Archive of Our Own

It was stupid how worked up Martin had got himself on the way here; not that he was nervous; it was just that it had been a long time since he had done anything but worry. And the thought of letting himself have a night off from that seemed so foreign to him he had questioned his own choices at least seven times on the way to the tube, and turned round to go home and call it off once. 

Why he had agreed to go on a blind date was up for debate. He liked to think that it was just humouring Tim and Sasha; they had been relentless. All but threatening to put him on Tinder if he spent one more Friday night in, watching depressing eighties movies and lamenting his sad, lonely existence over a takeaway and a cheap bottle of gin. 

But Martin knew himself better than that, he knew why he had decided on this night out with ‘a nice guy from my rock-climbing group’ that Tim had set him up with, it was a last-ditch attempt to get over whatever festering feelings lingered for the man that was never far from his thoughts. 

Even now, as he walked to meet an almost total stranger on the outskirts of Soho, Jon was on his mind. Not that he hated it, he just wasn’t sure why he let it get to this point. He should have smothered the burgeoning crush on his boss as soon as he realised what it was. It had been fine watching him from across the library when all he had was distance and anonymity. But he had let the seed of attraction take root, and now the tendrils of life had twisted hard and fast around his heart. Just another layer to smother him and suffocate him in the same way the love he felt for his own mother had. It was a safe sort of ache. To look for the affection reflected where you knew there was no chance of even a fleeting glance of reciprocation. There was no threat of a broken heart if the heart wasn't given away to begin with . 

Yes, the scornful looks that Jon had thrown him every day since he had transferred to the archives had lessened over time, but he was still aware of the way Jon’s eyes would follow him across the room when he messed up and did something unprofessional. He couldn't even see Martin as an academic equal. What chance was there of anything else when just under the surface lingered the ticking time bomb of Jon's frustration and anger? Martin didn't belong in his archives, and no matter how civil things got between them, Martin knew he would never be good enough.

Stood at the bottom of the stairs to the bar where he was supposed to be meeting Tim’s rocky mountain man. He attempted to tame the latest source of Jon’s outrage in the mirror, trying to convince himself that this ‘Date’ was for the best. It had lashed it down with rain on his walk from the tube, and now, what had been a carefully crafted and styled wave of pinks and purples curls lay limp and soggy on his forehead.

 The date was doomed before it had even begun as far as he was concerned. At least he never had to see Tim’s mystery man again after tonight. If he had an issue with Martin having bright pink hair, it would wander out the door into the night after him. Unlike Jon, who had stared at him all week, making him feel slowly self conscious of his daring decision, brought on by one too many at Tim’s flat over call of duty and pizza and an inability to back down from a bet.

Tim had been right. Pink hair did suit him, and he liked it more than he thought he would. It had been strange to look in the mirror and see what he wanted to see looking back, rather than the man that his mother had moulded. 

He had walked to work with a spring in his step and a smile on his face. The wolf whistles from Tim and Sasha had been nice as he walked in the door.

Martin knew he wasn’t ever going to be Stoker levels of attractive. Hell, he had seen someone walk into a lamppost staring at Tim once, but it was nice to know that his friends at least liked his new look as much as he did. 

Jon, however… In some ways Martin would have liked to have broken some sort of Institute dress code, at least then Jon could have got whatever deep-seated irritation he was sitting in off his chest. But Jon seemed to have reached a level of frustration that had blue screened him completely. He opened his mouth a few times and then turned tail and retreated to his office, slamming the door behind him. 

Sasha and Tim had exchanged knowing looks before ushering Martin into the break room and busying him with making the morning tea round. Jon had remained silent as Martin had slid the cup onto his desk, the olive branch of a chocolate hobnob balanced carefully on a paper towel. He had fastidiously ignored him in favour of the article on the circus open on his computer. Martin tried not to be disappointed.

By the end of the day, Martin was almost ready to bang down the office door and ask Jon just what his problem was. Tim had dyed his hair every colour under the sun since way back in research, and there was nothing in the handbook to say it was against the rules. Sasha had looked. (it seemed like the employee handbook had been last updated in the 1800s. It had some ancient rules and referenced ‘How to Behave and Hints from a Gentleman .’ A book Sasha swore was in the restricted section of artefact storage. ) 

Martin had got as far as raising his hand to push the door open and confront Jon when Tim had shouted they were going to the pub, Martin had been quick to agree, if Jon wanted to have an issue with him then that was on him. Tim didn’t even attempt to pull Jon away from the archives and that last insignificant speck of hope Martin had been hanging onto crumbled. Martin had thought they were getting somewhere, with the lunches and the late night research, but evidently he had been mistaken. That was what he got for getting his hopes up. If he just stayed disappointed, the bar was so low he wouldn’t even have to jump.

So that was how he found himself suited and booted and wearing an empty smile as he nodded along to the ramblings of the most boring man that Martin had ever met. And he had once dated a man who had found collecting the paint sample cards from B&Q exciting. It did not convince him that this had been worth him giving up watching Ghostbusters for the thousandth time and eating kung pow beef in his sweatpants.

He wasn’t sure what was annoying him most, that his date constantly referred to himself in the third person, or that he was just… well Tim, but if someone photocopied him and gave him the personality vacuum of a black hole and doused him in Polo sport.

They had been here an hour already. So far Martin hadn’t spoken about himself once. 

Andrew (he had finally introduced himself, Andy to his friends and dick to his mates, Martin had politely laughed at that, but was thinking it wasn’t far from the truth.) was an accountant. He wished Tim had just led with that. It would have saved time. Other than rock climbing, he had a dog (a plus) and had just been on holiday to Benidorm (a minus) with the ‘Lads’ (double minus) and was set to scale the dizzying heights of a partner at his firm any day now. (at this point Martin had stopped listening and was perusing the stupidly priced cocktails on the menu) when he got to work on Monday he was going to have serious words with Tim, if he thought this was the type of guy that was ‘ just your type’. 

Serious words. 

******

Jon was going to kill Georgie. It was bad enough that she had wanted to meet in a bar, but now she was late? He nursed his drink and huddled closer to the wall in the corner booth, trying to become one with the pride banners and gig posters. He very much didn’t want to be here, but he very much didn’t want to be in the office either. 

He needed to be as far away from everything that reminded him of …

No. 

He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Mar… he drained the glass, then ordered another on the app on his phone. Barely glancing up as it appeared on his table as he tried to distract himself with anything but the reason that he was sitting in an actual bar on a Friday night, waiting for his ex to come and metaphorically and possibly physically slap some sense into him. 

Despite what people thought of him at work, he was capable of dealing with technology; he browsed Twitter. Reddit was a wonderful source of both confusion and knowledge, and as much as he hated to use it, Instagram was a decent source of joy and distraction with its constant barrage of cute cats and aesthetically pleasing squares. 

