Chapter Text
“Right… paperwork sorted, new accounts set up and passwords totally not written on a post-it in my wallet, today's schedule open on the screen… and,” Martin pulled the clunky plastic home phone slightly closer to him on the desk, “there! Phone primed for incoming calls!” Martin breathed out slowly, trying to release some first-day nerves from his shoulders, as there was a loud ‘tch’ from the stiff plastic seats in the waiting room.
Martin looked up, startled, red blooming bright on his cheeks. He hadn't realised anyone was…
“You’re the new guy? Fucking He-” the man cut off his sneer with a forceful click of his jaw, a look of pain on his face. Martin watched, pulse thumping at the thought of being griped at by a patient mere seconds into his first day. The man counted to 5 under his breath before opening his eyes and looking at Martin, a forced smile on his face. “Sorry, mate. Anger issues, why I'm here. Been a rough week, didn't mean to take it out on you.”
“Oh! No-no worries! You're right, I am being a bit over the top, heh, I guess?” Martin wilted, shoulders hunching up as he tried to make himself look smaller in his seat.
“Tch- no, mate, I was- here, look at it this way. If you're not nervous on your first day it means you don't give a shit, right? So it's a good sign.” The plastic smile almost warmed into something genuine before he huffed and crossed his arms, closing his eyes and muttering under his breath, “Fuck knows I never gave a crap on any of my first days.”
Martin waited to see if the man would say anything further, but he just tucked his chin into his chest and kept his eyes closed, pointedly ignoring the world around him.
Turning back to his desk Martin busied himself with checking the handover notes and getting settled.
The quiet lasted all of 3 minutes before there was a soft tinkle of an electronic bell. Martin jumped, sending his notebook clattering to the ground.
Another not-quite-stifled-in-time tut from the man in the waiting room. Martin just bent down behind the desk to retrieve his notebook, chiding himself at jumping at the noise. Rosie had mentioned it yesterday, just a signal to show someone had opened the front door to the building, and would be heading up the rickety staircase up to the therapist office, or one of the other business that rented space in the converted victorian terraced building. Annoyance at his own overreaction shook his fingers and he dropped the notebook, where it promply skidded across the lino and slid completely under his desk. This time he didn’t hear the waiting patient’s tsk of annoyance under the sheer volume of his own.
“Excuse me?” a low, sonorous voice asked.
Martin jumped, hitting his head on the underside of the desk with enough force he heard the squeak of the legs across the lino flooring.
A beat of mortified silence where Martin slowly backed out from under the desk, holding his hand to his, definitely bruised, head, blonde curls sticking out between his fingers. He grit his teeth, hoping against hope that the small burning sensation at the corner of his eye wasn't a goddam tear. God this was the absolute worst moment of his life.
Then he looked up.
The newcomer was leaning over the desk, eyebrows pulled so high up his forehead they almost disappeared into his thick brown hair, shot through with ribbons of silver. The silver was at odds with the rest of his face - smooth and wrinkle free, if you didn't count the frankly ridiculously heavy shadows under his eyes. Bloody hell, when did this guy last sleep? Large hands lay splayed on the desk as he angled his body over it slightly. A body that looked slight and trim, hugged tight by… fucking hell was that a 3 piece suit? Martin swallowed. It was all deep greens and dark browns, obviously tailored.
The lenses of his thin rimmed glasses flashed in the office lighting and Martin re-evaluated his further assumption that a moment ago had been his worst moment in his life.
It wasn't. This moment, however, was.
Teary eyed, legs askew, sat on his arse, in front of the hottest man he had ever seen.
A man who was blinking at him expectantly.
Martin realised, with another wave of blood to his face, that he had said something. “So–sorry?”
The man's lips twitched in a smirk that was quickly covered up. “I said, are you alright down there?”
“Oh! Oh, yes, no, er yes, fine, thanks. Just looking for my notebook. Heh.” The laughter felt awkward, forced and panicked, even to his own ears.
