getting out of the crush hole he had dug himself.
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On New Year’s Day, Jon was prepared. He had meticulously studied the notes he had taken about his and Martin’s fake relationship and was fully rehearsed. He threw on his nice button-up and vest (although it didn't appear much different from his usual wear) and prepared to pick Martin up.
During their ‘consultation’ as Jon had been referring to it in his head, he had discovered the fact that maybe (despite his appreciation of, honestly, garbage literature) Martin was not, in fact, the worst person to ever be placed upon the planet, he was actually quite a good conversationalist and had managed to hold his ground in a (albeit, quite casual) debate. Jon had decided that maybe, the party would not be such a train wreck after all.
Jon picked Martin up from his flat and couldn't help but notice that he looked… rather nice. The overwhelming annoyance began to bubble up in his chest, and he only hoped it wasn't showing on his face. They reached Georgie’s flat and stepped out of the car, a gentle dusting of snow fresh on the ground.
“Now remember,” Jon reminded Martin. “The only people we really have to fool are Georgie and Melanie, the other four should be relatively easy, as they're their friends, who I highly doubt that either of us would know.” Martin nodded in acknowledgment. Before knocking, Jon turned to Martin and offered a hand, it would be more believable if they started the act before entering. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. From inside, he heard Georgie yell;
“Oh! That must be Jon, can you get that?” A moment later the door swung open.
“Boss? Marto?” It was not Georgie who opened the door, but instead Timothy Stoker.
fuck