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Jon is drowning in statements. And tapes. And books that might reference Leitners or Nikola or the Unknowing. Anything that might give him a hint at the direction he should be taking. Nothing has clicked so far and Elias may as well be absent for all the help he’s been. Jon is tired of his boss’s curled lips supplying cryptic half-truths. That is, when Elias deigns to supply anything at all. Jon’s been working over the same information in his head until it’s mush.
A knock on the door has him nearly jumping out of his seat.
“Come in” He calls, snippish. Martin opens the door only enough to pop his head in.
“Sorry, if I’m interrupting I just… It’s almost one?” His fingers are curled tight over the doorframe, shoulders creeping to his ears. “I’m about to take lunch. I uh, made too much food the other night and have an extra portion in the fridge. Was about to heat them up if you’d like some. Maybe take a break for lunch?”
There is no time for lunch with Martin. Not with a potential apocalypse marching into town. Not with Jon consumed in the worry of strange faces, circus masks and mannequins. Martin will look at him with pained eyes, fork stilled between his mouth and the plate.
“Not hungry at the moment” Jon dismisses, and remembering his manners adds “but thank you.”
Martin gives him a smile, resigned and trying terribly not to look disappointed. “I’ll leave it in the fridge in case you get peckish later.”
Unlikely, but Jon gives a curt nod to appease him.
**
Jon turns the page of the book in his hand only to realize he hasn’t taken in any of the words. So he flips it back to where he last remembers and tries again. It doesn’t help that the sun’s already set. Or that they’re having another rainy night. Droplets continue to patter on the window of his office.
After the fifth go round on the same page Jon puts a pen in his place and closes the book. His body is betraying his mind, the two acting on entirely different rhythms.
Jon remembers learning that a good interval for productivity is 52 minutes on a task followed by 17 minutes break. Nevermind he hasn’t stopped for a break since early this morning. (He had to focus on not spilling his tea on the keyboard as he sipped and scrolled though an article. Surely that was distracting enough to count as a break.)
Perhaps checking his email would act as a palette cleanser. One of the messages in his inbox catches his eye—a notification from youtube that reads “We think you’re going to love this! New video posted by Cuppa ASMR”. Already feeling an anticipatory thrum at the base of his neck, Jon clicks the link.
The video fades into a shot of Martin tapping along the front and spine of a small three ringed binder. The cover is a mustard yellow with drawings of various kitchen tools dotted along it. The book looks well loved, scuffed edges and a few mystery stains. Inside it’s plump full of sheet protectors with paper edges curling out the top. The lighting is a warm cheap yellow that reminds Jon of his childhood.
“Evening, lovelies” Martin hums, his nail raking along the edges of the book. “I thought we might do a little cooking together this evening. Have ourselves a warm meal on a cold day.” The book crinkles as it’s opened. Jon feels the sound washing down his arms.
Martin’s fingers scan the pages, smooth down stray papers and tuck in corners. “The recipe I want to make for you today is my grandmothers.” He chuckles to himself, “You’ll laugh when I tell you what it is. Very ‘british’ of me, but it was a favorite ritual of mine as a child.”
His fingers skate over the lamination as he searches the pages. Jon notes some of the recipes are handwritten in Martin’s slanted script. Others are torn or haphazardly cut out from magazines.
"The weekends I spent at nans preparing shepherd’s pie, the after-meal jigsaws in front of a crackling hearth… those are some of my happiest memories” The smile on his face confirms it. Jon aches a little at the sweetness and nostalgia bare in his expression. After a few more pages Martin pulls an envelope out of the sleeve he’s landed on. Inside is a paper folded into fourths which he undoes delicately and presses flat on the on the table in soft dabbing motions at its creases. “I’m so happy to be able to share a piece of those memories with you. So how about we get started.”
The video fades into a kitchen. There are various ingredients neatly pre-portioned into bowls like one might see on a baking show. Martin explains each step pointing to the ingredients as they come into play. He starts with the sliced potatoes, nudging several around with a wooden spatula as he speaks.
During the cooking there are a lot of artful cutaways, closeups of the water boiling, steam wafting off the top of the pot as the potatoes are coaxed inside. Jon especially melts at the simmering sounds of the meat and vegetables in the skillet.
His stomach gurgles its agreement, to which Jon lays a hand on his belly and gives it a withering glare.
