Chapter Text
“Uh, so, yeah, th-that… that’s it.”
In the awkward silence that followed Martin’s stammered tale of woes, he tried to calm his racing heartbeat. At least Tim hadn’t laughed in his face, which had been his imaginary worst-case scenario. Unfortunately, he also hadn’t agreed right on the spot, which had been the best-case scenario.
“Remind me of the date again?” Tim asked.
Martin still couldn’t look him in the eyes. He pretended to be deeply fascinated by his own shoes instead. “Um, well, they’ve asked me to stay from Friday to Sunday, so that would be the 25th to the 27th, but, uh, i-if the whole weekend doesn’t work for you, we could always say you have a… a work thing or, or something.”
This time he did chance a glance at Tim’s face, a flutter of treacherous hope blooming inside him. But the sheepish look in Tim’s eyes was enough to make that hope die a sudden and violent death.
“Aw, I’m really sorry, mate. Any other weekend, I’d love to tag along with you, you know I’d be down for that, but you see, Danny’s got this theatre thing on the 26th–his latest obsession, did I tell you?–and I promised him…”
Martin had already stopped listening. Of course, he thought. Of bloody course. Of course Tim had far more exciting plans for the weekend than attending an awkward family reunion with Martin; of course this ridiculous scheme was never going to work. Silly of him to have even asked, really.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, twisting his face into what he hoped passed for a smile. “It’s not a big deal or anything, just… just thought I’d, heh, check.”
Oh Christ, he was overselling it, wasn’t he? There was a line between casual and too casual, and Martin had just jumped right over it.
If Tim noticed Martin’s poorly disguised disappointment, he was kind enough not to comment on it. “Can’t you ask one of your mates? I’m sure you’ll find someone who’ll do a much better job than me, trust me. You know me, I get pretty chatty after a few drinks. Wouldn’t want to accidentally blow our cover.”
Martin supposed he should be flattered by Tim’s assumption that he had a whole host of attractive, charismatic friends at his disposal who were just jumping at the chance to pretend to be his boyfriend. But that didn’t make it any easier to admit that he had no friends at all outside of work–if the occasional pub night or small talk in the breakroom even counted as friendship.
“No one’s free,” he mumbled.
“That’s a shame.” Tim tapped a thoughtful finger against his chin. “Who’s going to be the lucky guy, then? Anyone else on your list?”
Martin suppressed a sigh. He’d been dreading that question. Face it, Martin, a bitter voice hissed inside his head, this was a shitty idea from the start and you know it.
He still owed Tim an answer, though, and backing out now was only going to make things more embarrassing for him. He ran through his mental list of potential candidates, which didn’t take him very long, seeing as it consisted of a grand total of two names. With Tim no longer in the running, that only left… Shit. Well aware that his face probably looked like he had just bitten into a lemon, Martin carefully schooled his features into a more neutral expression, and tried to project a confidence he didn’t feel into his voice, like this was a perfectly reasonable choice made by a perfectly rational and not at all desperate person.
“I, uh, I was just going to ask David, actually.”
Tim gaped at him with pure horror in his eyes, like Martin had just revealed himself to be a secret Tory. “ David? David from Research? Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Martin lied. “I talked to him at the Christmas party last year, remember? He’s… nice.”
Truth be told, ‘nice’ was just about the last word he’d use to describe David. ‘Pushy’ might be a more appropriate adjective, or ‘self-absorbed’, or the harsh but apt ‘obnoxious’. He’d cornered Martin for almost the entire duration of the aforementioned Christmas party and subjected him to drawn-out anecdotes about his bird watching, while nearly suffocating him with his overpowering cologne and the reek of alcohol on his breath as he leaned in ever closer. When David had asked for his number at the end of the night, Martin had politely declined, although that hadn’t stopped David from trying his luck again at least five times in the following months. But his very blatant (and very annoying) crush meant he might at least hear Martin out about this fake relationship thing, and at this point, that was really the best he could hope for.
“He’s a complete tosser, that’s what he is!” Tim said with a derisive snort. “He doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. And the way he dresses? I still have nightmares about that striped shirt he wore the other day. That thing belongs in Artefact Storage.”
“That’s just mean, Tim.”
“It’s the bloody truth! Believe me, Martin, you can do so much better.”
