Work Text:
Martin’s never been able to quiet his brain, except for the hours he spends in Justice’s chair getting tattooed. Lately, it's been especially loud, and he isn't quite sure why.
Is he able to afford therapy on a taxi driver’s salary? Not really. Does he feel bad for putting all of his problems on Justice? A little, but a manta ray in between his shoulder blades costs less out of pocket (plus it looks cool,) and the pain of the needle punching his skin repeatedly almost distracts him from whatever is going on underneath his sternum whenever he sees Virgil chatting with that goth boy on the boardwalk. Gerard, was it?
Which is stupid, and ridiculous. Virgil’s a professional. He has standards. He's just—following a trail, one he's been walking along since before he met Martin. It's not like he's flirting, or being flirted with.
Right?
He finally takes his face out from the crook of his elbow, resting his cheek on his forearm, which is crossed as a makeshift pillow as he lies on his stomach. He's long since gone noseblind to the smell of green soap, yet it's too soon to really tune out the dull ache of Justice’s steady hand.
Peeling my tits off this chair is gonna be a bitch.
At just the wrong time, shadows pass behind the frosted window of the tattoo shop, but his eyes only focus on the shorter one, ears honing in on that familiar voice, laughing. Laughing! (Melodic and charming, so rare from someone like Virgil to sound so… so…)
There they go again. Probably talking about… piercings. Or whatever that Gerard talks about. What's so funny?
A rough voice snaps him out of his thoughts.
“Relax your back, kid.”
It takes everything not to startle and risk a stray line. Martin doesn't look back at Justice, not wanting to twist his spine and disrupt the poor man’s flow, but he does make some grumble of acknowledgement and tries his best to relax, purposefully relaxing his back muscles and dropping his shoulders. This is supposed to be relaxing. Cool your jets. Don't think about that stupid cunt Gerard.
Justice lets out a haggard sigh, as though he's got the world on his shoulders. “Something’s up with you. Out with it.”
Now that gives Martin pause, and he lifts his head just slightly to try and look back at Justice through the stray auburn curls falling in his face without moving too much. There's nothing in the other man’s expression except pure focus, so he just lays his head back down in defeat.
“I’m fine.” He mutters.
“Well we’re not here to fuck spiders mate, You're never this quiet.”
Stubbornly, Martin doesn't reply, and Justice lets out another old man sigh. “You've been all out of sorts since that agent came snooping around.”
Martin tenses again. Snooping. He hates that word, especially in regards to Virgil and Junhwan. Maybe it has nothing to do with those two. He thinks, his knitted brow betraying his irritation. Maybe I'm all out of sorts because, hear me out mate, some cheap shit archaeologist was terrorizing my community a little while ago, and now I'm involved in something way larger than being a cabbie!
“He's a detective, mate.” He mutters eventually. A detective with eyes like a deer in headlights. A detective who, currently, seems keen on searching for a treasure map, even though he really ought to be keen on his sleep schedule.
“And detectives get paid to snoop.” Justice counters. “Look, you don't have to tell me shit. I'm just saying, I can't work if your back’s all tense.”
The silence is only filled with the buzz of the tattoo gun and the dull chatter of a trashy reality show on the TV mounted in the corner. Martin’s face heats up, and he still doesn't quite understand why. Embarrassment, he decides, even if it isn't quite right. He's not good with words, not like Virgil. Why do I keep thinking about Virgil?
“I don't even care.” He says, like a liar. “It's not my life. Virgil can chat with whoever he wants. I'm not like, his mum or anything—”
“Maybe you're jealous.” Justice offers.
“—Even if it's some goth cunt whose only friends are wolfies…” It's only as Martin is finishing his thought and is about to go on about how he just knows this Gerard is a poser, that he actually registers the words that came out of Justice’s mouth not two seconds prior, and the wind is knocked out of him from underneath.
Jealous.
It rings in his head like the word just hit him upside the temple, shattering almost like a beer bottle, in his experience. Of what? Of Gerard? He works for a turkey on a stick cart. Not a truck, not even shawarma. Turkey. On a stick. It's not even a fucking brick and mortar! Why would I be jealous?
He can only bring himself to scoff. Justice hums (more like grunts) like he knows something Martin doesn't.
“Like,” Martin continues, on the edge of sounding defensive. “I'm not even gay.”
