Work Text:
“All right, that’s it!” Tim says abruptly. “What is your problem?”
Martin’s head jerks up, and he gapes. “W-what? I—I don’t…”
“Stop.” Tim puts up his hand. “Don’t give me that. I know something’s up. You’ve been in a daze all day.” They’re in the canteen, Tim having his lunch and Martin a cup of tea. Tim puts his hand down again and leans forward across the table, giving Martin an eyebrow. “Is something wrong?”
“Tim, I appreciate the concern, but I really don’t want to—"
“Come on, Martin. You’ve been a zombie all day; I’m worried about you! You can tell me. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
Martin sighs. “Yes…”
“Then…” Tim scoots his chair around the side of the table, steepling hands together and grinning. “Lay it on me.”
Martin sighs again. “Fine…” Actually, he’s been trying to figure out how to fix this problem all day. He doubts Tim will be able to help, but maybe discussing it out loud will make the issue seem…smaller?
“I may be slightly…mildly…somewhat…er, extremely fucked.”
Tim’s eyebrows shoot up, his interest visibly doubling – tripling, even. “Really? What is it? Girl trouble?” Then he grins and gives Martin an elbow in the ribs.
But Martin just sighs. “Sort of, yeah. It’s my…mother, actually.”
“Oh.” Tim sits up straighter, a genuinely concerned frown replacing his smirk. He knows Martin’s mother is ill. “Is she…?”
“Fine. She’s fine. I mean, she’s normal. But…” Martin squirms in the hard plastic chair. His tea has gone cold. “She coming up to London for a doctor’s appointment in two days, and she’s going to be staying over at my house. No problem there, except…well…”
“Well?”
Martin grimaces and finally just blurts it out. “I told her I was seeing someone, but I’m not, and she’s expecting to meet—them, and now I’m royally screwed because I have to tell my chronically ill mother that I’ve been lying to her for the last three months.”
“Oh.” Tim blinks. “That’s…a problem, yeah.”
“Yeah…” Martin deflates, leaning his forehead on the table. “I would never have lied to her, but she worries about me all the time. Says I work too much. Which is true, but I kind of have to, you know? And I don’t mind the being single thing, not really. But she’s my mother, and she feels guilty for taking up all my time, and she worries that she’s getting in the way of my happiness. So, I told her I was seeing someone. I figured, no problem. She’s at home, and I’m here in London, and there’s no reason why she should ever find out. Except now, she’s coming up, and she wants to meet—” Martin closes his mouth suddenly. Maybe too suddenly.
When he looks up, Tim is staring at him, waiting for him to finish. When he doesn’t, Tim’s eyes begin to narrow. And that infernal grin comes back. “She wants to meet who, Martin?”
“No one.”
“Oh, my God. It was someone here, wasn’t it? Someone at the Institute!”
“Shh! No! Why would you even think that!”
“It is!” Tim is beaming now. He scoots his chair even closer. “Who is it?” he asks, practically bouncing in his chair. “Rosie? Sasha?”
“No—no! It’s no one!”
Tim looks down, momentarily puzzled. Then… “Me?”
“NO, TIM!”
“Then who? I know it’s someone here! You’ve practically confirmed it!”
“No, I haven’t! I’ve adamantly denied it—”
“Martin, tell me! Maybe I can help!”
“How could you help??”
“I won’t know until you tell me!”
“ARRG!” Martin covers his face with his hands. His skin is hot now, and probably beat-red. After a moment, he glances at Tim between his fingers. He’s still beaming excitedly like a little sparkly-eyed dog. Martin exhales, feeling the last of his pride slip away into the fog of desperation.
“Fine…fine. But listen to me, Tim. Before I tell you anything, you have to swear on your life that you won’t repeat this to anyone. Not even Sasha!”
Tim’s face falls slightly. “Not even Sasha? Why?”
“Tim.”
“All right, fine. Who is it?”
“Swear it.”
“I swear, I swear! Tell me.”
But before Martin can say the name, the canteen doors open.
And in comes Jon.
Whatever Martin might have said at that moment dries up in his throat. Jon sees them, of course, and gives one of his curt little nods.
“Tim. Martin.” He’s wearing a dark-green sweater over a white collared shirt today, brown trousers. His hair is tied back in a knot, tidy except for the few strands that always fall into his face. He goes to the sink, fills his thermos with water, and then starts to leave.