Nine by nine slices of other people's lives, his own squares all filled with secondhand images of the Admiral and the occasional squirrel that inhabited the park by the institute. A little extra joy when he would occasionally go for a smoke if the basement got a little much, even for him. 

Jon didn’t use Instagram for himself, anyway; he had no desire to be instafamous, as Tim called it. He was quite happy to look at everyone else's fake lives they sold for likes. 

It had been natural to follow his work colleagues, at least back in research. Tim did like to take a lot of pictures of himself, and his many, many followers seemed to like him for it. Sasha had slightly more range, expertly framed shots of the British Library, the river banks and canal boats, each one carefully edited and manipulated to sell London as a fairytale, rather than the damp and macabre monster it really was. 

Jon didn’t follow Martin on any social media. Except, he always found himself on the other man’s page, regardless.

And that lead him to where he was now, thinking of the one thing he had set out to distract himself from: bloody Martin.

He had wandered to Martin’s feed, an eclectic mix of images, nowhere as well curated as Sasha’s or self indulgent like Tim’s, just a steady stream of images ranging from landscapes to self portraits and everything in between. 

The last time Jon had looked, Martin had posted a sunset over the coast, a poem underneath spoke of sadness and letting go. Jon had wanted to talk to him about it over one of their lunches. He had a feeling it was about his mother, but he hadn’t known how to approach it. He was never sure where he stood with Martin. although he trusted him, enjoyed the man’s company even, he wasn’t sure if they had reached the point where he could call Martin a friend.  

And even if he could, how would he explain ‘ oh yeah, no, I was stalking you on Instagram’ without sounding like he should get a restraining order?

Why, oh why, had he gone on to the search screen from Tim’s latest gratuitous tit shot?

Martin was staring back at him, suited and booted and looking like he could give Tim a run for his money. Jon’s chest hurt looking at it. Where was he going? Did he have a date? Carefully (just in case he double tapped himself into awkward questions ) he opened Martin’s profile, against his better judgement. 

There had been a wall of new posts since that last mournful post, a coffee table littered with beer bottles, pizza boxes and two sets of anonymous feet perched upon it, a video game Jon almost recognised on the screen blurred just out of the camera's focus. Two wine glasses overlooking the Thames, a picture of Piccadilly circus with someone standing arms stretched before the wall of advertising, blanked out by the dazzling background. An eight second clip of what looked like someone doing press-ups with a small dog on their back, though Jon couldn’t make out the person's face, the sound of Martin’s laughter just audible over the noise of the bar. The second to last showed two sets of hands entangled in Martin’s hair, covered in gloves and bleach, the owner’s unidentifiable from image alone. 

The sinking feeling in Jon’s stomach grew. There was no doubt in his mind now that this sudden change in Martins… well, everything had begun from that image of the setting sun. 

Has Martin met someone? Had Jon read the wrong sentiment in the setting sun? He was beginning to think so.

He scrawled back to the other man’s last post. Where was Martin going? Jon looked at the way he dressed in that last picture, shirt pressed and hair carefully brushed into what Jon recognised as Martin’s signature style. He looked good. Better than good. Jon had spent the best part of this week completely unable to concentrate on anything, and it was all because of the startling realisation Martin's existence exacerbated the pain in his chest.

He refused to call it a crush. 

He was almost thirty, thirty-year-olds didn’t get crushes. But he had looked at it from every angle and unfortunately the results all pointed to the fact that he, Jonathan Sims, was attracted to his assistant. Only exasperated by the fact that Martin had walked in to work on Monday morning looking like That! 

There was no chance he had hidden his reaction to Martin's new look. Tim had most definitely caught him staring at the way Martin's new hair shifted colours as the light passed through it. Pastel pinks and vibrant purples curled upon each other in a wave of softness. 

It wasn’t fair. 

Jon hadn't asked for this. Any of it. 

It had been so much easier when Martin had just worked in the library and could be a distant distraction. Then Elias had taken his safe distance and eradicated it. 

Jon wasn't good at this. He didn't know how to approach the way Martin made him feel. Lashing out and fighting against any sort of friendship had seemed like the safest way. It would stop him from getting attached, stop him from realising that he had inserted himself unintentionally into Martin's life to hurt and rip and twist…

No, it was better to distance. 

He didn't know how to deal with the way he felt about Martin. Even more so since they had grown closer… it had been the same with … 

Georgie… where the hell was she?  

Tearing himself away from Instagram and Martin's happy life with his new boy- ugh. Texting his displeasure to Georgie for lack of anything better to do with his hands. He should have known she would not be on time  …

[Sorry I got stuck helping Melanie with her latest shoot. Can we call it till tomorrow?] G

[:/] J

[I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you. [Image: Admiral.jpg] the boy wants to see you anyway.] G 

Jon saved the picture as he swore under his breath. Georgie seemed to spend more and more time with Melanie ‘bloody’ King lately. It almost made him itch to think about it. Not that he didn't like Melanie; he did. But sometimes he saw the bits of himself in her he tried so hard to ignore, and when that came to the surface, they clashed horrendously. Maybe Georgie had a type, after all? 

Resigned to the fact that he was going to have to just stew in his own emotions, Jon finished his drink, eyes darting around the bar as the Friday night crowd filled its walls. It was raining hard and steady outside. He checked his phone. It would be at least an hour before he could head for his bus. He had been planning on spending the night on Georgie’s sofa. But that wasn’t happening, and he refused to go to the archives, not when he looked as unprofessional as he did right now. Nobody needed to know he owned a pair of Jeans, especially not the Saturday staff in the library. 

People watching would have to pass the time till he could head off for his bus home. Plus, he was finding petty joy in denying the group next to the bar a shot at his table. They kept eyeing his booth scornfully. It was a shallow victory, but it felt good as he ordered another drink on his app. The collection of shoulders sagged in unison as it arrived at his table.

One more wouldn't kill him, and the thought of going out into the rain filled him with dread. He was well aware it looked increasingly like he had been stood up. 

He must look at a sight drinking on his own on a Friday night, sad and lonely. He figured even Tim wouldn't want to ask to share a table with the storm cloud that was hovering over Jon's head, so no wonder the group of people hadn’t even approached him to ask if they could sit. 

The bartender gave him a sympathetic smile as she delivered his second rum and coke of the night. The bartender collected his empties and just as he said thankyou, something caught Jon’s eye at the other end of the bar. A flash of pink. 

His heart jumped to its own conclusions, and unfortunately for the rest of him, this time, it was right. 

Martin.

Why, of all the pubs and bars in London, had he come to this one? 

Was he stalking Jon? 

No. 

Was he stalking Jon? No. 

If they could accuse anyone of that, it was Jon himself. He gripped his phone a little harder. 

No. This was just Jon’s own stupid bad luck. 

Still, he craned his neck slightly to see who he was with, curiosity and self sabotage getting the better of him. 

