Chapter Text
It started with a jar of pickled cabbage.
At least, that's what Martin thought it was. He came into the break room one day after getting chewed out by Jon for having misformatted his follow-up report again, seeking comfort in the form of tea. The jar sat in the middle of the break room table, full of what Martin assumed were vegetables submerged in some kind of spicy pickling vinegar, if the vibrant red color was anything to go off.
Tim was already having lunch, making cup ramen in the microwave. He had a very peculiar way of eating it, Martin thought. He'd cook it the correct way at first, pouring hot water into the Styrofoam cup, but once it was soft he'd dump it into a bowl and microwave it for a minute with extra water.
Martin watched him idly as he waited for his tea to steep. Tim never stopped moving, even when he was waiting for the microwave to finish he tapped his feet and drummed his fingers on the countertop. He always seemed to be bursting with energy, really. Martin envied that a little. He wished he had a never-ending well of motivation. Maybe he'd be able to go out to a pub and talk to people, meet a nice guy that would sweep him off his feet, metaphorically of course. Maybe he could finally lose a stone or two. Maybe he'd be anything other than Martin Blackwood.
“Why do you cook it like that?” Martin asked.
Tim glanced up. “Hmm? Oh, the noodles? Well the Styrofoam makes them taste like shit frankly,” he chuckled.
“Oh. W-well I guess the cups always tasted… different from the packages,” Martin mumbled. He honestly hadn't thought it was all that bad. There had been a time in his life where he survived on cheap shop chips and crap ramen, just to make sure his mother's bills were paid. He didn't need to worry about that now, the Magnus Institute paid well enough to cover his mother's care home fees and keep a roof over his head, but sometimes Martin made some terrible cup noodles for nostalgia’s sake. It was probably why he was still as heavy as he was, if he was painfully honest with himself.
Tim laughed. “Different is putting it lightly.” The microwave beeped importantly and he pulled his bowl out. “I guess if you wanna be nice about it, ‘edible’ is a word you could use too.”
He took his bowl to the table, stirring it with a pair of chopsticks. A nice pair, as well, not the cheap bamboo kind that comes with takeout. These were crimson red with some lettering painted in gold on the side in an alphabet Martin recognized vaguely as Asian.
“God, I missed mum's kimchi,” Tim smiled. He popped the lid off the jar on the table and the smell hit Martin with enough force he had to turn his head. It was such a strong scent of pure spice that his eyes watered a bit. “She made a huge batch last weekend when my aunts came to visit. First time she's made any since… well, in a few years, anyway.”
“What… what is it, exactly?” Martin asked with trepidation. He sat down near Tim and fought the urge to cover his nose with his hand.
Tim's smile widened into a grin. “Fermented cabbage and radish. Mum makes hers with carrots too,” he explained. “Wanna try some?”
Before Martin could decline, Tim got up and rummaged around in the cabinets for a small bowl. “If you like it, I can bring you a jar for yourself. She made way too much and I have three of these just sitting in my refrigerator. Poor Sasha, her stomach can't handle hot peppers, or else I'd give her one.” He came back with a bowl and a fork. “Sorry I don't have spare chopsticks.”
“Uh! That's all right, Tim. I, erm, I-I don't really know how to use them, if I'm honest,” Martin chuckled anxiously.
“Not to worry, Mart-o! I'll teach you one of these days,” Tim said with a devilish twinkle in his eye and that charming smirk he used to get his way so often. He heaped a solid forkful of cabbage into the little bowl and handed it to Martin. “Just give it a try.” With that, he took his chopsticks and used them to pull a few chunks of vegetable out of the jar, stirring them into his noodles and staining the watery brown broth a deep maroon.
Martin carefully picked a single leaf of cabbage out of the mix and tried to wipe as much of the sauce off of it as he could without being obvious by rubbing it along the rim of the bowl. If Tim noticed, he didn't say anything. With a hand that shook far more than he was comfortable with, Martin took a bite.
He wasn't sure exactly what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. It was tangy and salty and a little fishy at first, and he couldn't taste the cabbage at all, which was probably for the best because Martin hated boiled cabbage. Then the heat hit the back of his throat. He fought the urge to cough and lost. Somehow he managed to swallow it without choking.
Tim laughed. “Alright there?” he asked, teasing.
“It's, uh…” Martin coughed again into his hand. He reached for his tea to wash away the spice, but it didn’t help much. “It's- good!” he squeaked out.
“You can say you hate it, I won't be offended,” Tim snickered. He used his chopsticks to gather up some noodles and what Martin could now see were finely sliced carrots and spring onion. He ate with no issue, even though the solitary limp leaf of cabbage had Martin sweating.
“No, no, it's fine. Just, uh, w-wasn't expecting it to be that, erm… strong?” Martin coughed again and drank more tea. He reached for a napkin to wipe at his nose, he could feel his sinuses begin to empty themselves. “If it's all the same to you, though, I think I'll… I'll just have my sandwich for lunch, thank you.”
Tim wrinkled his nose. “Ham and egg from Tesco's again?”