The silence in the air is deafening despite all the noises in the room, and the tension is so thick, Martin swears it's crushing his sternum worse than the G forces he used to deal with back in the military. “Oh, my god…” His voice cracks from incredulity. “You think I'm gay?!”
When Justice doesn’t reply, Martin groans, exasperated to the core. “Justice!”
“Hold still.” Justice replies, jaw set as he lays down even layers of ink. “Y’know, back in my day…”
“Oh fuck me…”
Justice laughs.
“Or, y’know, other way around, if that's your preference—”
If Martin's face felt hot before, it's on fire now, and he's burying it in his arms to hide from the shame twisting underneath his ribs. He doesn't even want to think about that. He wants to stop thinking about Virgil, in fact.
“I like women!” He's indignant at this point, because, sure, he likes women well enough. He's had a few partners in the past, when he was younger; but nothing really lasted. It wasn't that he wasn't attracted to women, it was that every time they got close, when they stayed under his duvet at night and put their toothbrushes next to his, when they asked him why he wore his watches on the inside of his wrist and avoided walking on the grass, an itch began underneath his skin. An itch that could only be alleviated by the smell of gasoline and the laws of physics forcing his back against the seat with nothing but the open road ahead of him.
“That, I have no doubt.” Justice is as calm as he ever was, but Martin swears he can hear the smugness in his voice. Then, it softens to something that could be considered fond. “Point is, I wasn't much older than you when I met Hisao. Things can change.”
Things can change. Martin repeats, mouthed by chapped lips, but his voice doesn't escape him. Things can change, people can change. He can change, he has changed. The sands of time seems to have eroded him too quickly in comparison to his peers.
“I'm not jealous of Gerard.” Martin starts. “Which is a stupid name by the way. It just… Bothers me, that…”
Bothered! That's the word he was looking for in regards to Gerard. He's not jealous, there's no part of Gerard that he can be jealous of. What little he knows about that man isn't something he's keen on, and the rest is a mystery he doesn't care to unravel. He's just… bothered! Bothered that somehow, Gerard had caught Virgil’s attention quicker than Martin did. It took him almost the entire duration of the case to even get to the point where Virgil would let him inside his temporary housing (to do something as simple as fix the poor thing a cup of tea.) Why does that even matter? Why do I care so much?
That tiny part of him in the back of his head, the more impulsive part, the one that tells him to run! Drive! Fly! Fight! responds: It should be me, not him.
“Oh.” Is all Martin says, after his long thought. Justice hums another one of his “mhm” sounds.
There's a few more minutes of comfortable silence before the front door swings open, the bell at the top dinging as two sets of footsteps come in, punctuated by idle chatter. Nothing too flagrant out of context, just Virgil’s polite “Thank you for all your help, I appreciate it!”
Unfortunately, while Martin has long since learned how to hold his tongue, he still hasn't learned how to apply that decorum to his expressions. As he finally lifts his head up to greet Virgil, his eyes immediately lock in on Gerard, and go completely cold.
“Hey, Virgil.” Martin waves with two fingers. The moment his eyes land on his favorite agent, they soften into the waves outside. Fuck.
Gerard notices, shifting his weight back and forth and clearing his throat. Martin’s gaze is like ice, heavy and chilled to the bone.
“Yea. Uh, good luck with the uh… Whatever you're doing.”
He's quick to leave, but Virgil doesn't seem to notice, his gaze snapping away from the door the moment it shuts and fluttering over to Martin—never really staying in one spot for too long, looking at the floor, the TV, then finally, landing on Martin’s shirtless form, relaxed and pliant in Justice’s chair. Like Gerard, Virgil’s weight shifts back and forth, hands reaching for something on his person to fidget with. It must still be warm outside, as his face is slightly flushed, pink in the cheeks and the tips of his ears.
“So, uh… I didn't… Mean to interrupt. Is this a bad time? I can come back—”
“‘S fine, Agent.” Justice interrupts. His voice is even, noticeably so, to the point where Martin looks back at him with a raised eyebrow. “Almost done with the highlights. Pull up a chair.”
Are you just giving everyone the responsible dad voice or what?
The wheels of the spare spinny chair scrape across the old hardwood floor as Virgil pulls it towards Martin, sitting near his head so he won't have to crane his head when they talk. When he sits, he immediately pulls his knees up, tucking his legs in the seat, like a deer settling in the shade.