He tried not to think of the twisting in his gut as his eyes fell on Martin and …

So this is the new boyfriend? 

Jon had never been good at telling if people were good looking or not. It just wasn’t something he ever thought about. He had a hard enough time realising his line between friendship and attraction. He knew it was a thing others could do easily, but Jon wasn’t as observational as others. Subjectively, the man that was with Martin right now was what some people could call fit. 

If you liked that sort of thing. 

(Did Martin like that sort of thing? Martin could have his choice of any man, but did he have a type? no Jon hadn’t been wondering that all week. Why do you ask?) 

The Boyfriend held himself with that sure-fire grace that Tim always did, confidence of knowing that you can hold the attention of the entire room if you wanted to. Blond hair, a sharp suit, he didn’t look right in a bar like this, like he had wandered in lost from some high society shindig and was confident enough to pass it off as intentional. Jon hated him on merit alone. 

Jon shrank further into the corner. He didn’t want to be seen, only he now had an additional problem. Martin and the mystery man were sitting directly by the door. It made leaving almost impossible. 

Martin seemed enamoured with his mystery man, caught up on his every word. Jon wanted nothing more than to go over and tip the prats’ stupidly priced craft ale over his head. Georgie had always told him he was a jealous drunk. Jon was understanding why. 

Martin wasn’t his though, was he, Martin was Martin’s, and Jon had been an absolute prick to him since the day he moved to the archives. Maybe even longer, and all because he couldn’t understand the emotions that ran through him or the protective streak that had developed around the man at the other end of the bar. 

Resolved in his own disaster, Jon did the only sensible thing he could, ordered some chips and another drink and text Georgie about his dilemma, so at least someone got something joyful out of his despair.

*****

 Martin should thank someone for small mercies. The disastrous date had to call it a night early, having just bought a full pitcher of expensive gin cocktail that Martin could now enjoy all to himself.

It had seemed genuine, something to do with his daughter, someone he hadn’t mentioned once in his entire monologue. Martin had the feeling he may have just missed a very self-centred bullet, but at least he had got out of the house. 

Andrew had exchanged numbers. Dicky boy seemed to think there may be a second date. Martin swiftly added NO to the contact. That would hopefully be enough to remind him not to accept another date with the man, but Martin didn’t like to ghost people. It wasn’t his style at all. He would let him down gently if the need arose. Hopefully, it won't.   

He looked around the busy bar. He didn’t want to hold the table up himself any longer than needed when there were people who could use it more than him, so he took his pitcher and moved to the end of the bar. The woman behind the counter was watching him quizzically as a group moved from the bar and swooped on his table.

“Bad date?” she asked, scooping out a cocktail stick that looked like a polar bear and popping it in his drink with a sympathetic smile. 

“Has a blind date ever gone well?” He asked as she washed glasses. Martin wasn’t disappointed. He hadn’t exactly been expecting much. He should have just told Tim to shove it. 

The woman started racking the glasses over head and shook her head. “Hey, at least your one turned up. The guy in the corner has been on his own all night.” Martin pointedly did not turn his head to look, as much as he wanted to see who was having a worse night than him. The bartender smiled, “I’m Sophie by the way… cheer up duck, pretty thing like you can do so much better than that.” 

******

[Georgie, I can’t even go to the bathroom. Martins is now by the door!] J 

[Oh my god, Jon, just talk to him, I swear to….] G

Jon watched the little dots on the screen, he really needed some of Georgie’s impeccable wisdom right about now, he was three drinks in and he had just watched Martin’s boyfriend leave in a rush, the entire pitcher of alcohol he had just bought abandoned and Martin looking bizarrely pleased with the outcome. 

The only issue now was that Martin would not be going anywhere for a while, what with a whole litre of alcohol, and he had repositioned himself at the end of the bar, next to the toilets and in clear view of the door. There was no way Jon got out of this alive. He couldn’t leave, and he desperately needed to pee. 

He glanced at his phone again.

[Melanie says to stop being pathetic…] G

*****

The bartender lingered at his table, waiting for him to speak. He had meant to stop her, but…

“Yes?” she asked with an almost cunning look on her face. It was so reminiscent of Tim that Jon momentarily wondered if they were related. Jon wasn’t sure why he was doing this, but…

“The man at the bar…” he started, and her face lit up.

“-the one you have been watching all night? What about him?” 

Jon tried not to fluster, turning his attention to the list of drinks on the pubs app.  

“What was it his boyfriend ordered before he left?” 

The woman reached out and signalled for him to hand her the phone. He did so reluctantly, watching as she tapped in something and handed it back. A vicious pink gin cocktail that cost a small fortune, Jon should have known. The prick looked like he had money. 

“Not his boyfriend.” She smiled. 

“What?”

“Not his boyfriend, blind date gone wrong. He’s called Martin, if you wanted to know.”

She cocked her head to the side, watching him. “Buy the pretty man a drink. Got to be better than sitting on your own.” 

“I… that’s…” his shoulders sagged. He should just admit to himself that he wanted to go over. But he had never been a brave man. The women looked at him over the toppling pile of empty glasses.

“Help me with these?” 

Jon was on his feet before he even thought about it. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the fact that this woman reminded him so strongly of Georgie that he followed her lead without question. Either way. He was apparently going to talk to Martin. Because that was clearly not his boyfriend earlier, and this was now no longer a date. 

*****

Martin didn’t look up from his phone as someone slipped into the seat next to him at the bar, he barely registered the empty glasses dropped on the bar, or that anyone had entered his presence at all, too busy reeling from the enjoyment that Tim was getting from his disastrous night.

[But an accountant with a child? What the hell made you think that was going to work?] M

[Ok, in my defence, I didn’t know about the kid. Is he not boring enough for you?] T

[what is that supposed to mean?] M

[oh you know? We both know why you said yes, Marto. I’m sorry he wasn’t your archivist in shining armour,] T

[TIM!] M

[What? Next time I’ll hook you up with a librarian, you can talk Dewey decimals while you get it on…] T

Martin couldn’t hide the frustration in that. He knew Tim meant well and was just winding him up, but he couldn’t help the frustrated grunt as he shoved his phone back in his pocket just as Sophie slid another drink in front of him.

“What’s this for?” he asked her, but she just nodded to the seat next to him where she had just put down a second drink. 

“You look like you could do with some company?” 

“Jon?” It took Martin a moment to recognise him, but in Martin’s defence, he didn’t think he had ever seen Jon dress casually. It was short circuiting his mind slightly, he had been convinced that Jon was allergic to denim. He was also the last person he had expected to see in a queer bar on a Friday night, looking like he could have just wandered out of urban outfitters. Martin’s brain was struggling to process what was going on.

“Oh, so you two know each other, then?” Sophie grinned, plunging the empties into the sink behind the bar. “That saves me third wheeling awkward introductions.” the loaded wink she gave made Martin’s stomach drop through the floor, christ what did she think was happening here? 