“And you regularly keep your notebooks under Rosie’s desk, Mr…?” the stranger asked. Martin almost bristled until he realised there was no mocking edge to the question, he seemed genuinely confused, and… oh… that was kind of cute. (No, not cute, Mr tall, dark, and handsome was not cute.)
“No! I dropped it…” He looked under the desk, frowning when he didn’t see it.
“This the one?” The stranger said, holding up the book, it must have slid far enough under the desk to poke out the other side. Had he been holding it the whole time!?
“Ah yes, thank you!” Martin grinned, making no move to get off of the floor, staring at this handsome stranger's lovely handsome face.
“Right…. Well…now that that's, ah, settled… I, ah, would like to sign in for my appointment, so if you could fetch Rosie?” the man asked, voice suddenly switching into a clipped businesslike tone.
The coldness of it pulled Martin out of his stupor, sending him scrambling to his feet in a way that would only be called graceful by the most charitable.
Martin, however, was not the most charitable. He felt like a beached whale trying to wriggle itself free of sand and fishing nets. ‘God's sake,’ he thought, ‘Here I am making a complete idiot of myself in front of Mr tall, dark, and — oh. Oh no.’ At this point Martin had finally righted himself, standing behind his borrowed desk, watching the man's face turn from terse to surprised, his eyes going from looking down his nose at Martin, to staring up at him, as Martin now stood a full head taller than him. ‘Not tall at all. Oh my god he is cute.’
“Um… Rosie is on Maternity leave. I’m covering for her for the next 12 months!” Martin tried his best customer service smile. From the way the stranger squinted slightly it looked even worse than it felt, and it felt awful.
“Oh, I didn’t realise she was pregnant.” the man seemed to mumble to himself.
It was Martin’s turn to look confused, “Really? She was in yesterday, walking me through her handover, she looked like she was smuggling a beach ball!”
The stranger blushed then paled in such quick succession Martin was surprised he didn’t faint from it.
“Ah, I… I'm not the most observant when it comes to people…” He stammered, looking so thrown out Martin decided to help him out.
“I mean, she was probably sat behind the desk most of the time, right? And I guess you were preoccupied with your upcoming session?” He said, smiling, feeling relieved when the other man seemed to relax slightly at his words.
“Ah, you're right… mostly she was… um.” He muttered, almost to himself, before turning back to Martin, that strict veneer slamming down again. “Speaking of. Jonathan Sims, here for my regular 11 o'clock.”
Martin almost flinched at the sudden change. “Oh! Right! Of course!” He said, sitting down too quickly, chair skidding out slight beneath him as he frowned at the PC. “Just give me a sec…”
Martin turned to the PC, waking up the monitor with a quick wiggle of the mouse. The stra–Mr Sims (he should call patients by their surnames and titles, right? That was professional… it seemed too formal, but the idea of calling this severe man just “Jonathan” seemed far too informal… gods, why did he have to worry so much about everything?) Mr Sims was looking straight at him when he tried to sneak a peek at him, causing Martin to flinch and grab the mouse so hard he accidentally clicked a button.
That just happened to be over the X on the calendar window, closing it.
Martin froze at the tiny sigh from John–Mr Sims.
He tried to focus on the screen, blocking out those intense eyes and trying to ignore how striking the green was in the shadow of his long hair.
With a frown he opened the calendar, clicking through the appointment details after getting Mr Sims to confirm his name and date of birth. Martin was happy to find that he was indeed a lot younger than the grey in his hair would suggest. There was still a comfortable age gap between them though–wait! What was he saying! He was at work he shouldn’t be thinking of patients like that! God's sake, get it together Martin. He thought bitterly, wrenching his mind out of the gutter and back on his job.
“Ah, right, the doctor has been informed… and you're still early, um… take a seat wherever you want, I guess.” Martin stammered, awkwardly rubbing his hand through his curls, wincing when he accidently rubbed the tender bump on his skull.
“Right… yes, well, thank you.” Mr Sims said as he walked away, patent leather shoes clicking on the lino. Martin let himself indulge in a peek of his back as he walked away, eyes lingering on the sharp tapered waistline, before he realised what he was doing and looked away sharply.