Martin rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, it’s just for one weekend. I’m not going to marry him.”
“Still!” Tim protested, flailing his hands in the air like that did anything to illustrate his point. “Between you and me, it’s obvious that guy’s got a few skeletons in his closet. Some kind of dirty secret. He’s got that shifty glint in his eyes, y’know? Emily from the library was just telling me yesterday-”
“Emily’s a consummate liar, everyone knows that.”
“Yeah, but even you can’t deny he’s a bit shady, right? In addition to, you know, his generally shitty personality. And he’s obviously got a huge crush on you, so do you really want to trap yourself with him for a whole weekend? Pretending to be his boyfriend? That sounds like the beginning of some trashy horror movie. I’m just looking out for you, mate. Don’t want you getting axe-murdered.”
“Oh, come off it-”
“Who’s getting axe-murdered?”
Martin swore under his breath as Sasha rounded the corner, clutching a giant file folder under one arm and giving them a quick wave with the other.
Tim flashed her his best smile. “Well, definitely not Martin,” he said, looping an arm around Martin’s shoulders, “because he’s not going to ask David from Research to be his fake boyfriend. Right, Martin?”
Martin wriggled out of the loose embrace and folded his arms in front of his chest. “I didn’t agree to anything,” he said sullenly.
“Hate to say it, but I’m with Tim on this one,” Sasha said. “I wouldn’t trust David to get me a cup of coffee, let alone be my fake boyfriend. Hang on, why do you need a fake boyfriend anyway?”
Martin sighed. Explaining this whole situation once had been excruciating enough, and he really didn’t want to go over everything again. But it seemed like he wasn’t given much of a choice.
“Uh, well, my mum… she died t-two weeks ago,” he mumbled.
In an instant, Sasha’s expression switched from mirth to shock, like a sudden storm cloud passing over her face. “Oh god, Martin, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, er… thanks,” Martin said, fiddling with his sleeve. He was never quite sure how to react in such situations, how to shoulder the burden of other people’s second-hand grief. It felt like a part he had to play, the demanding role of grieving son, and he just wasn’t that good an actor. “But that isn’t really what this is about. I mean, I guess it kind of is, but, um… well, her funeral was last week and… her family was there. Her sister, I mean, and her two daughters. My cousins, I suppose. I hadn’t seen any of them in ages, not since my- since I was around eight or so. Uh, so we got chatting, and my aunt told me all about her daughters and what they’ve been up to–their jobs and everything, how one of them is getting married next spring–and then they asked about my life, a-and…”
Well. In for a penny, in for a pound. He’d told Tim the embarrassing truth already, so there was no point in trying to hide it from Sasha. Not that he believed for a second either of them would understand, as much as they might pretend to. They couldn’t know what it was like to have a life so pathetic you had to lie about it, to fake CVs and make up stories to distract from the true emptiness of your existence.
“I… kind of told them I have a boyfriend? Which I don’t, by the way, in case you haven’t guessed. I just… I didn’t want to get into my work for the Institute of Spooky Stuff, you both know how weird that can get with people who aren’t into parapsychology, but I also didn’t want to say that I’ve got nothing going on in my life. But my aunt was so excited to hear about the imaginary boyfriend, and I had to be sort of cagey about the details, obviously, just… told her it was someone I work with. And, um, anyway, she was really keen on inviting me to spend some time at her place, a kind of family reunion, I guess, and it seemed too late to backtrack at that point? So… I told her I’d be bringing my boyfriend. That I don’t have. Yeah.”
To her credit, Sasha didn’t seem all that shocked by his confession, just eyed him with a kind of shrewd curiosity from behind her round glasses. “Well, grief does cause people to make irrational decisions sometimes,” she said, sounding more like a psychologist looking for insights into his damaged mind than a concerned friend.
“Naturally, Martin asked me to be his arm candy for the occasion,” Tim said, “but it’s the weekend of the 26th–you know, I told you about Danny’s theatre thing–and none of his mates can make it either, so now our poor boy is considering desperate measures, i.e. asking David. Sasha, as the Institute’s resident voice of reason, would you care to reiterate why that is a terrible idea?”