But when he gets to the door, he pauses, and looks over.
That’s when Martin realizes he’s been staring. And so has Tim.
Jon’s eyes flick back and forth between them, taking them in, then he frowns uncomfortably. “Uh…problem?”
“No!” Martin blurts out, probably too loudly. Oh, God, his cheeks are flaming. “Ah-ha, no. Of course not. We were just…uh…”
“Having boy talk,” Tim chimes in, throwing a chummy arm around Martin’s shoulders and pulling him in close.
“Right,” Jon says lowly, still looking vaguely weirded-out. “Anyway. When you’re through with your ‘boy talk,’ I could use both of you in the archives. There’s a statement I need following up on.”
“Right away,” Tim says, giving him a salute.
Martin just nods, and silently prays Jon can’t see how blazing-hot his cheeks are.
Then Jon is out the doors and gone down the hallway.
Instantly, Tim shoves Martin back, and gapes at him with his mouth wide-open. “JON?”
“SHUT UP, TIM!”
“IT’S JON?”
“TIM!”
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. That actually makes sense.”
“What—”
“You’re always fawning all over him.”
“I do not fawn over him.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.”
“Tim, please…” Martin groans, covering his face again.
“I always just thought you were a people-pleaser,” Tim continues, shaking his head in amazement. Then, his face splits into a grin again. Teasingly, he sings, “Martin’s got a crush on the boss-man.”
“TIM!”
“Oh, relax, Martin. You’re not exactly living some kind of unheard-of kink fantasy. Crushing on the boss is like the biggest cliché in the world.”
This is it, Martin hears himself think. I’ve decided to pass away.
Tim actually sits back then and shakes his head, like he’s slightly disappointed in Martin’s unoriginality. He takes a bite of his food, and just when Martin thinks it’s finally over, Tim says one last thing. This time, with a knowing little shit-eating smirk blooming with pride. “Get you, Martin.”
That’s it. I’m quitting. I’m leaving the Institute with what little dignity I have left.
But, of course, Martin does not quit. And despite Tim’s visible glowing amusement about the whole situation, he keeps his mouth shut around Jon and Sasha, only throwing Martin knowing little smiles every now and then and winking. Which is almost as bad.
It’s nearing the end of the day when Tim pulls him aside. He looks more serious now, concentrated. “Okay,” he whispers. “I think I’ve got a plan.”
“A…plan?” Martin asks, blinking. “For what?”
“What do you mean ‘for what’? To solve your…little problem.”
“No. No, no, no—”
“Martin, you wanted me to help, didn’t you?”
“No! Yes. But I’ve changed my mind—”
“Shut up. Listen.” Tim grabs him by both arms, forcing Martin to pay attention. “It’s very simple. We’ll just tell Jon the truth.”
“The truth? Are you insane?”
“No! Not that truth! The truth about your mum coming, and how she’s worried, and you needed to lie to make her feel better.” Tim smiles, obviously proud of his idea. “But when she asked who you were dating, you panicked and just blurted out the first name that popped into your head: Jon’s. See? Nothing about a crush. You didn’t think anything would ever come of it, so you played along, but now she’s coming to London, and you don’t want her to know you fibbed a little. See? Easy as that.”
“Tim. That’s a terrible plan.”
Frowning, Tim crosses his arms. “Which is worse? My plan or telling your poor sickly mum you’ve been lying to her? Plus, it comes with the added bonus of spending extra time with the boss-man.”
“He’ll never go for it. Not in a million years.”
“I bet he will.”
“This isn’t a game, Tim. It’s—it’s my job.”
“I’ll bet you a fiver right now that he goes for it.”
“You’re not hearing me.”
“Oh, I’m hearing you, Martin.” And the arm is back, pulling him right up along Tim’s side, squeezing affectionately. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”
Sasha pulls her scarf around her neck and looks at Tim. “Ready to go?” They always walk out together and catch the same bus. But not today.
“Actually, I still have a few things I need to do,” Tim says, making a visible effort to contain his excitement. “See you tomorrow?”
Sasha shrugs. “All right,” she says, walking off.
When she’s out of ear shot, Tim whirls. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Like I’m going to throw up.”
“Good! Good, the more mortified you look, the more Jon will take mercy on you.”
And then Martin is being led back through the archives doors, to Jon’s office. Tim knocks, a series of musical taps before twisting the handle.