“Yeah, this is my Jon… I mean, this is my boss Jon.” he spluttered hoping that Jon didn’t pick up on his slip, but from the way Jon’s cheeks had darkened, he knew he hadn’t been that lucky.

“Oh, that explains the staring…” she said, taking payment from Jon for the two drinks. 

“I was not staring.” Jon muttered, and honest to god went to push his glasses up his nose, almost poking himself in the eye when they were not actually on his face. 

That was something else. Martin didn’t think he had ever seen Jon without his glasses. He looked softer somehow, like the frames acted like a barrier between him and the world. Martin couldn’t help but think that was the strangest thing about this. He didn’t think he had ever seen Jon look so normal. He was a poster boy for propriety, and Martin seemed to do nothing but disappoint him. 

Only his expression now was far from the disappointed, vacant glare Jon had been wearing all week. It bordered on awkward and adorable. 

Jon always looked so sure in himself to see him like this was almost comical.

He took his card back from Sophie and slid it into his wallet, and that went into his jeans pocket.  

Jonathan Sims was in a Queer bar on a Friday night, and he was wearing jeans and… converse? 

Martin nipped himself, no he was definitely awake.

“Looked like staring, to me, and I am an expert. He. Was. Staring. Saw it with my own two peepers,” she indicated to Jon, then disappeared down the other end of the bar to serve the large group some convoluted cocktails. Martin wished she could have stayed to be a bumper between them, but when had life ever worked in Martin’s favour?

“I was not staring.” Jon said eventually, taking a sip of his drink and pointedly looking everywhere but at Martin. It didn’t make it less strange and unusual. 

“I mean, in your defence, you don’t stare, you glare. Like a small angry cat.” Martin wasn’t sure where that had come from. Actually, that was a lie. It was the gin. He took a sip of his drink guiltily, but he stood by his point. Jon looked like an exhausted ally cat most days. 

“Thanks for the drink. You’re right, I was running out of small talk with friendly strangers. ”

“Has to be preferable to awkward conversations with your boss?” Jon looked at him this time, dark eyes resting finally on Martin. There was something sobering in that gaze. Something that Martin didn’t really want to question too much for fear of unearthing the feelings he had been trying his hardest to bury. 

“My boss isn’t here? There's some strange imposter who sounds like him and has a passing resemblance, but like… my boss would never be caught dead in trainers… I’m sure he was born in a suit?” The alcohol was making him bold, but it didn’t prepare him for the way his heart sped up when Jon did that rarest of things, smiled. 

“Believe it or not, I exist outside of my office. I’ve not turned into a full Archive cryptid just yet.” The smile on his face softened his features even more. It was no good. How had Martin thought that he was ever going to get over Jon Sim’s stupid, handsome face? 

“What? You aren't Mothman? Now I’m just disappointed.” 

That drew a chuckle from Jon, and Martin fell just a bit more. 

“My Ex, she visited point pleasant once, brought me back a Mothman magnet that she insists I keep on my fridge, you use his bottom to open drinks. It's quite the eyesore, but I have become rather fond of it. She too was disappointed in the lack of Mothmen existence, unlike bigfoot, that she insists is real. Lord knows what she would make of the archives.” Jon sighed. “She could tell you herself if she hadn’t abandoned me tonight to chase bloody ghosts for YouTube.”

“Your ex stood you up? And I thought I was having a terrible night!”

Jon raised a questioning eyebrow. How long had he been in the bar? Martin hadn’t seen him come in, and he had been watching the door waiting for a getaway for most of the evening. How much of his disastrous date had Jon seen? Jon didn't ask, but Martin told him, anyway.

“Bad date, dunno what I expected, letting Tim set me up with one of his gym gays.” he wished he didn’t flush so easily. “He was an accountant, Jon… an accountant.”

“What’s wrong with accountants?.” Jon gave a shy smile over his glass, resting his head on his hand and leaning towards Martin as if conspiring, “I mean I've never seen the joy in making the numbers balance, but I'm sure that to the right person…“

Martin held up a hand to stop him from talking. “And I’m sure you’re about to describe Mr Elias Bouchard, and I would rather not think about it, or him in any sort of date setting, if it’s all the same to you?” 

“Oh, absolutely.” 

“So, what are you doing here? You said you were meeting your ex?” Martin didn’t want to fish, but he really wanted to know. “Reviving an old flame?”

“Oh, good lord, no.” Jon shook his head and some of the loose strands that he had tucked behind his ear fell forward, “if it wasn’t for the little man, I very much doubt we would spend as much time together, but he’s a handful when he wants to be.”

Martin almost choked on his drink. Jon had a child? For the second time in the space of an hour, a hot man had dropped this startling bombshell upon him as an afterthought. Why had Jon not mentioned it? Did he not have access to the kid? Was that why he worked all hours? To drown out the inexplicable pain at being separated from his offspring? 

Did Tim know? Sasha must know. She knew everything. 

Was everything Martin thought he knew a lie?

It had to be. Either that or he had slipped through some sort of worm hole and woken up in a slightly askew reality to his own .

He watched as Jon pulled out his phone. 

Oh god, was he going to coo over some picture of a snot-nosed brat? He didn’t think he had it in him. Even if they were a tiny, perfect reproduction of the man before him. Not when his carefully crafted illusion of Jon was falling apart around him . 

“Ah there he is..” Jon said triumphantly smiling down at the phone, “His mum will probably complain that I showed you a picture of her in her sleep wear but -” the phone was being thrust into his hand, he had little choice but to take it.  " she shouldn't have stood me up and she could have defended herself" 

The first thing Martin noticed was the woman in the picture, her hair fell in gentle curls around her face, her freckles could rival Martin's own, the second was the huge ginger tom cat sitting on the woman's knee, squeezed into a ‘what the ghost?’ cat hoodie with the word Staff written down the side, the cat did not look amused, but it did look adorable. 

“Oh!” Jon must have mistaken the sound as one of adoration for the animal and not the relieved sound because the hypothetical child in Martin's head didn't actually exist. 

"Oh, now he's a handsome lad. " Martin didn't add the ' like his dad ' that was on the tip of his tongue. He wasn’t that drunk yet. Braving a glance at Jon, he was rewarded with the sight of another elusive Jon Sims smile. It was something he didn’t do often, but the rare occurrence that a genuine unforced grin made its way to the man’s face as the years dropped off him. Martin handed him back his phone, the feeling he had been trying to bury rising in his chest like a zombie in a bad horror movie.

“The Admiral knows exactly how Handsome he is, and he gets away with murder because of it. Only last week he deleted an entire episode of What the ghost by falling asleep on Georgie’s laptop. Georgie blamed me, of course, said I fed him too much catnip Dreamies and he was stoned off his whiskers. Propaganda and blasphemy at its finest.” Jon paused to take another sip of his drink, and if Martin wasn’t mistaken, he seemed to blush. “I’m sure Georgie is just trying to turn him against me. Little does she know my secret plan.”