Sasha wrinkled her nose. “Not sure I like that title, but otherwise, gladly. So, even leaving aside his atrocious fashion sense and insufferable personality, I happen to have some choice screenshots of his recent browser history that might be of interest to-”
“You hacked into his computer?”
“Not the point, Martin,” Sasha continued, utterly unfazed. “The real issue is that the guy’s a bloody creep. Believe me, I’m telling you this for your own safety. This could very well become a matter of life or death.”
Martin was at least 90% sure she was joking, but still, he had reached the end of his tether. “I’m not going to get murdered!” he snapped. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
With that, he turned on his heel, ready to stomp away from this humiliating conversation without giving Tim and Sasha the chance to get a further word in. He made the grave mistake of not checking if the coast was clear first, however, and only narrowly avoided a direct collision with none other than Jonathan Sims, his stern boss, kind-of-nemesis, and enduring crush (a combination that went together like hot milk and cyanide).
Martin felt blood rushing to his cheeks and stammered his way through a hasty apology. Jon didn’t acknowledge this in any way, just gave him an irritable huff and a dismissive wave with the hand that wasn’t currently clutching a concerning amount of case files.
“If you’re planning on getting murdered, Martin,” he drawled, “I would appreciate it if you could finish your research on case #0100207 before your untimely demise.”
Despite himself, Martin let out a nervous giggle, which earned him another withering look from Jon.
“What is this all about, anyway?” Jon demanded, his gaze swivelling to Tim and Sasha. “As I’m sure you know, it’s well past your lunch break, and I think we all have far too much work to do to be having… clandestine meetings in the corridors.”
“It’s hardly clandestine-” Sasha began to protest, but Tim cut her off.
“Martin needs a fake boyfriend for a family reunion,” he announced cheerfully, and oh, Martin could punch him.
Not keen on getting fired, however, he settled for jabbing an elbow into Tim’s side and hissing “Tim!” in a voice about an octave above its usual pitch.
But it was already too late. Jon’s gaze landed on Martin, those intense dark eyes boring into him like searchlights, making him feel like a bug under a microscope, like a helpless butterfly pinned to a corkboard.
“I see,” Jon said slowly, though the tell-tale furrow in his brow indicated that he didn’t see at all. “May I ask why?”
Martin couldn’t tell him the truth. He just couldn’t. Explaining his predicament to Tim and Sasha had been hard enough, but he’d rather be crushed under a filing cabinet than confess the whole embarrassing affair to Jon. “...long story.”
To his relief, Jon didn’t press the point, just arched an eyebrow at Martin. Jon’s left eyebrow seemed to possess a life and personality all of its own, capable of expressing such complex nuances as “curious” or “stupefied” or “disappointed”. This one, Martin understood, was meant to convey exasperation. It was not an uncommon occurrence in his interactions with Jon.
“So Martin asked me to be his date, of course, but I can’t make it, and his friends aren’t free either,” Tim piped up again. “And now he’s seriously considering David. From Research. Me and Sash are trying to talk him out of it, obviously.”
Jon gave a shudder of distaste. “I quite agree.”
“Tim, this really isn’t necessary,” Martin whispered, leaning in close to Tim and giving him his best puppy dog eyes.
Tim, alas, wasn’t swayed. “Glad we’re on the same page, boss. Hey, you don’t happen to know any eligible bachelors who’d be up for the gig? Well, I guess they don’t even need to be bachelors, strictly speaking, as long as their partners are cool with it. Just one weekend, all expenses paid, and the biggest perk is getting to spend some quality time with our dear Martin.”
Martin had the unsettling feeling of being advertised like a moth-eaten couch on Gumtree. He expected Jon to scoff at the question, to tell Tim to knock it off and return to work, but to everyone’s surprise, he let out a thoughtful hum instead.
“I might, actually. When would this family reunion be?”
Three pairs of eyes zeroed in on Martin, and it took him a few seconds to realise he was meant to answer this.
“Oh, uh, so it’s the weekend after next, which would be… the 25th to the 27th, yeah. I did say I would be bringing my, um, boyfriend along for the whole weekend, but, er… if he just stayed for a day or two i-it would probably also be fine.”