Just then the monitor flashed, prompting that Dr Cane was ready for the angry man he had spoken to earlier.
After letting him know, the man looking visibly more relaxed even before he walked into the second office, Martin turned to Mr Sims. It was a good 20 minutes before his appointment time, and he was scribbling notes into the margins of printed documents. He must have brought his work with him. Martin was surprised at that. He'd expected people to be more… preoccupied with the upcoming therapy session and be unable to concentrate on work. Not that he'd really thought about it before, to be fair…
He shrugged and walked over. “Um… Mr Sims?” He asked quietly.
The other man glanced up for the barest second before turning back to his work. Martin hovered awkwardly as he finished his note and looked up properly. “Yes…?” Martin didn't miss the way his eyes flicked to the clock and his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance after seeing it wasn’t time for his appointment yet.
“Oh, sorry for interrupting, just, I ah, well I mean I was, um…” Martin fought to get his mouth to cooperate, face flushing again. Something about the intense way this man looked at him just made his words fall apart and God, it was mortifying.
“Yes, what is it?” The other man snapped, clearing running out of patience as Martin stood over him stammering.
“Iwasgoingtomakeacupofteadoyouwantone?” Martin asked, words coming out in a suddenly focused rush.
Mr Sims just blinked at him.
“Or! Or, no worries if not, I'll just—” Martin turned to leave, shame painting his entire face scarlet.
“No, no, I mean, sure, I’d love one - sorry, Rosie never offered tea, you just threw me for a moment.” Martin turned back to see John looking almost sheepish for just a second before turning back to his paperwork, face serious. “One sugar and just a splash of milk, please.”
Martin nodded and rushed off to a small break room just off of the waiting room, heat prickling the back of his neck.
Flicking the kettle on Martin took a deep breath to steady his thundering heart. Right, so, that was a disaster. But he didn't turn down the offer of tea.
And where there's tea, there's hope.
The kettle rumbled loudly as Martin prepped the mugs, the cupboard mostly filled with two clearly matching sets of inoffensive pastel mugs, and one oversized Sports Direct mug that had clearly never been used. Martin frowned at it. In all the places he had temped, every single one had a Sports Direct mug. Like it was some sort of unwritten rule of the universe. He was tempted to think that it had been following him specifically, but everyone else at the temp agency confirmed it. No matter the office, no matter how rich, how posh, how ramshackle, how tiny, there was always, always an oversized Sports Direct mug. It was almost comforting.
The ketle clicked off and he grabbed two of the pastel mugs, quickly making up the teas with practised movements.
Hooking the door open with his foot he carried them gingerly into the waiting room, placing one carefully on his desk before popping the other one on the coffee table covered in ancient magazines. He used a 6 month old copy of “Anglers monthly” as a coaster.
“Ah, thank you, Mr…?” The other man let the sentence hang there for a moment, his thick eyebrow arched in a clear question for a beat too long before Martin realised he hadn't actually told him his name.
“Oh! Blackwood, but please, just call me Martin.” He answered hurriedly.
“Pleased to meet you then, Martin. In that case, please do call me John.” Mr Si–John replied, voice dropping slightly deeper in a warm way that made Martin’s thoughts stutter to a stop for a moment.
“Right, right! Um, sure, Mr, sorry, John. Sure. We'll… if you need me for anything… I'll just be…” He stammered before fleeing to his desk.
He could almost hear the other man’s smirk.
The arse.
Martin busied himself at his desk, telling himself not to sneak anymore glances at John.
Then doing it anyway. He had gone back to his work as he waited for the tea to cool, tapping his pen against a plush lip as he read the documents. Martin almost climbed under the desk again.
A few minutes later, John reached out and took a small cautious sip of his tea, before looking mildly surprised and taking a bigger sip with a smile.
Martin’s stomach flipped as the computer flashed at him once more. He looked over to John, starting to feel a bit more comfortable with his new job. Maybe this was finally the straightforward gentle job he'd needed after everything that had happened afterall. He called out with a smile, “Ah, Mr–John, you can go through, Dr Bouchard is ready for you now.”