“Jon, we—oh.” Tim stops, grimacing when Jon glares up at him.
He’s in the middle of recording a statement, eyeglasses on his nose, and papers everywhere.
With extremely forced patience, Jon says, “Yes, Tim?”
“S-sorry, we can come back—” Martin tries, but Tim cuts him off.
“Actually, it’s kind of important. Can we talk for a minute?”
At this, Jon raises an eyebrow. He considers the two of them for a moment, then sighs, and turns off the tape recorder. “Fine,” he says. “What is it?”
Apparently seeing this as some kind of victory, Tim pulls Martin in. He’s all swaggers and charisma. “It would seem,” Tim begins. “That our sweet Martin here has gotten himself into quite a pickle.”
Martin’s face is blazing again. He wishes he could sink through the floorboards.
But Jon is unimpressed. “Oh?” he asks flatly.
Still, Tim powers on. “Yes. As you might know, his mum is quite ill—”
Jon lifts his head slightly. “I…wasn’t aware of that.” He looks at Martin. “Do you need some time off? If you do, I can certainly arrange—”
“N-no. No, thank you. It’s not a new diagnosis…” Martin says. “She’s just, um…”
“Coming to London,” Tim goes on. “To stay with Martin for a few days. But, you see, Jon, there’s a slight…hiccup.”
“A hiccup.”
“Yes. Well—Martin can explain it best.”
In a list of the top 3 betrayers in the world, number one would be Judas, number two would be Brutus, and number three would be Timothy bloody Stoker.
But Martin does explain, to the best of his ability, and Jon listens quietly all the way up to the end. At which point, he looks at Martin, then at Tim, and back at Martin.
“Okay,” he says. “So…why are you telling me?”
“Because you’re the one Martin said he was dating,” Tim says happily.
Amended list:
- Judas
- Tim
- Brutus
“Oh,” is all Jon says for a painfully long moment. “So…you…um…”
“This—this is awkward. I’m sorry,” Martin interrupts. “Forget we said anything. I’ll just figure it out. Really, it’s not that big a deal—”
“Would it really be that unbearable for you?” Tim asks, inching higher and higher up the list with every breath he takes. “I mean, it’s not like Martin actually has feelings for you or anything…” It’s all Tim can do to keep from winking. “And it would really help him out.”
Jon looks flustered. He has every right to. And apparently, sorting through the papers on his desk is becoming more and more of a fascination for him.
Martin is about to tell Jon, under no uncertain terms, does he need to do this. He’s about to walk out and begin planning the brutal and intricate murder of Timothy Stoker…
When Jon says, “A-all right.”
“What?”
Jon clears his throat, taps a stack of papers on his desk. “If it will…really help…then…all right. I suppose.”
Martin can only stare. He can only stare, with his mouth open, unblinking. In numb, mute shock. Not a single word will come into his head. There’s a thing you’re supposed to say when someone agrees to do an enormous, embarrassing favor for you. But at the moment, Martin has no idea what to say.
Apparently, though, Tim does. “You owe me a fiver,” he says, coolly swaggering out of the room.
The next two days are a blur of mad preparations for his mother and avoiding Jon at work, interrupted at random intervals by the screaming, heart-racing realization that Jon is coming to his house. To meet his mum. And have DINNER.
That was the uncomfortable agreement they came to: dinner and an hour or two of socialization, then Jon will excuse himself, and hopefully, they’ll never speak of it again.
On the day-of, Martin is such a nervous wreck that he becomes a total nuisance in the archives. Dropping boxes of statements, bumping into walls and shelves, spilling tea on Sasha (twice!) Tim, of course, gets out unscathed and grinning like mad. He keeps giving Martin thumbs ups and whispering, “get you, Martin!”
It is, officially, the most mortifying experience of Martin’s life.
At the end of the day, he goes down to the archives one last time to let Jon know he’s leaving. And to maybe remind him one more time that he really doesn’t have to do this.
But when he gets down to the office, Jon is already packing up for the night. He whirls at the sound of the door opening, and when he sees Martin, he seems to simultaneously stiffen and relax at the same time.
“Martin. Hello.”
“Oh—hi.”
They stand there, staring at each other for several seconds. Then Jon clears his throat and says, “Should we…get our story straight?”
“What?”