He wasn’t in a position to be making demands, after all. Very far from it, in fact. It was presumptuous enough of him to ask anyone to accompany him to this family reunion, let alone pretend to be his boyfriend the entire time. From his limited past experience with relationships, he was well aware that feigning affection for him would require some serious acting chops. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if any acquaintance of Jon’s would be up for the task–did he even have a life outside of work?–but it wasn’t like he had any better options lined up. So whatever unsavoury, dreadfully dull, or otherwise unsuitable person Jon managed to produce, Martin would just have to grit his teeth and get it over with. Beggars can’t be choosers, and all that.
Jon took a moment to consider it, then nodded. “Well, I have no plans for that weekend, so if you don’t mind, Martin, I’ll come with you myself.”
Tim burst into laughter. Sasha’s jaw dropped open. Martin prayed for the earth to swallow him and release him from his torment.
Sasha was the first of them to regain her composure. “No offence, Jon,” she said, a grin spreading over her face, “but you’re the worst liar I know. You’re not going to fool anyone.”
“Oh, come on, Sasha!” Tim protested, still half-laughing. “Have some faith. Our Jonathan rides to Martin’s rescue like a knight in shining sweater vests, and you dare to mock his heroic endeavour? Shame on you.”
Jon ran a hand through his hair, releasing a few wayward strands from his neat side part. He looked about as uncomfortable as Martin felt. “You know, o-on second thoughts, this… might have been a bad idea. Why don’t we forget all about it and get back to work? We’ve wasted enough time already.”
Martin’s shoulders slumped in a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. On the one hand, this did nothing to solve his problem, sending him back to square one (or rather, square David). On the other hand, it meant he wouldn’t have to confront the mortifying possibility of fake dating his boss. Who hated him. Whom he still kind of fancied, despite the long list of reasons why he absolutely shouldn’t.
But Tim wasn’t going to let either of them off the hook that easily, it seemed. “Hey, you don’t get to chicken out now! Come on, Jon, it’ll be good for you. Not only would you be doing Martin a huge favour–and we all know you owe him one–but you’d finally loosen up a little. Did you know there’s a world outside of this dusty basement? Mind-blowing, I know. When was the last time you had weekend plans that didn’t involve unpaid overtime? You need to get out more.”
Jon raised an eyebrow again, this time communicating an emotion somewhere between incredulity and mild disdain. “And you suggest I do that by attending my employee’s family reunion under false pretences?”
Tim winked at him. “You know, I always have more fun under false pretences.”
Jon muttered something about not exactly sharing Tim’s definition of fun, while Martin saw this as an opportune moment to throw Tim a pointed sideways glance and run his index finger along his own throat in an unmistakable cutthroat gesture. But Tim was either oblivious to Martin’s discomfort, or just didn’t care.
Fortunately, Sasha was more perceptive. “Wouldn’t it be kind of unprofessional, though?” she asked, twirling a strand of her long dark hair around her finger. “Maybe even unethical. Entering a romantic relationship with your employee can cause all sorts of issues, even if it’s just pretend.”
“Exactly!” Martin said. “What are we going to do if Elias finds out?”
Tim snorted. “Please. Elias spends most of his time too stoned to tell his own hands apart. He’s not going to find out. And even if he did, do you seriously think he’d care? We all know he doesn’t give a shit about what’s going on in his Institute, as long as pretending to run it earns him a hefty paycheck.”
“Still! He gets in weird moods sometimes. I don’t want to get fired, Tim.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “If anyone will get fired, it’ll be Jon. But if you think it’ll ease your mind, I’m sure Sasha can access Elias’s computer by completely legal means and plant a totally harmless virus that is guaranteed to keep him occupied for the weekend.”
“Hold on, I don’t actually condone the use of illegal me-” Jon interjected.
“Oh, you condoned it just fine when you needed those police records for the Lafayette case.”
“That’s really not the same thing…” Jon muttered, but Tim ignored him.
Sasha, meanwhile, put her hands on her hips and threw Tim a shrewd look. “What’s in it for me, Stoker?”
“The satisfaction of ruining Elias’s weekend,” Tim said cheerily. “Plus, drinks are on me, oh, let’s say the next three times we go to the pub after work. Do we have a deal?”
“Hmmm. We might. But only if I get a written statement, with your signature on it, confirming that the Star Wars prequels are inferior to the original trilogy.”
Tim grinned. “You drive a hard bargain, but I could be persuaded. If you ask nicely.”