“And that is?”

“Well, between you and me, I may have taken out one of the subscription boxes you see on the internet every time he comes to mine-”

“He gets a fresh box?”

“Well, if he chooses to play with the box and not the content of said box that’s his issue…” the sound of Jon’s phone vibrating cut off his sentence, the shorter man held up a finger to pause the conversation, raising the phone to his ear as martin watched on delighted at this vastly different version of Jon that had presented itself to him. 

“I can’t hear you.” Jon squinted at his phone, rolled his eyes and nodded towards the door. “Sorry about this… I apparently summoned Georgie with the power of thought alone.” 

Martin couldn’t help but smile and nod. Too caught up in the U turn that had been his Friday night.

He watched as Jon ducked around a group of rowdy drag queens and headed out into the doorway, glancing back at Martin as he closed the door behind him. 

“Sooooooo…” Sophie said, sliding up to him and nonchalantly wiping down the bar with a dirty cloth. “Are you going to tap that or?”

Martin choked on his drink. 

“Alright, Casanova, don’t go dying on me. It was just a suggestion.”

Martin coughed the blockage out of his throat, aware that his face had probably gone about the same shade of pink as the drink in his hand.

“It’s not like that. Jon’s my boss, even if I do… you know… he’s not interested. In fact, until about a month ago, I was pretty sure he hated my guts.”

Sophie scoffed, all pretence of cleaning the bar gone as she nodded towards the booth in the corner. 

“That man hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night, and not in a ‘ I hate that man. I wish he would die’ sort of way. In the ‘ I would like to climb that man like a tree’ kind of way. Trust me, I’m an expert.” 

Martin suddenly found one spot on the bar incredibly interesting.

“Listen, you don’t have to believe me, but maybe you’re just not able to see the entire picture because you're so focused on one bit of it.” She tapped the bar before heading off to go serve. Martin felt the curiosity and panic building up in his chest again. He didn’t know what to do. Had Jon really been staring at him? If you had asked Martin that this morning, he would have laughed at you, but he was feeling like the Jon he interacted with every day at work was far from the Jon that had just bought him a drink in the bar. 

He pulled out his phone, when in doubt….

[Tim… Help!]M

[What’s the matter marto]T

[Jon is here, and he just bought me a drink, and showed me a picture of his cat, and I have no Idea wtf to do with that?] M

[A wild boss man appeared! Marto uses smoulder… throw an ultra ball at him, give him a berry… Hold on, he’s not still wearing that bloody suit, is he?] T

[TIM seriously!!! What do I do?] M…. [Also no? He’s wearing jeans and trainers, and fuck me, he looks good. How is this even allowed???????] M

[Ok, first, your gay is showing, breath, you're no good to anyone if you do the flappy thing, second, what kind of trainers?] T

[WHY IS THAT RELEVANT?] M

[if he's wearing Nike Air max w,e might have a problem, . can't have you fawning over Nike air max men.]T

Martin rolled his eyes. This really wasn't the time for a Tim side quest right now . 

[Converse, and Nike air max are a no, but an accountant is a yes? There's something wrong with your brain, you know that, right?] M 

[Yeah, Sash tells me at least once a day. But back to the fawning… you have this. Flirting with Jon is just how you communicate.]T T 

[But he doesn't normally flirt back !!] 

[Says you,] T

[Tim!]M 

He watched as the message was left unread. Was Tim really going to abandon him now in his hour of need? That was a low blow. 

There was nothing for it. He had to just see where this was leading. Even if it led to his resignation on Monday.

*****

Jon had found a little alcove to the side of the pub door tucked out of the rain. At least the weather was warm if not damp, so at least he only had the water to deal with and not the biting northern wind. He pinned his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he pulled out a cigarette, struggling to light it and not drop his phone.

“I can hear you lighting a cigarette, Jonathan Sims. You are supposed to have quit.” Georgie reprimanded him down the phone as in the background Melanie shouted ‘ hypocrite’ as loud as she could. Jon couldn't help but agree. Georgie still smoked twenty a week, but at least she had cut down. Jon, in his defence, only reached for the nicotine when he was stressed. Unfortunately, stress seemed to have become his default state of being since he started working as head archivist, so a packet was never far away.

“Yell at me about my addiction after you tell me how to deal with the current situation Georgina.” he relaxed as he took his first draw, shoulders slumping as he took hold of his phone in hand again.

“What do you want me to tell you? What can I possibly tell you that you haven’t already said yourself? More than once.” in the call's background, Melanie was singing. It took Jon a moment to process what song. (-and Jon sitting in a tree k.i.s.s.i.n.g) 

“Tell Melanie, she’s supposed to be an adult…”

“I’m not getting stuck between the two of you, but you realise Mel has a point? I could start a Christmas tree gig with the amount of pining you have been doing the last few months. He has to know? I have firsthand experience of how bloody useless you are when your brain catches up with the rest of you.” 

“I am not useless, I’m just-”

“-calling your ex instead of hitting on a pink-haired hottie who you’ve been staring at all week… Unbelievable. You are your own worst enemy. You know that, right?”

Jon’s brain barely registered it, but he hadn’t mentioned Martin had dyed his hair to Georgie, had he ?  it was one of the very long list of things they had been going to discuss as he got mortal and went home to sleep it off with the cat. “Anyway, I have to go. Mel needs me.”

(“oh no, I’m not getting involved in this… this is all between you and *muffled noises* ) 

And with that, she hung up. 

Why did Jon feel like someone was playing a game of silly buggers and he was the ball?

He sucked down the last of his smoke to the butt before stamping it out on the ashtray and pocketing his phone. Georgie had been no help, but maybe he could relax enough that the night wouldn’t scare Martin off. If he could just restrain from making a joke out of himself, he might not have to hide in his office for the foreseeable future. 

He popped a mint in his mouth and ascended the steps, moving to one side as the group who had been eyeing up his table made their way out into the rapidly darkening night. They spared him little mind as they passed. Jon wasn’t bitter at the two stragglers at the back of the group, hands interlocked and staring at each other as if there were nobody else in the world. But if one of them fell under a bus, got struck by lightning or even face planted on the curb at the bottom of the steps, Jon would fetch popcorn. 

It wasn’t jealousy, there was nothing to be jealous of. Jon didn’t want a relationship, he didn’t want hand holding, gentle touches and longing glances. Someone to hold late at night behind closed doors and hidden from the world. 

Only when he looked up and saw Martin gently smiling at him from the end of the bar, he found that his traitorous heart had the balls to call him a liar.