“Our story. For your mum. She’s going to ask questions, isn’t she?”
“O-oh. I hadn’t really thought of that…”
Jon nods to himself and bites his lip. Thinking. “It would probably be best if we stuck as closely to reality as possible.”
“Right. But…Jon, you don’t have to do this. Tim totally pressured you into it, and I shouldn’t have let him. I’m sorry.”
“That he did,” Jon mutters as he reclines back onto his desk. “But there isn’t much harm in it, is there? One evening spent protecting the feelings of a sickly woman? I don’t mind, Martin.”
“You don’t?”
Jon stands up from the desk and straightens his shirt front. “Consider it a favor. One that you will owe me extensively for.”
Martin nods furiously, feeling suddenly a lot better about this whole thing now that he knows Jon isn’t just doing it because was forced to. “Deal,” he says. At this point, owing a favor to Jon is so, so, so much more pleasant-sounding than breaking his sweet mother’s heart.
Martin lives in a split house with two entryways and two separate living quarters, but the bloke who lives on the other side of the wall is rarely at home. It’s a brick house with a dark shingled roof and a brown door. Not much to look at, but as Jon follows him up the walkway, he comments that it’s a nice place.
Martin smiles at the doorknob as he unlocks it. “Thanks.” Then he lets them in.
Switching on the light washes everything in that warm yellowish light of an old ceiling lamp. It has faux-wood floors and brown walls, the color of which Martin detested at first for how bland and dim it was. But now, he’s come to appreciate the color. Maybe it’s a form of Stockholm Syndrome, since he isn’t allowed to paint over it. But it sort of also reminds him of the color of tea with cream.
As for furnishings, he’s got the usual. Sofa, coffee table, TV. There’s a smallish kitchen in the back and a hallway that leads to the bathroom and two bedrooms. Although the second bedroom is quite cramped. He’s decided to let his mum stay in his room, the larger of the two, so she can have everything she needs close by without her tripping over it.
“Cozy,” Jon comments, clutching the strap of his messenger bag maybe a bit too tightly. He’s nervous. But so is Martin.
“I know that’s a codeword for ‘small,’” Martin teases. “You can set your bag down wherever, by the way.”
“No, I mean it,” Jon says. “It’s nice.”
“Thanks.”
As Martin goes into the kitchen, Jon remains in the living room, just sort of glancing around, taking everything in. He has dropped his bag on the sofa.
“When will your mother get here?” he asks.
“Any minute now,” Martin tells him. “Last chance to run out the door screaming.”
Jon throws him a little smile, but noticeably doesn’t leave. Instead, he crosses the living room and comes to a stop across the kitchen island from where Martin is filling a kettle with water for tea. He starts to say something, but the sound is cut off by a knocking at the door.
Jon whirls like it might be Death themselves out there.
Martin shakes his head and steps around the counter. “Too late,” he whispers. “She’s heeere.” Then he jogs to the door and opens it. Instantly, there’s a gush of affection in his chest.
“Martin!” his mother cries, absolutely beaming, despite how tired and pale she is from the trip. “Oh, my darling.”
“Hi, Mum.”
They embrace, her kissing him on the top of the head. Then he reaches down to take her bag and purse, carrying them inside. His mum isn’t as spry as she once was, and it takes her some time to actually walk into the house. But she doesn’t like him hovering.
“And you must be Jon,” she says as Martin is closing the door behind her.
“Hello, Mrs. Blackwood,” Jon says, stepping forward to shake her hand. He’s holding himself stiffly.
She swats his hand away and pulls him in for a hug. “I have been waiting three months to meet the man who’s made my Martin so happy. Give me a hug, love.”
And Jon does hug her, briefly, formally. And when he steps back, his cheeks are red. “It’s—very nice to meet you, too,” he stutters out.
“And please, call me Eleanor.”
Jon nods dutifully. “Eleanor,” he repeats.
“So, Mum, I was thinking about Indian food tonight. Is that okay?”
“That sounds yummy, darling. So, Jon,” she says, heading for the sofa. She can’t stand for very long, so she’s always aiming to find a place to sit. “You’re Martin’s boss at the Institute, is that right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies. Then, he quickly adds, “Martin is an excellent research assistant.”
“Well, I knew he would be,” she says, beaming at Martin from across the room. “Smart as a whip, that one. And creative. Have you heard any of his poetry?”