“Uh, no, actually. This time I got the chicken,” Martin corrected, getting a playfully scolding noise from Tim in the middle of a mouthful of cabbage and ramen.
While he was in the middle of picking out the pickles from his soggy store-bought sandwich, Martin heard the door open and glanced up. Jon strode in with a folder and his tea mug and a purpose. “Heya boss! Fancy meeting you here!” Tim grinned.
“Tim, Martin,” Jon said with a nod. “Have either of you two seen Sasha? I need to talk to her about something, I need some clarification on her notes for a case.”
“No, sorry. I think she went out,” Martin said. “Field work.”
Jon hummed, disgruntled. “Very well, I'll find her later.” He put his mug in the sink and filled it with water to rinse it. Martin couldn't see if it was empty or not. He hoped it was, Jon usually drank most of the tea he made for him, but his mood also usually directly correlated with how much tea he drank and he'd been cross with Martin earlier. Not that he wasn't usually cross with Martin.
“Sticking around for lunch, then?” Tim asked. He leaned back in his chair, balancing precariously on its back two legs. “I brought kimchi, plenty to go around!”
“Is that what that smell is?” Jon replied. To Martin, he sounded disinterested, maybe even vaguely annoyed, but Tim's grin just brightened. He didn't know why. Getting Jon to take a break and eat was like pulling teeth from a very pissed off lion. Martin knew that from experience, he had invited Jon to lunch almost every day for the entire first month of their employment together and was rebuffed every time.
“Mhmm. Made just last week,” Tim added with that same knowing mischief in his eyes.
Martin expected Jon to turn up his nose with derision and decline politely but firmly. He expected Jon to answer with a simple and harsh “no” and walk out of the room without another word. He did not expect Jon to hum in consideration, then mumble something about leftover rice and head to the shared fridge. Martin glanced between Jon and Tim and only grew more confused at Tim's smug smirk.
Jon didn't even bother heating up the plastic tupperware container of rice he fished out of the fridge. He just took the lid off, grabbed a fork, and went straight to the jar.
He paused just as he dipped his fork in. “Erm. May I?” he asked Tim, as if just remembering his manners. Tim just gestured to the jar with a smile and a nod, and Jon picked up the entire thing. He piled up a good amount of vegetables onto his still cold rice and drizzled the sauce on top. Drizzle was a light word, the paste fell out in chunks. Martin tried not to stare.
“Thank you Tim,” Jon said with an air of dismissal. He turned to leave with a quickness that would've made Martin's head spin.
“Oi, boss! You're not running off to hide in your office again, are you?” Tim asked before Jon could leave. “And deny me the joy of seeing your smarmy face?”
Jon froze at the door, turning to frown at Tim. “I'm not hiding , I have a lot of work to do,” he argued pointlessly.
Tim scoffed. “And it'll still be there in half an hour. Besides, you'll get chili sauce residue all over the paperwork. You know how easily it stains.” He grinned at Jon like a cat at a canary.
Jon let out an exhale that was more frustration than breath and shook his head minutely. Tim winked at Martin subtly as Jon sat at the table on the other side, so that he and Martin were facing.
Tim led the conversation, to which Martin was grateful. He was not good at talking and it was bad enough he regularly made a fool of himself in front of Jon that his boss's opinion of him was beneath the floorboards. It was even worse that Martin had a minor, slightly problematic infatuation with the man as well. He wasn't exactly doodling his name on his desk or anything, but he'd be lying if he said that Jon didn't captivate him. He was sharp as a whip and had laser focus that rivaled even the most stubborn of hunting hounds, and he was absolutely ridiculously handsome to boot. All angles in his face and sparse distinguished streaks of silver in tidy black hair and the quickest hazel eyes Martin had ever seen, all wrapped up in tweed coats and soft sweater vests and square glasses. He looked like a young professor that freshmen would swoon over.
Idly Martin wondered if Jon was even available. Surely not, he reasoned, that'd be a damn crime. Besides, he wore a ring. A single, plain black band around his right middle finger. Not exactly a wedding band but maybe a promise ring. Whoever got to hold Jon at night was a lucky bastard indeed.
“What about you, Martin?” Tim asked, pulling Martin from his thoughts. “Any weekend plans? Gonna paint the town red?”
Martin startled and straightened his back. “Oh! Oh, uh. Erm, I mean, not really? I might clean a bit, my flat could use a decent dusting, I think,” he lied. Martin's weekend plans were to sit on his couch like a lump until Monday. His mother had declined another visit and he had nothing to fill the empty time with.
Tim threw his head back and groaned dramatically. “Both of you are so damn boring! ‘Oh I'm going to the library. Oh I'm cleaning.’ Do I have to drag you both out myself?”
“Don't you and Sasha spend time together?” Martin asked innocently.
“Well, that's different,” Tim said, rather quickly Martin thought. “That's something we do regularly. I'm talking about just going out to the pub and getting drunk with friends!”