“Sorry about that,” He said as he sank back onto the stool at Martin’s side, knee sliding along the side of Martin’s as he twisted to face the bar. Martin was always warm. It radiated from him not only through body heat, but Martin’s gigawatt smile could chase the cold away and warm you to the bones if it were pointed in your direction. Right now, Jon wasn’t sure what was more distracting. 

“Anything wrong?” Martin asked, a genuine look of concern on his face. 

“Just Georgie checking in, apparently Ghost Hunt UK is holding my drinking buddy hostage, Melanie King has a lot to answer for.”

“Melanie King? As in Youtuber, who yelled at an empty train and went viral Melanie king? Do you know her? Tim took a statement from her the other week.” Martin said, pulling his phone out again and scrawling onto YouTube, “have you seen it? Me and Tim watched it a few times. It would be funny if it hadn’t been so sad…”

So that was how Jon found himself hunched over Martin’s phone, drink in one hand and weight gently pressed into Martin's shoulder as the two of them watched his ex's new flame get roasted on the internet. He had no intention of rushing. The night was young.

Jon had no idea how much they had drunk, but it was well past the time he should have left to catch the bus home. Maybe he could still crash at Georgie’s? She owed him one, after all. 

He knew he should have made a move to leave at least half an hour ago, but it was cold outside, and tucked away in the corner of the bar seemed a much more agreeable place to be. It was warm and dark, and the dim fairy lights were doing something startlingly beautiful to the shades of pink in Martin’s hair. Jon didn’t even care that he had been caught staring once or twice, not when Martin’s cheeks flustered like that or when their knees pressed together when Martin lent in to be heard over the sound of the music and the other patrons in the bar.

As the night had progressed, he found he cared less and less about trying to hold on to the little air of professionalism that he had been hanging on to for so long it felt like a tic.

And if he wasn’t mistaken, Martin was relaxing too. It was nice to see. He always seemed so jumpy when they were in the archives. This relaxed version of him was even more appealing. 

Jon was watching him now, and he knew full well that to anyone looking in on their conversation, he would look besotted.

Because that’s exactly how he felt. Watching Martin’s hands as he gesticulated his displeasure, Jon wasn’t sure what he was displeased about. Something to do with Greggs discontinuing ham and pease pudding stotties and how it was an insult to their northern heritage. 

He was aware that Martin was waiting for him to say something. Jon hadn’t the foggiest what he had asked. He had been too busy observing the little dimples that appeared high on the other man's cheeks when he smiled. It wasn’t that Jon wasn’t listening, he just kept getting distracted? Martin was distracting. How was that in any way Jon’s fault?

Like he said, besotted. 

Jon was just about to open his mouth and try to cover his tracks when the house lights came on overhead. He glared at them, caught between confusion and shock. 

“Sorry gents, that's time. Sup up” Sophie said, coming past on her way to clear the empty tables. How was it closing time already? It was only five minutes ago they had been laughing at Melanie on Martin’s phone. How could it be almost-

“Bloody hell, It's almost one o’clock.” Martin said, looking at his watch. When Jon glanced at it, the hands were indeed ticking around to 1.00am. Where had the last five hours gone? How come an entire day at work could drag like a week, but the same time in the pub had flown by in the blink of an eye?

Jon had a horrible feeling that he was going to have to wake Georgie up to let him in. He very much doubted he would be in her good books if he did. 

What if Melanie was at Georgie’s? 

It would be impossible to look her in the face after seeing her shining moment in the limelight, not to mention the merciless teasing he would be on the receiving end of when he turned up at two am on the walk of shame. Jon suddenly realised that he had his hand on Martin’s arm where he had reached to look at the time, and Martin was looking at him with such a look of fondness that Jon felt his heart jump to his throat.

 Maybe it didn’t have to be over just yet.

“Did you-”

“Do you want to-” they both spoke at the same time as Jon swiftly removed his hand from Martin’s arm. Jon tried not to fluster. He knew without a drink in him he would never of dared to touch Martin so casually, no matter how much he wanted to, yet the rum in his system had dampened some of his inhibitions, unfortunately not enough to stop him from almost crumpling with embarrassment, but not far from it. He found the last of his drink and downed it. Eyes looking anywhere but at Martin, where he smiled from behind his own glass.

“Did… did you want to go find somewhere else? Or we can go get food or something?” Martin asked, with the music turned off and the bar emptying around them Martin didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard anymore, yet he was still leaning in, occupying Jon’s space like he belonged there. 

*********

“You grew up on the coast… you were a student, how do you not know of the wonders of Cheesy chips?” Martin couldn’t help but grin at Jon in the dusty yellow glow of the streetlight as he tried to scoop his chip into his mouth with a little wooden spoon.  

In Jon’s defence, they had gone a little overboard with the cheese. It was sticking to the remaining chips in the little foil carton between them, forming a low, swooping dip of cheesy goodness between the man and his snack. 

Jon’s eyes were fixed on his other hand. It hovered under the drooping cheese, trying to stop it from falling onto his shirt. Once the chip was successfully chewed and swallowed, Jon deemed himself fit to answer.

“Seaside chips need salt, vinegar and lashings of chip shop gravy. I don’t imagine it goes well with cheese.”

“Everything goes well with cheese. It's cheese.” Martin reasoned to the best of his ability. 

“What about wagyu beef?”

“What about it? Grind it up, slap a slice of gouda on it,stick it between two bits of bread. An expensive yet delicious sandwich.” Martin reasoned as he passed the chips back to Jon,it was good to see him eat of his own free will, even if it was just because they were probably on the wrong side of tipsy.

“You are a madman.” Jon conceded, as he stabbed another chip with his fork, twisting it to detach the quickly setting cheese before giving up with the fork, resulting with his fingers becoming his utensil of choice. It seemed a lot more efficient than the fork had proven. 

“Yes, but I'm a well-fed madman, and I don’t hear you complaining about the gourmet meal you are currently consuming.”

“Well, it soaks up the rum,” Jon muttered as he shoved another chip into his mouth. "Speaking of… why I'd the rum gone ?" 

"Because you needed to eat, Captain Jack. I very much doubt two jammy dodgers and half a packet of mini eggs count as sustainable stomach content to stabilise a litre of rum." 

"I'm perfectly sober, and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise… Do I have to fight you, Mr Blackwood?" Jon wafts a particularly cheese laden chip in his direction. Martin was gripped by the urge to steal the weapon, so he did. With his teeth. 

Jon looked at him, shocked for a moment, before absolutely howling with laughter. 

Martin had heard Jon laugh before, but never with this absolute joy behind it. It was a deep thing,it shook all of his small frame as he tried to hide behind his hand. 

It was no good. Martin was completely smitten with this disaster of a man. He didn't even know why he tried not to be.

He chewed on the chip. It tastes all the better for its Ill gotten gain. Jon was trying to compose himself. But he wasn't getting very far between the gasps of air and the lump of cheddar he now had on his cheek from where he had tried to push the glasses back up his cheeks even though he didn't have them on. 