Next there’s a montage of the dish cooking and being plated. Martin’s added soft piano music in the background. It’s something impressionist and syrupy. Cliché. And unmistakably Martin. Jon watches the potatoes brown in the oven and then get removed with mitted hands. There’s a close up of the surface of the bake, heat rolling off the top in elegant whisps. Then slices are cut and placed on two simple place settings. Ice water clinks as it is poured into a tall glass, making Jon’s eyes flutter.
And finally they’re sitting together, Martin letting out a contented sigh. “I’m sorry to those of you who were hoping for a mukbang video,” he says before taking a sip of his water. “ I did consider it, but despite my figure, I can’t eat nearly enough for it to count. Besides” he adds looking warmly into the camera, “I’d much rather share a meal with you than keep it all for myself”
Martin scoops a forkful of the pie and cradles a hand below the tines as he pops it into his mouth.
The chewing noises should be disgusting. But Martin mostly keeps his mouth closed. The muted sounds of munching turn Jon’s muscles to jelly.
There’s also something so vulnerable about watching Martin eat. It’s like having someone fall asleep on your shoulder. He’s seeing pieces of Martin’s life that he would never see as his boss—Martin’s dishes, the frilly drapes on his windows. Jon wonders how often Martin has the time and company to make use of that table where he’s sat. Or how often his meals are rushed, hovering over the kitchen counter. Jon thinks guiltily that he wants Martin to have reason to use that table. To have company.
Which is when he remembers the proffered food chilling in the fridge. Unexplained desire curls in his chest at the thought of the “extra” food being leftovers from this video. Jon’s stomach grumbles again as Martin moans around another particularly satisfying forkful.
Pausing the video, he heads swiftly to the breakroom. Sure enough there in the fridge is a tupper with a heaping portion of shepherd’s pie inside. There a note on the front that says “Do not microwave! Toaster oven on high for 10 minutes—Martin”
With minimal grumbling about ‘unnecessary fanfare’, Jon puts the slice on foil and waits the long minutes for the pie to reheat. He even plates it and hunts in the drawers for an honest to goodness metal fork. The buttery smell wafts up to Jon as he carries the plate to his desk.
After perching his phone on a particularly thick stack of papers he starts the video back up. How lucky he is to have a second chance—a safer chance—to share a meal with Martin. Jon sinks his fork into the slightly crunchy top layer of the pie along with Martin. It tastes exactly as he expected, rich and hearty as any comfort food should be.
“You know,” Martin starts between mouthfuls, “we really got the perfect weather for a cozy night in. Maybe after we eat I can make us a fire in the hearth. Could play some cards or read together.”
Jon is willing to bet that Martin’s apartment does not have a fireplace. What he does see happening, realistically, is the two of them huddle in front of a heater. He imagines pushing one of the sofas to the nearest grate. He and Martin wrapped in crochet blankets, toes peeking out to catch the hot air. Jon sighs deeply as he chews, eyes shutting to better bask in the thought.
The two eat mostly in companionable silence, broken up by Martin’s occasional comment.
“These peas I’ve added,” Martin says near the end of the meal, “they’ve got the type of love in them that you can taste. You ever notice that about local vegetables?”
Jon nods along because it’s part of the fun. Makes this feel real.
“Could just be they haven’t been sitting in crates going stale. But part of me thinks there’s a human factor there… My neighbor Maggie who grows these peas? She has a green thumb like you wouldn’t believe. It’s like the plants can sense her fondness through her hands when she tends the soil.”
Jon picks out a couple peas and chews them slowly. They’re certainly sweet. Although he thinks he’s missing the enchantment Martin is waxing on about.
“They have this connection we can’t understand. At least I can’t; plants have always been a mystery to me. But it’s clear in the tasting how they care for each other, Maggie and her plants.” Martin’s staring down at the last bite of shepherd’s pie, coyly picking at the bottom layer. Jon’s surprised to find that there’s only a forkful or two left on his own plate.
Martin scoops up the last bite of food and chews it slowly for his viewers’ benefit. Then, too soon, he’s dabbing a napkin at his mouth, letting it rustle in his fingers as he speaks. “It has been such a pleasure getting to cook and eat with you. We should do it again soon.”
Jon doesn’t know when he’ll be able to have a proper meal with Martin, but he hopes it’s soon too. And that hope is enough for tonight.
**
Martin has a habit before he starts work of putting on the kettle for a morning brew. Today however he finds himself stopped by the sink, smiling giddy at the drying rack.
Because there sits his Tupperware, empty and left to dry. His original post-it note has been flipped over and taped to the lid. It simply reads “Thank you—J.S.”
Martin will still make tea, but he feels bad for the steaming mug that will have to compete with the warmth Jon’s note has nestled between his ribs.