“So, the good news is…” Virgil starts, dark eyes darting everywhere—Justice’s worn hands, the new tattoo, the freckles splattered across Martin’s tanned back and shoulders like paint splatter. His own hands move, twirling the curled end of his frizzy, dark brown braid around a pale finger. “We were able to locate the sunken ship where the map was allegedly seen, and Doctor F gave us the clearance to use Tobor to get down there. The bad news is, uhm…”
Martin catches Virgil’s gaze. Virgil clears his throat and looks away, and Martin can feel the burn of shame creeping down his neck. Was I staring too hard? Why do I care about that?
“The—The waves are too choppy to risk Tobor diving, so we’re gonna have to come back tomorrow. I hope you don't mind? I know Walker is paying you to drive Junhwan and I around, but—”
Martin opens his mouth to interrupt with his typical brash way of phrasing things, he's going to, at least. He wants to say, “I really don't give a rat's ass, Agent. It's whatever.” What comes out of his mouth is, admittedly, much softer. Less like talking to an SPA agent and more like reassuring a neurotic kitten.
“Hey. Hey. I really don't— it's fine, alright? I'm not gonna take your cash.” Dear God, Virgil, don't take care of me. Not when no one’s ever done that for you. “Maybe save it for some turkey on a stick…” It slips about before he can reel that snarky little voice back in, and he winces. Instead of being met with questions like he anticipated, however, Virgil laughs.
Laughs! At him! in that stupidly bright resonance, seemingly missing the venom in Martin’s voice.
“You sound so scorned! I wasn't even gonna offer cash!” He grins, resting his chin on his propped up knee, picking idly at the sand stuck in his sneakers.
Maybe it’s the way the setting sun’s golden rays diffuse through the frosted glass windows, and brings out the golden undertones in Virgil’s hair, or the way he's always so earnest, if not in his body language, then his sincerity; but in that precise moment it was as though whatever knot was crushing Martin’s sternum unravelled itself. Virgil didn't notice the rotten jealousy, he didn't notice the venomous resentment Martin held for a total stranger. No, he saw the good in Martin. Just like he sees the good in the people he helps, the people he loses sleep over, frets over.
Oh.
(Justice finally douses the new tattoo in witch hazel.)
“Yea, yea.” Martin replies dryly, waving his hand in a little shooing motion. “I'm clutching my pearls over here.” It’s the best he can do to deflect from the way every fiber of his being shifted towards Virgil like a sunflower towards the sun.
“I was, uh, gonna offer to buy us sushi, actually?”
Oh, no.
A breathless laugh escapes Martin like the air has been knocked out of him, and he barely manages to hold it together. Conveniently, this is also the moment Justice decides it's time to wipe the witch hazel off with a dry paper towel. The pain almost distracts Martin—Almost.
“I mean, with Junhwan’s palate and my appetite, that's gonna be expensive—”
“Oh— actually, Junhwan’s doing paperwork in the cab. It'd be just us.” Virgil perks up quickly, almost startled by the brief misunderstanding. His ability to speak seems to work faster than his ability to think, though, and his eyes widen at his own phrasing. “Not— not like—”
Christ, kill me. Martin wants to groan. The way Virgil reddens so easily is completely unfair.
“No! No, no.” He decides to be merciful and quickly reassures Virgil as Justice’s hands press the saniderm flat against the tattoo. “I get it. I'd— yea, I could fuck up some sushi.”
In a less merciful move, Martin finally sits up and stretches his arms above his head after hours of laying on his stomach. Virgil, of course, turns an amusing shade of vermillion, and stands up, pushing the swivel chair where he found it, tactfully avoiding eye contact with the rest of Martin’s tattoos, namely the compass on his left pec.
“I'm— I'll meet you outside!” He just barely manages eye contact with Martin, before making his way out the door into the cool evening breeze.
Martin reaches into his pocket to grab his wallet, the chain rustling as he fishes out his card from in between receipts. He doesn't even want to see Justice’s smug face right now, he just swipes his card into the reader when prompted.
“I will tip double what I usually do if you don't say a fucking word.” He mutters slowly. Justice looks up from his phone at the mention of more money, and shrugs.
“Whatever. Just get out of my shop, cunt. It's already ten after.”
“Yea, yea, see you next time, mate.”
—
Down near the end of the boardwalk, Hisao’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he sighs heavily as he wipes his hands on his apron and pulls it free.
Cabbie’s on his way. Bringing the Agent. Light some candles, make it sweet.
Hisao’s phone shuts with a snap, and he grabs his lighter.