“Um, not very much of it, admittedly,” Jon says, like it’s a shame. “But what I have heard was…very nice.”
Martin turns away to dial the number for the Indian food place, and also to hide his rolling eyes. Jon doesn’t think much of his poetry at all, calls it silly. With one ear, he listens to the woman on the phone and orders their takeaway, but with the other, he’s eavesdropping on his mum’s interrogation.
“Tell me about yourself,” she says, all honey and charms. But this is an interrogation, have no doubt. Martin has always been scarce about details on Jon. It just felt wrong to use him that way, to use his actual life in the lie.
“There’s not much to tell,” Jon says.
“Oh, posh. Come on, don’t be shy.”
“A-all right. Um, well, you know I work for the Magnus Institute, as the Head Archivist. That takes up quite a lot of my time. But outside of work, erm, I have a small flat, not too far from here, actually. Um…”
“What do you do for fun?” Martin’s mother offers helpfully.
“Oh—well, I do a lot of reading. History, mostly. And I take walks…”
Eleanor is looking at him strangely, with her head tilted, and the oddest of smiles on her faces. “Well, it’s no wonder why you and my Martin get along so well,” she says after a moment. “A couple housebugs, the two of you. You’re like a pair of comfy shoes.”
Jon actually smiles at that, and nods. “I never was much of an outdoorsman.”
“Oh, neither was Martin. He spent an entire two days on the football team before transferring out to join the drama club instead.”
“Drama club?” Jon peers over his shoulder at Martin, like he’s genuinely amused. “Really.”
Martin’s face burns, but he can hardly speak up with the woman taking their order talking in his other ear.
“Oh, yes. He played John Proctor in his school’s rendition of The Crucible. He was very good.”
“Mum!” Martin hisses.
She waves his embarrassment away. “He was. Very good.”
“Martin acting in a play about burning witches,” Jon muses, chuckling lowly. “How very ironic.”
“Oh, yes!” Eleanor giggles. “Compared to his current profession, I would say so. Digging through all those morbid stories and old spooky things. I worried it would turn him bleak, but he’s been there for a few years now, and he’s still my same, bright boy. Such a relief.”
“’Bright.’ He is that,” Jon agrees, almost too softly to hear.
It makes Martin’s chest squeeze with warmth.
Thirty minutes of friendly chatter later, the food arrives. Martin brings it in and sets out the plates and glasses. Then he sits next to Jon on the sofa as they eat.
“How did you boys first meet anyway?” his mother asks as she dabs the bit of sauce from her mouth.
Jon snorts. It surprises Martin because they’ve discussed this as a part of “keeping their story straight.” They’re supposed to say they met through work – nothing to snort about.
But apparently, having relaxed a bit, Jon must have forgotten the plan. “He let a dog into the archives.”
“A dog?” Eleanor parrots, her eyes wide. “Why on earth did you do that, Martin?”
“It was an accident, of course,” Martin says, flushing again. “I was trying to go into the archives, but the little stinker snuck past me.”
“Martin comes bursting into my office, asking me if I’ve seen a dog. He looked so genuinely panicked that I didn’t even know what to say at first,” Jon says, smiling about it now. Not that he smiled then. “And then he explained, and I was furious, of course. I didn’t even know Martin had been transferred to the archives at that point. It was just this mad stranger telling me he’d let a stray into my archives.”
“Oh, dear,” Eleanor murmurs, wide-eyed. “That couldn’t have nice, could it, Martin? That being your first interaction with a new boss.” She laughs at the absurdity of it.
“It certainly was not.”
“Well, it worked out in the end, I suppose,” she says with a shrug. “Look at the two of you now, like two peas in a pod, I suspect.”
“Uh—yeah. That’s us,” Martin says weakly. “A couple of peas.”
About an hour later, it starts to snow. Hard.
“Oh my,” Eleanor comments as she looks through the curtains. “It’s practically a blizzard out there.”
“I don’t understand this,” Martin says, pacing and staring at his weather app. “There were no predictions of snow for today.”
“I doubt even the taxis will be out in this,” his mother says. Then she turns to Jon, who has been sitting quietly on the couch, probably regretting his decision to come here more and more by the second, now that’s effectively trapped. “Jon, dear, looks like you’ll be needing to stay over tonight. It’s not fit for man nor beast out there.”