There was something absolutely charming about seeing Jon like this. All fake airs and graces cast aside. Not that Martin didn't like prim and proper Jon, it was just nice to know there was a side of him that might have it on him to mutter the word Fuck.

Martin couldn't help but beam at Jon as he pushed the last of the chips across the packet for the other man to finish.

His stomach was doing somersaults, and he knew it had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the grip Jon had taken on his arm at some point mid laughing fit and seemed in no rush to move. He marvelled at the size of Jon's hand on his bicep. Martin wasn't small. His Nana had called him big boned when he was a kid and he had been referred to as a brick shit house by many opposing teams in the short time he had played rugby at school. He was stocky and tall and he hadn't been able to buy anything on the High Street since he was 14 and he hadn't been in a gym or done anything that could constitute an exercise in the last seven years at the institute, unless you counted climbing the stairs and lifting boxes. 

Martin was aware he took up a lot of the space, yet Jon seemed to fit in the leftover gap rather well.

In his pocket, Martin felt his phone buzz.

He paid it no mind. Whatever Tim wanted could wait. Right now he had no room for anything but the way Jon was blinking up at him, expectant and happy. 

*****

"It's fine, Georgie will let me in, she loves me, well… she tolerates me, I'm her second favourite boy… I'll call her… she will tell you …" 

"Jon, you're not calling your ex at," He looked at his watch. " 3am… you can just crash at mine,or wait for the first bus back up to Vauxhall. We're halfway to mine, anyway." 

Martin really wished his mouth would stop talking without his consent. Where would Jon sleep exactly? He had a pull-out sofa bed in a one bed studio. He knew he was going to hate himself in the morning. He was already questioning his life choices now as he grabbed Jon's phone before he could dial. 

" I can't do that Martin, you're… Martin," Jon stage whispered. Martin wasn't sure who it was it was directed at. But he knew he wanted Jon to elaborate on his reasoning. Because the way he was saying his name was a million miles from the way Jon spat his name on some of the early tapes in the archives.

Jon was very close now, leaning up against him as he reached up to grab at his phone, steadying himself with one hand against Martin's chest. Drunk Jon was nothing like Martin had expected. Would wine have the same effect? Would gin make him want to fight the world, or would it give him Dutch courage? Rum made Jon talkative and Martin wondered if there was an off licence on the way home so he could get some more. He was enjoying unfiltered Jon. He was somewhat a bitch. 

"You're correct, I am Martin," He wanted nothing more than to bring his hand up and spread his fingers over Jon's own, after all he was at least six drinks deep himself, but no matter what he felt for Jon,it wasn't reciprocated. Well, he didn't think it was. The way Jon was acting now was making him question the reality he thought he knew, and if he hadn’t wanted the night to end when they left the bar, it was nothing to how he felt now, as Jon invaded his personal space. Not that Martin was going to complain about it, he had always wondered how the height difference would work out between them. Now he had a fair idea, and he was really enjoying the view.

Jon was practically on his tiptoes now, trying to swipe the phone from his hand, and Martin couldn’t help but think of the way he used to tease his grandmother's cat in the same manner, Jon fret in much the same way.

“I can’t put you out like that, just give me my phone and I will call a taxi, I will-”

"-You're not paying for a taxi, and I'm not letting you wake Georgie up, no matter how adorable you are when you're drunk." 

Jon rocked on his heels, ignoring the phone now in favour of staring at Martin.

“Adorable?”

Martin held his gaze. “It was adorable or annoying, although both aren't mutually exclusive,”

“Don’t think anyone ever called me adorable before-” Jon sounded awestruck. Martin wished the bit of his mind that filtered through his subconscious would just hurry and work already, because he really didn’t know how to deal with the way Jon was looking at him right now. 

“Well, I'm guessing when you wake them up at 3am they probably lean towards the other one, just as well I'm still awake.”

The smile that broke across Jon’s face was worth the embarrassment.

“Martin…” Jon still hadn’t removed his hand from Martin’s chest; he could feel the warm weight of his palm against his collar. He hoped Jon couldn’t feel the frantic beating of his heart under hand.

Jon was staring at him now, really staring. His eyes travelled his features,taking him in. Martin thought that the way Jon had watched him in the bar was intense, but this close Martin was sure that his skin burned red from the heat of Jon's eyes on him. 

"Martin…" He repeated, he had completely abandoned all pretence of reaching after his phone now, he seemed to be mulling Martin's name over, shaping it out on his tongue with that enchanting drawl that had acted like Siren song as it echoed through the archives on lonely nights. 

Jon looked like he wanted to ask something, and Martin wanted to tempt whatever it was out into the cool night air, it felt like they were at the cusp of something and Martin was a little bit terrified that whatever it was might change things irreversibly. 

“Yes?” 

“I was… just..” Jon seemed to weigh up each word before speaking, Jon’s words held power, especially over Martin, did he know that, was that why he was being so careful with the  way he spoke now, as if each syllable was crafted and vetted before making its way to his lips.

Jon had nice lips, Martin hadn’t really had the chance to study them this close before, but now his eyes were drawn to them, captured in the way Jon sounded out every nuance of his name. Martin found himself inclining his head, hanging on whatever it was Jon wanted to ask, because it was almost certainly a question that hung heavy on the other man's mind.

“Martin… can I … can I touch your hair?” 

That was very much not what Martin had expected, he only froze slightly, he was almost sure that Jon wouldn’t have seen the disappointment on his face. 

He had been stupid to think that this was anything more than two co workers out having drinks. He was thankful that he had years of masking his emotions, he hardly let his smile fade at all.

“My hair?” he questioned. “I thought you hated my hair?”

“Quite the opposite, I find myself ever so slightly enamoured with it, it looks incredibly soft.”

“Is that why you have been staring at me all week?” This time it was Jon’s turn to blush, as much as it showed on his dark skin, he looked almost sheepish as he went to move away. Martin reacted quickly though, there was barely a second between Jon attempting to step away and his hand coming out to hold him in place, all pretence of holding his phone to ransom forgotten.

“I’m sorry, it's inappropriate of me to ask-”

“Jon, shut up. If you want to touch it you should have asked sooner, Tim did some sort of deep conditioning nonsense to it when he dyed it, it has been epicly bouncy all week, Sasha hasn’t left it alone.”  

Tentatively Jon reached up, his long fingers curling  carefully into his fringe. Jon looked fascinated as he twisted a particularly long strand of pink around his finger tugging slightly at Martin’s scalp. Martin hoped that Jon hadn’t heard the little noise of contentment that had come out of him, but from the way Jon’s eyes had grown wide, he didn’t think he had managed to hide it well enough.

“Sorry,” Jon spluttered but he seemed to have no intention of letting go. 

