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Martin Blackwood loves love. He never has much luck with relationships – what with taking care of his mum and holding down multiple jobs to keep them barely afloat, he’s never really had the time needed to devote to a partner. But he loves the feeling of butterflies in his stomach. The anticipation of seeing someone and making them smile. Having someone to look forward to, even if nothing long-term, or even short-term, was going to come of it. He loves having someone to write poetry about. Sonia at the café who always remembers his order, even when he doesn’t have it in his budget to go for a few weeks at a time. Claire at the bank who slips him a grape lolly with his balance receipt, even though they are meant for the kiddies. Sylvie down at the local thrift shop who sets aside books he might like for the next time he stops by. He replays each interaction, the brush of a stray hair behind an ear, the half-smile that revealed a hidden dimple. All very tame, especially compared to the various exploits and conquests Tim and Sasha would discuss at work, but real and his nonetheless.
His last physical ‘relationship’ had been back when he was working at Tesco during the overnight shift before they moved away from being open 24 hours. He and Brenda usually worked together, and she was there when he got the call that his mum would need to stay in hospital for several days when some of her regularly scheduled blood tests came back with concerning levels. He didn’t ask, but Brenda knew how much he hated being on his own, so the next night she came in with an overnight bag and went home with him. They never defined anything and it didn’t last beyond those few nights. His mum came home and he and Brenda went seamlessly back to being work friends, then drifted when the overnight positions were cut and they were not asked to stay on for other shifts.
Sometimes, Martin wondered if there was anyone out there who looked forward to seeing him. He made it his mission to know what Rosie’s favourite muffin was, perfected Sasha’s breakroom coffee (even though Martin himself is morally opposed to coffee), and listened to several audiobooks and podcasts so he could discuss them with Hannah and Rachael, even though they weren’t really his genre. He wasn’t romantically interested in anyone at work – the Institute is not the place for butterflies – but he liked thinking that he might be making someone else’s day better. That someone might think of him as they replayed their day, and that it would make them smile.
“Martin!” Jon’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. His boss stands in the doorway to his office, holding Martin’s most recent follow-up report and scowling. Martin sighs as he stands and reluctantly follows him inside.
Martin returns to his desk, visibly deflated.
“What was it this time, Mart-o?” Tim asks gently.
“Formatting, mostly. A couple of typos, and said my work was “cursory” and “superficial” but it “doesn’t matter anyway because the statement is obviously fake, but we should still present our work with a level of professionalism that is entirely lacking here…” You know. The usual.” Martin covers his face with his hands, takes a deep breath, and attempts to shake it off and get back to work.
“Martin, you really are doing good work. You shouldn’t let Jon get to you. He’s just - well. He’s a perfectionist and not always the best with positive motivation.” Tim tries offering a reassuring smile, but it falls flat.
“I know, Tim. It’s just – I really need this job. We’re getting by with a visiting nurse, but Mum’s going to need more consistent care soon, and the rent on my flat went up again and I just – I can’t keep coming to work feeling like I am a step away from being sacked all the time. I get nervous, make more mistakes, there’s more yelling and disapproving glares… it’s a really awful cycle. I mean, first it was the dog thing, then the spilled tea, then the weirdly bent staple in that report that time…” Martin winces.
“That was an odd day. I am pretty sure the chances of getting tetanus from a brand-new staple are pretty low, no matter how sharp it is. That one was a clear overreaction.”
“And then the fairly consistent errors in my reports. You know he only gives me the ones he knows are completely ridiculous fabrications. He gives the ones with real follow-up to you and Sasha. Not sure how I’m supposed to learn this way. The more he treats me like an incompetent ass, the more I manage to prove him right. I dunno. Maybe I should speak to Elias, see if I can get back in the library where people actually, you know, thought I had some value.” Martin sighs again.
“That would, of course, involve talking to Elias, which… best avoided if you can help it. If that’s what you think you need to do, I will back your play, Martin. But, I want you to know, I think you have value. A lot of value. I’d miss you if you went back. Sash would, too.” Tim offers another smile, then turns back to his desk. Martin goes to make tea. He needs to stretch his legs.
The next morning, Jon passes Martin’s desk on his way to the supply closet. “Ah, good morning, Martin. I looked over the report on the Cunningham-Smythe statement. It shows a – a marked improvement. Keep it up.”
“Oh, um. Thanks, Jon. I – I will.” Martin is aware that he is absolutely beet red, but luckily, Jon has turned away and continued on his mission for more pens or paperclips or… what have you. Martin’s stomach feels… funny.
“Hey, Sasha?” Martin turns to her desk. “Do you know if… did Tim say something to Jon? About being nicer to me or something?”
“Not that I know of. He used to try – after the Spaniel Incident and all, but Jon told him to shove it, so he’s mostly let it go. I suppose he might’ve done, though, after yesterday. Want me to ask?”
“No, thanks. It’s fine. That was just – it was weird. Nice weird, but, you know. Weird.” Martin shrugs.
“Jon being weird. Must be a day that ends in Y. I need more coffee. Can I get you anything?” Sasha rises to head to the break room. Martin shakes his head, then turns to face his inbox.
Later that morning, he does his regular tea round. He listens carefully at Jon’s door to make sure he isn’t recording, then knocks gently before entering and setting Jon’s mug in its usual place. Jon looks up briefly.
“Ah. Thank you, Martin.” He turns back to the statement he was reading.
“Oh, erm. Right. You’re welcome. Jon.” Martin turns and leaves. His stomach feels weird again.
Butterflies.
Shit.