Jon gives her a placid, unbothered smile, like staying over is the most natural thing in the world. But inside, Martin knows he must be dying to get out of here.
After several more refreshes of the weather app, all of which confirm that the storm is huge and came out of almost nowhere, Martin tosses his phone aside with a huff.
“Oh, relax, darling,” his mother says. “It will be cleared up by morning, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, sure…”
Then his eyes meet Jon’s – and the realization hits him.
Jon is going to have to stay over.
“Thank you for making up your room for me, sweetings,” his mother says, kissing him on the forehead. “But are you sure you don’t want to switch things over? With Jon staying, you might be a bit cramped in that tiny little room…”
“It’s all right,” Jon assures her. “We’ll, um, we’ll be just fine.”
“Of course, dear. Well, goodnight both of you.” As she’s turning away, Eleanor gives Martin the tiniest of smirks and—God forbid—a wink. “See you in the morning.”
Martin just stands there, dumbfounded and burning-hot.
And beside him, Jon is equally quiet and motionless, like a trapped rabbit.
Naturally, as these things tend to go, there’s only one bed.
He and Jon talk about it for a while, going back and forth on the pros and cons of the situation. For a few minutes, it sounds like Jon is going to try to walk home anyway, to spare them both the embarrassment. But Martin manages to talk him out of it. It’s far too cold out there for him to walk all the way home. And then they discuss one of them taking the couch, but that would seem odd, wouldn’t it? If they’re meant to be madly in love?
Martin starts to say that they should just call the whole thing off now, but Jon throws his hands up.
“What’s the point?” he asks. “We’ve done this much. No point in ruining it now.”
“I…I guess you’re right… If you’re willing…”
Jon shrugs. “It’s not like it means anything, Martin,” he reasons, eyeing the narrow twin-sized bed they’re meant to share for the night. Unless one of them wants to sleep on the floor. But even that would be claustrophobic. “Friends share beds all the time.”
“I guess.” Then he pauses. “Are we friends, Jon?”
“I’m your boss, Martin,” Jon comes back with a frown, quickly, like it’s a reflex. “Now…get in the bed.”
It’s not the worst night sleep Martin has ever had. In certain other circumstances, sharing a bed with Jonathan Sims could pass as the best night he could ever dream of. But these…are not those circumstances.
As it is, they sleep pressed up next to each other. There’s no other way to share this bed, small as it is.
They sleep back-to-back, Martin under the covers and Jon on top of them, draped in a quilt from the closet. With the blizzard going outside, Martin worries he’ll be cold, but that proves not to be a problem. Their shared body heat, even separated by the blankets, is like a cozy little furnace.
As awkward a situation as it is, Martin is the one who can’t sleep. Not because he’s uncomfortable – but because the feel of Jon’s back flat up against his, the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing, his warmth…it makes his heart zing without end.
Eventually, Martin must fall asleep because the next thing he knows, he’s waking up to the sunlight coming in through the blinds. The bed is colder and emptier than it was before.
Jon must already be up.
Still half-asleep, Martin wobbles into the hallway, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He doesn’t see anybody in the living room or kitchen, and as he heads for the bathroom, he feels a pang of disappointment at the thought that Jon might have snuck out at first light, as soon as the roads were clear.
But after he has brushed his teeth and finished his morning routine, he steps out, a bit brighter and more awake, and he hears voices coming from the back garden. Jon’s and his mother’s. So, Jon didn’t leave. For some silly reason, Martin’s heart soars at the realization.
They’re out there, sitting in the chairs and talking. It looks like a cold morning, and there are several inches of snow on the ground, but Martin keeps the chairs folded up and out of the way, so they’re likely dry. Cold, but dry.
His mother is nursing a cup of tea, and Jon is smiling at her like she has said something endearing.
“Oh, good morning, darling,” she says as Martin steps out to join them.
“Morning.” He rubs his arms. “Bit nippy out here. What are you two doing?”
“Just talking,” his mother says. “I’ve taken to having my morning tea outside lately. Jon’s so sweet, he was worried I’d get cold and offered to sit with me and keep me company.” Then, as an aside, she pretends to whisper, as if to keep it from Jon, even though he can still plainly hear her. “Little does he know, it was all a ruse so I could keep interrogating him.”
“Mother…” Martin says weakly, glancing at Jon.