“No one’s going to hack into anything, okay?” Martin was getting increasingly desperate. “Jesus! You’re like a pair of teenagers sometimes.”
Tim pouted at him. “Aw, you’re no fun. But anyway, I think all this petty debating about workplace ethics and legal quibbles has distracted us from the real issue. Which is…” He paused as if for dramatic effect. “Jon, do you take this man to be your unlawfully wedded fake boyfriend, until the end of the weekend do you part? No dithering, now. And no lame excuses.”
Once again, Martin found himself the unwilling subject of Jon’s single-minded focus, but this time his gaze was less probing and more… contemplative. Almost gentle. For some reason, that made Martin blush even harder.
“I think the choice should be Martin’s, don’t you?” Jon said finally, addressing all three of them even though his eyes were still fixed on Martin alone.
Martin gulped, his cheeks growing hotter still. He must bear an unflattering resemblance to a ripe tomato by now. He knew, of course, that it only made sense for him to have the final say, but still he couldn’t help wishing that someone else could make the decision for him. He wanted to face the consequences without having to blame himself for making the wrong choice. He wanted to be absolved of all responsibility.
But he couldn’t, and he wasn’t, so that left him no option but to speak. He licked his lips, cleared his throat, and listened to the words that seemed to leave his mouth all of their own volition: “Um, yeah, sure. If you’re okay with it–then I’m on board too.”
Jon nodded again, his expression inscrutable. “Fine. I’ll be in touch. But for now…” He made a vague sweeping gesture with the files clutched in his right hand. “I have a statement to record, so I’ll be in my office. Sasha, if I remember correctly, I asked you to get that book on early 20th century ghost sightings from the library. Tim, I believe your follow-up interview with Ms Hunter was scheduled to start fifteen minutes ago, so I suggest you don’t keep her waiting any longer. Martin, you can… you can make yourself useful.”
“Aye aye, captain!” Tim said, giving Jon a mock salute.
Sasha, who had already set off in the direction of the staircase, looked over her shoulder at Martin with barely disguised pity in her eyes. “Good luck,” she said. It sounded more like a warning.
Martin gave Jon a nervous smile, trying to acknowledge their strange new alliance in some way, but Jon seemed determined to ignore him. He tucked his mountain of case files under one arm and marched towards his office without a further word.
Martin waited until Jon’s office door had fallen shut behind him and he was safely out of sight and earshot, then wheeled around to face Tim, just about stifling the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him.
“What the hell was that all about?” he hissed.
“I don’t know what you mean.” With his guileless eyes and cherubic smile, Tim was the perfect picture of innocence.
But Martin wasn’t falling for it. “You know exactly what I mean!” God, how he wanted to wipe that smug grin off Tim’s face. “Why were you talking Jon into this… this bloody suicide mission?”
Tim, if anything, only dialled up the smugness a few notches. “I didn’t talk him into anything. He suggested it himself. And need I remind you that you agreed to it?”
“Not like I had much of a choice, did I? And still, you didn’t need to be quite so… enthusiastic about it.”
Tim sighed, running a hand through his artfully tousled hair. “Look, Martin, I don’t get what your problem is. The way I see it, I was doing you a favour.”
“A favour?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve been watching you pine after the boss man for, god, almost a year now-”
“Keep your voice down, will you?” Martin hissed, jerking his thumb in the general direction of Jon’s office. The walls were thin in this place, after all. “Besides, I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“Oh come on, Martin, don’t tell me you’ve never seen a single rom-com! Fake relationships always end in real romance. That’s, like, a fundamental law.”
Martin rolled his eyes. “Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but this is actually real life and not some stupid movie. For me, at least. Whatever you may think, there’s nothing funny about this, and definitely nothing romantic. There’s about a billion different things that could go horribly wrong, Tim! I’ll be lucky if I even still have a job by the end of it.”
“Who cares about jobs?” Tim scoffed. “I’m telling you, mate, you’re gonna have a boyfriend at the end of that weekend.”
