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“The stepping stool is unnecessary.” Jon resisted the urge to plant his hands on his hips, glaring up at Tim.
Tim raised an eyebrow. “Just trying to make the Archives feel more like home, Boss.” His grin was easy and entirely too innocent.
“I appreciate the consideration, but even if I required a step stool, I doubt we’ll be getting enough use out of the upper breakroom cabinets to warrant one’s presence.” He tried to keep his voice even; if he let any frustration or amusement show, Tim would win and Jon would never hear the end of it.
Tim shot up out of his seat as though that was precisely the cue he was waiting for, gesturing at the little assemblage of plastic and metal like a veteran showman. “That’s the wonder of it, Boss! It’s portable! All those difficult-to-reach statements, right at your fingertips!” His grin was wide and plastic, eyes widened to the point of absurd earnestness.
Jon gave in, snorted, clutching his hands together and to his heart in an equally dramatic gesture . “Thank you ever so much , Tim. How can I ever hope to repay such a considerate gift ?”
“A raise wouldn’t go amiss!”
Sasha hip-checked Tim into the table- Jon grinned, having seen her approach where Tim had not- making him squawk and wheel his arms. “We’ve been here a week and you’re already asking for a raise?” She shot a look at Jon, dropping her box full of drinkware on the table with a slight clatter, “Sounds like insubordination to me. Practically a fireable offense!”
“Traitor!” Tim clutched at his heart and collapsed back into his seat.
“I think you’re both being overly frivolous on company time,” Jon cut in. “I ought to fire you both and just run this Archive myself.”
“ Not entirely by yourself! You’d still have Martin,” Tim waved a finger like this was an earth-shattering point.
“Ah yes,” the other two laughed as Jon’s expression soured, “Whatever would I do without Martin?”
-
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, and I don’t ever want to have to find out.” Jon rested his head against Martin’s shoulder, tired by the short walk to the courtyard.
“I mean,” Martin blushed. Jon gazed up at the pink flush and smiled. “I’m not really religious? And I don’t think you are either. And at that point, marriage is more a legal contract than anything else.”
Jon frowned, but his tone was joking. “Are you saying you don’t want to marry me?”
Martin looked appalled, shaking his head. “No, sorry, I,” he glanced at Jon, loosening his shoulders at the other man’s smile, “No, I just. I’m not actually sure we can? I mean. We don’t legally exist, here. We’re really lucky we’ve gotten away as long as we have with being John Doe 1 and 2 on the hospital records.”
Jon snorted. “But barring any legal or existential questions?”
“Well, I don’t know. I always fancied a bit of romance, myself. You know, one knee, ring, that whole bit. Significantly fewer bedpans and IV stands.”
Jon shifted, making to get off the bench, and Martin grabbed for his waist, hands feather-light and gentle. “Don’t! You’ll rip your stitches! ”
Jon rolled his shoulders and sat back, huffed. “Well, if you don’t want me on the bench and you don’t want me on one knee, you really ought to put me out of my misery and give me a direct rejection. ” He crossed his arms gingerly and stuck his nose in the air, smile twitching at the edges of his mouth.
Martin sighed, though it came out a bit less exasperated and more besotted than he’d intended. “Here.” He stood, kneeling and groping about the base of the bench for a bit of grass before twisting it into shape and propping one knee up in the appropriate pose. “Marry me?”
Jon grinned, solemnly holding out his hand for the makeshift ring. “I’d be delighted.”