But he looks to be in good spirits this morning. Well-rested and pink from the cold. His hair is loose, tumbling down his shoulders, and he’s wrapped himself up in the quilt from the bedroom.
Aaand there goes Martin’s heart again. He’s going to die of a bloody coronary if this keeps up.
“Don’t worry, Martin, we’re not swapping embarrassing stories or anything,” Jon assures him. “Your mother was just telling me of her time as a nurse.”
“Ironic, isn’t it,” Eleanor says, perhaps a bit sadly. “I spend thirty years of my life taking care of the sick. Now I’m sick, but there isn’t anything anyone can do for me.”
“Mum…” Martin says softly, tears springing to his eyes. She doesn’t usually talk like this.
“Jon,” she says, stronger now. “Will you promise me something?”
“Of course,” he says gently.
“Take care of my Martin when I’m gone. Will you do that for me? He’s such a good boy. So brilliant, and good, and kindhearted. This world can be unfair sometimes, even cruel. But I can tell you’re one of the good ones. You’ve got a good heart, too.” She reaches across and places her wrinkled hand on top of his. “Will you promise me?”
Jon smiles. His other hand slides up to cover hers, and he nods. “Of course.”
As Martin and his mother are about to leave for her doctor’s appointment, Eleanor pulls a small, silver camera from her purse.
“Before we go, let’s have a picture of the happy couple,” she says, waving them together.
They’ve already crossed all the lines by now, including sharing a bed, so scooching together for one picture doesn’t feel like much anymore. That is, until Eleanor clicks her tongue and says, “Come on, boys, don’t be shy.”
“Mum?” Martin asks, confused.
She huffs. “He’s your boyfriend, not mine, dear. Let’s have a kiss.” Then she raises her camera. And waits.
Objectively, it probably happens fast.
But to Martin, it seems to go so slowly. The realization, the internal battle of oh, my God, what do I do?? Then looking at Jon to find him looking about as shocked and mortified as he feels. Their eyes meeting, and that same silent agreement rising up.
No point in ruining it now.
Or maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe they do it for another reason.
Both of them chuckling nervously, they press their mouths together.
There’s a snap from the camera and, in the distance, Martin hears his mother say something about them both being “so shy.” But he doesn’t hear her clearly. His world has shrunk down to the square inches of thing, one pair of lips. They’re warm and soft against his, despite the cold. And as it’s happening, as they’re kissing, Martin feels Jon’s hand reach out and grab a fistful of the bottom of his shirt.
When they’ve pulled apart, Martin walks to the car in a daze.
The next day, at work, Tim corners him in the canteen again.
“Well?” he demands, almost vibrating with excitement. “How’d you two lovebirds fair in that storm last night? Did Jon get home safely or did he…stay the night?”
“Yeah,” Martin replies, still a bit numb and in shock from it all. “He had to stay.”
“He did?” Tim blinks like he didn’t actually expect that. “You stayed the night with Joe Spooky? How was that?”
Martin shrugs. “It was…nice.”
As Tim and Sasha are leaving the archives that night, Jon pulls Martin aside.
“We have to talk,” he says.
Tim hears that, and his head twists around like that girl from The Exorcist. His eyes bug out, huge and desperate for gossip. But he has no excuse to stay, so he follows Sasha out, wearing a full-blown sulk on his face.
“Jon?” Martin asks when the doors are closed again. “Is this about…”
“Yes,” he says.
“Oh. Right.”
And then there’s just silence.
Martin doesn’t know how long it stretches on. It feels like ten minutes, but it couldn’t be that long.
Eventually, Jon works up the nerve to speak. “Was it…” He pauses, swallows. “Was it just me…?”
Martin’s first instinct is to act like he doesn’t know what Jon means. But he does. He does know. He licks his lips. “No,” he says quietly.
Jon looks surprised at that. “You—”
Martin shrugs lamely. “Maybe your name wasn’t as random as Tim and I led you to believe…” He can’t believe he’s saying it out loud, but why not. They have officially crossed all the lines already. Why shouldn’t he just come clean? Especially if there’s the slightest chance that Jon might feel the same way.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Martin says, his calmness surprising even him. “I’ll see you—”
“Martin.”
He stops.
After the slightest hesitation, barely a heartbeat, Jon charges across the archives and takes Martin by the back of the neck.
Tim is going to go absolutely mad when he finds out.