Martin’s patience, in short supply to begin with, was wearing thin. He was starting to rue the day Tim had invited him to his flat after a long and gruelling day at work, and Martin, emboldened by alcohol and the unexpected thrill of a blossoming friendship, had told Tim all about his ill-advised crush. Tim, to his credit, had refrained from his usual teasing and just enveloped Martin in a tight embrace, promising him everything would be alright. Martin hadn’t believed him, of course, and still didn’t, but it was the sentiment that counted. In the months following Martin’s confession, Tim had kept the jokes to a minimum and never even alluded to the secret in front of the others, and Martin had begun to think that maybe, just maybe, opening up to someone else wasn’t so terrible after all.
But oh, he should have known. He should have never let his guard down.
“We’re not going to get together,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Wanna bet on it?”
“Tim!”
“What?” Tim waggled his eyebrows. “Fifty quid says you and Jonny Boy will have shacked up by the end of the weekend. Are you in?”
“I’m not going to ‘shack up’ with anyone. Least of all with Jon, and least of all at my bloody family reunion. So forget about your stupid bet, alright?”
“Come on, I’m making you an offer you can’t refuse! If you’re so sure that I’m barking up the wrong tree here, then why would you say no to an easy fifty pounds?”
This, Martin had to admit, was a fair point. On the one hand, not getting into a relationship with the most unattainable man he knew did seem like a guaranteed way to win a bet; on the other hand, he felt bad about taking advantage of Tim’s entirely misplaced faith in him.
He settled on a sort of compromise, in the end. “Okay, but ten quid and no more.”
“Thirty.”
“Twenty,” Martin said, not breaking eye contact, “and that’s my final offer.”
Tim flashed him another of his toothpaste commercial grins, the glint in his eyes so bright it was almost like a warning sign, and just for a second, Martin wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into.
“Done,” Tim said, and drew Martin into a one-armed hug, clapping him on the back. “And just so you know, I have every faith that those twenty quid will be mine. Anyway, gotta dash now, don’t want to keep the lovely Ms… Whatsherface waiting even longer. I’ll see you tomorrow!”
He raced off along the corridor before Martin could do more than feebly wave after him, before he could persuade him that this was a terrible idea and he should call it off immediately, before he could do anything that might save him from certain doom. He stole a glance towards Jon’s office, so fleeting it could be interpreted as accidental, overcome by the irrational fear that Jon could somehow see him through the sturdy wooden door.
Behind the impenetrable barrier of that door, Jon must be recording a statement, and for a moment, Martin longed to move closer to the door, perhaps even press his ear against it, just so he could hear Jon’s voice drifting through the wood, so he could immerse himself in its familiar cadence. Not raised in admonition, not sharp with anger or cold with indifference, but gentle and measured, almost like a melody. Martin could listen to his voice all day. Had spent an embarrassing amount of time imagining that beautiful voice whispering kind words to him, every clipped syllable softened with fondness.
But of course he couldn’t do that, couldn’t keep hovering around Jon’s office like some pathetic stalker, so he was left with no choice but to trudge back to his desk, sinking into his chair with a weary sigh. There was a half-full mug of tea left in a precarious position close to the edge of his desk. He took a sip only to find that it had cooled down completely and winced at the unpleasant taste. He could just go to the breakroom and make himself a fresh cuppa. He could barge into Jon’s office and tell him in no uncertain terms that he had changed his mind and would greatly prefer it if both of them could just forget the last hour had ever happened.
He could do something, anything, to make himself a little less miserable. But it all sounded like far too much work. A deep fatigue had settled over him, burrowing into the marrow of his bones and seeming to still the blood in his veins, making it impossible to move. All he was capable of was closing his eyes and letting his head fall onto the disordered pile of notes spread across his desk, hitting the paper with a dull thud.
Oh god. He was screwed.
Jon was screwed. He was completely, utterly, irreversibly screwed.
Once the front door had fallen shut behind him, he leaned back against it with his entire weight and let out a deep sigh that seemed to echo in the stillness of his empty flat. He had stayed at the Institute for as long as he could, distracting himself with the futile task of researching an obviously fake statement, but when the cleaners’ disapproving glances had gotten impossible to ignore, he was forced to admit defeat and go home.
Home, where he didn’t even have work to keep his mind occupied. Home, where he was left unsupervised with the thorny maze of his thoughts. With the inevitable consequences of his rash decision.