Martin bit his tongue, taking a bite of his sandwich to stop himself from correcting Tim and outing himself as a friendless loser. Jon, though, seemingly had no such filter. “Tim, you know I'm not one for spontaneity. And it's not as if I have anyone to go bar hopping with, even if that was something I enjoyed doing.”
“What am I, chopped liver?” Tim laughed, gesturing to himself as if he were offended. His grin stayed just as bright and just as teasing as ever.
“I prefer to keep my professional life and my personal life separate,” Jon said haughtily.
“Not anymore! Friday night, six o'clock. I'm taking you both to this pub by my place.” Tim's tone left no room for argument, even though Martin and Jon certainly tried.
“That's not necessary-”
“Tim, I couldn't-”
“I'm much too busy-”
“I don't even like pubs-”
“It's settled! Jon, if you try staying here past six I'm picking you up by the scruff and carrying you out of your office,” Tim threatened.
Jon growled out his frustration and angrily stabbed some cabbage with his fork. Martin meekly nibbled at his sandwich, avoiding Jon's eyes.
Tim, pleased with himself, finished his lunch and rinsed his bowl in the sink. “If neither of you mind, I have a few calls to make for a follow-up,” he said in a sing-songy voice. “Feel free to help yourself to the kimchi if you're feeling brave, Martin!” The door swept shut behind him, leaving Jon and Martin in a deeply awkward silence.
“So…” Martin started, hoping to fill the empty air. “What… what were you gonna go looking for at the library?”
“Not that it's any of your business, but I'm doing some of my own personal research,” Jon snapped. He stuck some food in his mouth and chewed to not have to talk any more. The spiciness didn't seem to affect him at all.
“Right. ‘Course.” Martin nibbled on his sandwich again.
The quiet enveloped them again, tight and full of static. Martin tried not to squirm in his seat. Jon sighed out of the blue. “You know you can make that more palatable, right?” he asked.
“S-sorry?” Martin blinked in confusion.
“The sandwiches. You don't have to suffer through it, you can reconstruct them,” Jon explained further. “New bread, season to taste, add proper condiments. No need to eat it directly out of the plastic. Especially the chicken sandwiches, those are horrendous.”
“Oh.” Martin bit his lip. He honestly hadn't even thought about it. “Um. Yeah, I-I guess? I never really saw the point in it, though.”
Jon scoffed. “The point is that being on a budget doesn't mean you have to eat garbage,” he said. “In university, I used to put the chicken into a bowl and mix in enough seasoning so it didn't taste like slop anymore.”
“That seems like a lot of effort for a crappy chicken sandwich,” Martin mumbled with a shrug.
“Well, the idea was to make it less crap,” Jon said matter-of-factly. “Honestly, how did you get through university?”
A cold heavy stone fell through Martin's gut. “I, uh. I-it was… I mean…” he stammered. “I just- I guess I never. Thought about it? It all tasted- well, not great but I didn't hate it.”
Jon pursed his lips in thought. “I suppose if you have a less developed palate it wouldn't matter what you put in your sandwiches,” he said eventually. Martin must have visibly wilted at the comment, because Jon cleared his throat and continued, “Er, that is to say- oh dammit. I'm not trying to insinuate anything. There's plenty of reasons one’s sense of taste might be… off. Depression can dampen the senses, as well as excessive amounts of stress and hormone imbalances. Not to mention the types of food one might be raised on that can affect personal taste. Curry was a staple in my childhood but perhaps not for yours, for example.”
Jon continued to ramble on for a couple of minutes. Martin just listened. It was astounding the amount of things that Jon knew, the trivia that floated around in his mind. He reminded Martin of a childhood crush of his, a boy that went by Sal who spent a lot of time reading encyclopedias and almanacs. Sal had never been outrightly cruel to Martin, but they'd also never really been friends. He was just kind to Martin and tolerated his presence, and was so very smart even though his marks were very middle of the road. Schoolwork had bored him, Martin remembered Sal often would take one look at the chalkboard in the morning and ask their teacher why the lesson was on whatever it was for the day instead of something “productive, like taxes or how to take care of a car.” Sal ended up dropping out and became a stoner and a drummer for a punk band in secondary school. Sometimes Martin looked them up to see what Sal was up to.
“Sorry, I've been talking for too long,” Jon said suddenly. He stood and put the lid back on the tupperware dish.
“What? No, y-you were fine!” Martin tried to gesture for Jon to sit back down.
“No, no, I can tell when I've bored you. I won't keep you a captive audience.” Jon put the dish back in the fridge and the fork in the sink. “I'll need to remember to come back for that,” he mumbled under his breath. He left as Martin still stuttered out protests.
Martin huffed and glared at his sandwich, as if it had personally been the reason that Jon had gone. As usual, his airheaded drifting thoughts had pushed someone away. “Nice going, Blackwood,” he grumbled to himself, and he angrily ripped off a bite of the sandwich.
He hit a very odd texture, a piece of gristle that the processing machine had missed and mixed into the chicken, and scrunched his nose up. Never mind, he thought, wrapping the last half of his sandwich back up in the plastic. He suddenly wasn't hungry anymore.