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They do go for breakfast. It’s early enough—hardly after five, how is it possible for all of this to be happening so quickly?—that it takes a fair bit of searching, wandering the streets of Chelsea instead of looking something up, but eventually they find a cozy little restaurant that’s both open and clean, and the staff are even smiling, so Martin supposes they’ve each had a dozen cups of coffee already. There are a few other customers, an elderly woman with enormous spectacles, a man in a nice suit with a week of scruff and dark circles under his eyes, and a pair of university students, the table between them so crowded with textbooks they’ve nowhere for plates.
The hostess leads them to a booth beside a window that looks out over a small but well-tended garden, and says, “I’ll leave you to it then.”
Martin pages through the menu without actually ingesting any of its words. He’s sat across from Jon, whose brow is knit with concentration, like he’s expecting some supernatural manifestation, like maybe the menu will have a bookplate indicating “From the Library of Jurgen Leitner,” like he’s looking for something he can ask Martin to follow up on later.
It hasn’t completely settled in him, he thinks, that he’s on a date with Jon. His teeth worry at his bottom lip, and he thinks about the way Jon kissed him, methodical and matter-of-fact as he does anything, but also assured, no hesitance; and he thinks about the way he kissed Jon, and hopes he wasn’t too clumsy about it, wasn’t too obvious that it had been a long time since his last kiss.
Jon says, without looking up, “When were you last with somebody, Martin?”
Martin wonders if Jon’s suddenly become able to read his mind. He hopes not. The archivist will either think he’s completely hopeless (assuming he doesn’t think so already), or he’ll think Martin’s mind is as filthy as Tim’s (and that’s not even possible, but of course he’s thought about getting Jon’s clothes off); or he’ll think both of those things, and Martin will never be able to look him in the eye again if that’s the case.
He stutters a, “Oh, it um—it’s been kind of a long time, I guess? I haven’t really been interested in anybody except for—” His mouth clamps shut and he sees Jon smiling, obviously trying not to, and he looks back at his menu and focuses on the wide array of omelets he can choose from.
“Martin,” Jon says. Martin has lost track of how many times Jon has said his name in the last hour or so, but he sort of hopes he keeps saying it. He likes the way it sounds in Jon’s mouth. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Martin says, and it comes out softer than he means, so it actually sounds like he’s not fine, but he is, he’s better than fine, he’s fantastic, and he wishes he didn’t sound so nervous, wishes it all the time, but especially right now. He wants to sound fine. He wants to sound fantastic. His fingers tighten on the menu. “It’s just that I’ve fancied you for such a long time and I didn’t really think—do you actually like me, Jon?”
Jon lays his menu flat on the table and looks at Martin. He’s silent for long moments. For so long that a waitress comes ‘round and asks if they’re ready, and Martin rattles off an order for tea and an omelet without much on it, and Jon says he’ll have the same, and then the waitress is gone again and it’s quiet, it’s just quiet, and Martin opens his mouth without having gotten as far as what he’s going to say, his mind gone somewhat erratic.
“You keep saying I don’t like you,” Jon says, slow, thoughtful, considering him, and again Martin has the sense that Jon can see somewhere beneath his skin. “I’ve been unfair to you, haven’t I? I should apologize for that.” He leans forward, his elbows on the table, and says, very simply, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to make up for being a rubbish boss, I’m afraid.”
Martin blinks. He wants to say something clever, and almost wishes he were a little more like Tim, suave and charismatic and always with the perfect thing to say to a prospective date. Not that what Tim does qualifies as dating, so much. And Martin’s not just trying to sweet talk Jon into bed. (He’s not not trying to sweet talk Jon into bed. But mostly he’d like to make it through breakfast, and then through the work day, and then…then he’ll see.) Anyway, he’s neither suave nor charismatic. He’s just Martin, a bit bumbling and a bit clumsy, and what he says is, “You could pay for breakfast.”
Jon looks away, and Martin thinks he’s said the wrong thing, which figures, except then he realizes Jon is trying not to laugh.
“Or I could pay for breakfast,” he offers. “I think the kissing was a pretty good start as well. Makes for a more positive work environment and all. But I’d rather you don’t do the same thing with Tim and Sasha? Might be a little awkward, and I think I could be the jealous type, not that I’ve ever had the opportunity to check for sure.”
Jon is shaking his head, and he’s smiling, and Martin’s stomach flutters. He’s always liked Jon’s smile, difficult as it is to come by, and the scars haven’t changed his mind. “No,” he says, “I think I can afford breakfast. I might even be able to cover dinner.”
Martin beams at him. He can’t help it. There’s a part of him that says he’s acting like a lovestruck teenager, and honestly that part might be right, but he didn’t have much cause to act like a lovestruck teenager when he was the appropriate age, so if it’s coming on a decade late…well, he doesn’t care.
Their food arrives, and they talk about ordinary things while they eat, not a word from either of them about flesh worms or labyrinths of tunnels or corpses or cursed books or monsters. Jon has a drink of his tea and raises his eyebrow at it, and says, “I prefer when you make it,” and Martin denies that there’s anything special about his, except that he knows what Jon likes and he makes sure it’s always on hand at the Institute, and it’s nice, all of this is nice.
They linger long enough that London comes to life outside, morning traffic arriving and more customers filling in the tables around theirs. The old woman and the man in the suit and the university students depart, and Martin and Jon are still there. Eventually though, Jon checks his watch and says, “We’d best be getting back to work.”
Jon pays for breakfast. Martin reaches for his hand.
A few streets from the Magnus Institute, Jon squeezes, and Martin stops and says, “Do you think we should—I don’t know, stagger our arrivals?” and Jon looks surprised. “I don’t terribly mind anybody knowing, but it’s probably more professional if they don’t, right?”
“Yes,” Jon agrees, and he leans up, and they’re kissing again and Martin has to stop himself making a disappointed sound when Jon pulls away. They can’t stand here all day. Jon turns and walks toward the Institute at a brisk pace.
Martin loiters around for a few minutes, messing with his phone, until he thinks it’s just this side of long enough. The Institute isn’t empty at this hour. He returns to the Archives; Sasha is at her desk, and Tim is rifling through a stack of paperwork on his desk, and they both look up when he walks in.
“You look too cheerful for Monday morning,” Tim says. “Did our Martin take somebody home last night?”
Martin only smiles and says, “Better.”