What the hell had persuaded him to agree to that hare-brained idea? Much worse than that, to suggest it himself? If he had to make a list of the pros and cons, the negative column would be a mile long: it was bound to end in intense humiliation for everyone involved, most of all Jon. It would force him to spend an entire weekend making small talk with strangers. It was utterly unprofessional. It was not required, nor even expected, of him to take any part in this.
The pros column, on the other hand, was much shorter. Basically nonexistent. The thing was… well, it was Martin. That fact alone should be enough to dissuade Jon from getting involved in this, but, if he was being honest with himself, it was also the exact reason why he had agreed to it in the first place. He certainly wouldn’t do the same for Tim, or Sasha, or any living person on the planet, with the exception of maybe Georgie. So why would he go along with it for the sake of an assistant he barely knew and wasn’t even sure he liked?
Jon was aware that he and Martin had gotten off on the wrong foot back when they were both new to the Archives, and he refused to shoulder all the blame for that himself–Martin had demonstrated both a startling lack of academic expertise and a frankly annoying amount of self-consciousness–but after almost an entire year spent working alongside him, he was forced to amend his judgement a little. Martin still lacked basic knowledge of such elementary matters as proper referencing, but he more than made up for his intellectual shortcomings by sheer determination alone, probably working harder than Jon’s other two assistants combined. And his awkward demeanour betrayed a genuine kindness that was beginning to shine through the more Jon got to know him, a kindness that remained astonishingly unflappable even in the face of Jon’s most acerbic remarks.
All in all, Jon found it harder and harder every day to keep up his admittedly rather petty grudge against someone who seemed like a good employee and overall decent human being, and he had even come to develop some kind of begrudging respect for the man, not that he would ever admit that out loud. After one too many kind gestures on Martin’s part and one too many disapproving glares on Jon’s part, he’d had to concede that he might have been… rather harsh to his assistant.
Or, to put it more bluntly, he had been a real arsehole.
He knew he owed Martin an apology, but how was he meant to go about it? The simplest option would be to just tell Martin that he was sorry, but that was out of the question. Mortifying beyond belief. The mere thought of it made him feel queasy. No, despite all appearances to the contrary, he was a man of actions rather than words, and he knew he would just put his foot in his mouth if he tried to verbalise his feelings.
Maybe that was it. Maybe offering to be Martin’s fake boyfriend was his backhanded, ham-fisted way of making amends. It wouldn’t be the stupidest thing he’d ever done, though it certainly ranked high on the list.
He peeled himself off the front door with another weary sigh, hanging his coat on the nearest hook and kicking his boots into the corner instead of putting them on the shoe rack where they belonged. The petulant grumble of his stomach alerted him to the fact that he hadn’t eaten since his rather meagre breakfast, and so he trudged over to the kitchen in search of something that might count as edible.
His fridge was empty save for a half-full carton of semi-skimmed milk and a shrivelled head of lettuce he should have really thrown out a week ago. After a little more digging, he managed to unearth a frozen shepherd’s pie from the depths of his freezer and put it in the microwave. As he watched the plastic dish make its revolutions, the bright red digits on the display counting down the seconds until his dismal dinner was ready, his thoughts returned again to the very topic he’d been trying to avoid, like vultures circling a piece of carrion. It wasn’t just that he was trying to make up for his past behaviour towards Martin. No, with a bit of thinking, he could have come up with a way of doing that that wouldn’t involve him potentially losing his job and definitely losing his dignity.
The truth of the matter, the crux of the issue, was that Martin was… an anomaly. The odd one out. A faulty cog in an otherwise flawless machine. At the beginning, it had been easy to chalk up any inconsistencies to Martin’s startling lack of competence and work ethics, but now he wasn’t so sure anymore. Despite the perplexing gaps in his knowledge, Martin could be (and usually was) a good employee. Over time, Jon had started to respect him, maybe even…
No, 'like' was too strong a word. He didn’t like Martin, he didn’t need to like Martin, they were just co-workers and Jon had never seen the point in trying to befriend your entire workplace. Martin was… alright, that was all. Perfectly adequate to be around.
If it wasn’t for the fact that there was something off about him. Something subtle and yet undeniable, something Jon couldn’t put his finger on, but that irritated him like a grain of sand in his eye. Martin was a puzzle with more than a few pieces missing, making it impossible to see the whole picture.