“It’s fine, I mean  normally people leave the hair pulling till about the third date-” Martin really wished his mouth had an off switch. Jon paused in his twirling Martin wasn’t sure if it was at his off hand comment ( he knew Jon had a tendency to back away from any sort of sexual banter at work, and Martin was normaly not so forthcoming with that sort of joke around Jon as a rule, but he had drank a lot of Gin.) or if it was something else bothering him.

“Oh, was it Tim!” 

“What was Tim?” ok now Martin was beyond confused, what the hell was Jon on about now? 

“The photos, when you did your hair! The other person… I thought it was…” Jon cut himself off mid sentence, removing his hand carefully from Martin’s hair and looking ever so slightly guilty. 

“What photos? You haven’t been stalking people again have you?”

“You google someone one time and you're branded  a criminal for life.” Jon looked guiltily at his feet ( Jon Sims owned converse, Martin didn’t think he would ever get over it) 

“I was killing time in the pub, I saw your instagram… I thought… well, you seemed so different the last few weeks, I was led to believe you had gotten yourself a new partner.” Jon fiddled with the strap of his satchel, he was nervous, he had a tendency to fidget when he was nervous and it seemed to only be exasperated by the alcohol.

“What? No, I’ve been spending a lot of time with Tim. He's been trying to help me get over-” he paused, had he really just been about to say that he was trying to get over Jon to his face? His traitorous mouth was really going for him tonight. He adjusted course. 

“Tim was trying to help me get over someone, that's all, hence the rubbish date with the world's most boring accountant.”

Jon was looking up at him again now, curiosity would always be that man's downfall, still… Jon had been looking at Martin’s social media, Jon had paid enough attention that he thought that he had met a new man. It was so out of character for Jon that Martin was starting to wonder if he had ever really known Jonathan Sims at all.

“Oh?” The way Jon was chewing on his bottom lip now made him look so vulnerable, Martin had been a fool to think that he would get over this trainwreck of a man without a struggle. 

“Really, Martin, anyone who can’t see how wonderful you are doesn’t deserve to hold your attention.” Jon paused “If you’re after petty revenge on an ex, I’m more than willing to fill in one of your squares, if there's room?” 

“I didn’t think you were such a drama queen.” 

“Really?”

“Ok, that’s a lie, I’ve heard you read a statement, petty revenge shouldn’t be a surprise at all.” Martin handed Jon back his phone “No calling your kitty mama,” he warned. “Come on then.” he moved them into better lighting, he couldn’t believe Jon was actually voluntarily offering to have his picture taken, let alone him deeming it allowed to grace the internet. Jon had zero internet presence, at least not that Martin had ever found, it felt like a cosmic joke that one of the few pictures of him that would be found online would be of him trying to get petty revenge on himself.  Sliding his arm around Jon’s shoulders he pulled the other man closer, trying to get an angle that would fit them both and make them visible in the shitty London street lights.

Martin snapped the picture on his phone. It wasn't wonderful by any means,slightly blurry, awful lighting despite his best attempts, but he couldn’t help but think it was the best photo he had ever seen. 

#4ammood #archivecryptid he posted, he was too preoccupied to think of anything else right now, he was trying not to linger on the way Jon had been looking at him in the photo he had just posted.

He slid his phone back in his pocket, but he was in no rush to drop his arm from Jon, and jon seemed in no rush for him to remove it.  It wasn’t till they paused at the crossing waiting for the little man to turn green did Martin’s brain to mouth filter finally give up completely.

“You know, before? When you asked to touch my hair? I really thought you were going to ask to kiss me.” 

He waited for Jon to freeze, to pull away from his touch, to snap back into that work persona and pull back up all his walls. It didn’t happen. 

“Would you like me to ask? Or would you like me to just do it when you least expect it?” 

“I… you what?”

“Martin. I’ve wanted to kiss you all bloody night, if not longer if my chat history with my ex is to be believed. All week  wanting to kiss you, well it’s not been far from my thoughts at all. I fear I may have fallen behind in an awful lot of research, because you have become even more of a distraction with your recent makeover. Forgive me for spelling it out like this, but I do feel that you deserve to know my intentions. After all, you are inviting me into your home." 

Jon seemed to be looking to him for some sort of retort, some confirmation that what he had said had been received and understood. Unfortunately Martin's internal monologue consisted of his brain screaming 'Jon wants to kiss you ' at the top of its metaphysical lungs. 

When he didn't say anything, Jon shuffled awkwardly on the spot. 

"Obviously I understand if you are still caught up on your ex, I wouldn't want to-" 

"It's you!" 

"What's me?" Jon said dumbfounded.

"The person I'm trying to get over, not an ex, it's you I'm trying to move on from!" and oh didn’t that feel better to get off his chest, almost freeing now that he didn’t have that constant fear that Jon didn’t like him back hanging over his head.

"You… me … I… really?" 

"Yes really. Unless you happen to know any other people called Jonathan Sims?" 

"Well … my father was-" 

"Oh, you insufferable little shit. You know what I mean!" There was no bite to it, the dizzy feeling was nothing to do with the drink and everything to do with the current bizarre outcome of his blind date.

"I do!” Jon yelled, and somewhere in one of the flats behind them someone shouted at them to shut up. 

“I'm sorry it's just …I really would like to kiss you, if you're amenable to the idea.” The stage whisper was back, at least this time Martin knew it was aimed at him.

"Tell you what, if in the morning you haven't turned back into a cantankerous grumpy bastard, if you still want that, and we're both sure it's not the alcohol talking , you have my permission to surprise me whenever you like." 

Jon stalled then. Swinging himself around to face Martin completely, reaching up and pulling him down by the collar until their noses almost touched. 

"Technically it's morning…" 

Martin could feel Jon's breath tickling the stubble on his cheek, could smell the spicy sweet of the rum Jon had been drinking all night, almost tasting it on the air between them. It would be too easy to just lean in to do the thing that he had wanted for so long he struggled to remember what it was like to not want to kiss jon. 

"I didn't say what morning ." He said instead of bridging the gap.

Jon chuckled, releasing his grip slightly and resigning himself to resting his head against Martin's shoulder as they manoeuvred the last few blocks towards Martin's studio. 

As Martin used his phone to find the right key to let them in, he glanced at the notifications on the screen. He was only slightly surprised to see the seven missed calls and twenty seven text messages from Tim. 

He chanced a look at sleepy Jon, his head tucked into Martin's arm and arm looped through his own, Jon yawned scrunching into Martin's warmth a little more. It was too precious for words and a million times more endearing when Jon wasn't falling asleep over his own notes. 

It felt cruel to leave Tim hanging, after all tonight wouldn't have happened at all if it wasn't for him, but Tim, like Jon, could wait till tomorrow.  

It wasn't often a catastrophic failure yielded the optimum result. But Martin wasn't going to argue with the outcome of the operation 'get over it'. 

And maybe, just maybe tomorrow he could take Jon out on an actual proper date.