Whatever it was, whatever secret he was harbouring, Jon intended to find out. He had always hated being left in the dark. And he couldn’t deny that spending a whole weekend in close quarters with Martin–learning more about his life, meeting his family, pretending to be his boyfriend, for Christ's sake–might very well bring him closer to that goal.
So there he had it. After racking his brain about it for close to ten minutes now, he could only come up with two even remotely plausible reasons for going through with this whole rigmarole: a misguided desire to make amends and an even more misguided urge to play private investigator.
Christ. Maybe his grandmother had had a point when she’d told him his poor judgement would be the death of him one day. He pressed his fingertips against his temples to ward off his encroaching headache, though he knew it was doomed to be a fruitless effort. Was it too late to back out now? To call the whole thing off, no doubt saving himself and Martin’s entire family a great deal of trouble and embarrassment?
The microwave pinged to inform him his shepherd’s pie was ready. He ate it straight out of the tray, leaning against the kitchen counter and mechanically shovelling forkfuls into his mouth while inwardly bemoaning the lack of seasoning. While he ate, he mulled over his options.
Sasha hadn’t been wrong when she’d said that embarking on a romantic relationship, real or not, with your subordinate was highly inappropriate. (Though she had certainly been wrong about his alleged lack of acting skills. He had taken several AmDram classes back in uni, thank you very much.) The Magnus Institute didn’t have an HR department, and its code of conduct was vague at best and outright contradictory at worst. Granted, Jon had only skimmed through the section on workplace relationships, not deeming it in any way relevant to his personal life, but he doubted it contained guidance on… this particular situation.
Still, he couldn’t be entirely sure that this ridiculous scheme wouldn’t result in his immediate termination without a reference, and if their conversation this afternoon was any indication, Martin was definitely worried about that possibility. It would be the perfect excuse for getting out of this. He could just do it, could just walk up to Martin first thing the next morning and politely inform him that professional concerns prevented him from participating in this subterfuge. Tim would be insufferable about it, of course, but even he would let it go eventually.
Yes, he could do that. He should do that.
But he wasn’t going to.
For reasons that were still a complete mystery to Jon, this was a matter of grave importance for Martin. He wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of asking his co-workers for help, much less actually accepting Jon’s spur-of-the-moment offer, if it had just been for some silly prank. Jon knew him that well by now, at least. And the thought of having to face Martin and tell him he couldn’t go through with it after all, of watching those big brown eyes fill with disappointment, was enough to make his stomach turn.
Dash it all, maybe he was getting sentimental in his old age (his late twenties, that was to say). Maybe he just didn’t want to give Martin yet another reason to hate him. Or maybe Martin possessed some sinister powers of emotional manipulation and Jon needed to put an end to his evil machinations. Well, that last part was nonsense, of course. Probably. Couldn’t hurt to be vigilant, though.
All too soon, his meal was gone and he had no distractions left, nothing to keep his ever-growing anxiety at bay. He rinsed out the container until it was sparkling clean, in far too good condition for the recycling bin it was destined to end up in, and even wiped down the already spotless counter.
But it was useless. He knew those activities were just distractions to keep him from the conversation he needed to have, not just with himself (he only trusted that treacherous bastard as far as he could throw him), but with someone else. Someone who could offer him a much needed outside perspective. Someone who, unlike him, possessed at least a modicum of social skills. Someone he could trust, above all.
He sighed, weighing his phone in his hands. He had lost touch with most of the people he had known in university, and since graduating, making new friends hadn’t exactly been his top priority. He had been swamped with work for most of the last eight years, after all, which didn’t leave him much time to socialise. At work, he preferred to keep a professional distance, and outside of work, he had… not much going on, truth be told.
All this to say: he could think of only one person he could contact about this. He hadn’t spoken to her in a while, granted, but perhaps it was time to reconnect. And his predicament, as odd and frustrating as it might be, would at least make for a good conversation starter.
A glance at his wristwatch told him it was close to eleven already, probably not the most appropriate time for an unexpected phone call. But he could at least drop her a text and ask if she was up for a chat at some point. He should, because he knew he would just talk himself out of it if he left it until the next morning.
His hands clammy with nervous sweat and his mouth dry as dust, he scrolled through his short contact list until he found Georgie Barker.