Chapter Text
Jon knew something was wrong as soon as he entered the Archives. Martin was already there. That wasn’t odd - he lived there now, and most days he was up and about by the time Jon arrived, even if he wasn’t always fully awake (or fully dressed). What was odd was the fact that he was already working, tapping away at his computer with a stubborn little frown on his face.
“Morning,” Jon said. Martin looked up, and the frown eased a bit but didn’t fully vanish. The tightness that remained at the corners of his mouth bothered Jon more than it should.
“Morning,” Martin repeated. Jon set a brown takeout bag at the corner of Martin’s desk, and Martin’s frown retreated further as he reached in and grabbed the breakfast sandwich within it. Jon took a seat opposite him at Tim’s desk and pulled out his own food. At first, Jon’s strategy had been to leave Martin’s breakfast on his desk before retreating to his office to eat in private, but lately they’d gotten into the habit of having breakfast together. For Martin’s sake, of course. Moving into the Archives must have wreaked havoc on Martin’s social life, and though Jon couldn’t imagine he was very good company, Martin seemed to enjoy their meals together. (And if Jon enjoyed them, too, well, he would never admit it.)
“Are you alright?”
“What?” Martin blinked at him as though just now fully registering his presence. “Yeah, I’m fine; why wouldn’t I be?”
“Um…” Jon wondered where to start.
“Right, yeah, stupid question.” Martin laughed. Jon wasn’t particularly good at reading people, but even he could tell it sounded forced. “I’m fine, really.”
“Alright…” Jon said, and in the past, he would have left it there. (Well, in the past, he probably wouldn’t have asked how Martin was feeling in the first place. But if he had, he would have left it there.) But Jon was trying to be a better boss. His failures as a manager had cost Martin dearly, and he wanted to be better. He just wasn’t entirely sure how. He settled for saying, “If there’s anything you want to talk about, anything at all…”
“Actually, I-” Martin started, then stopped himself. He hesitated, his face turning such a deep shade of pink that Jon grew concerned about his circulation, before finishing, “I-I’ll keep that in mind.” He set down his sandwich and turned back to his computer, cheeks still pink. “W-well, I should get back to work.”
“Right.” Jon picked up his bagel and his coffee, and walked to his office, feeling vaguely like he’d missed something.
“Statement ends.”
Finishing a statement always felt like surfacing from the bottom of a pool, as Jon remembered how to breathe and became aware of all the sounds that had been going on around him, unnoticed, while he’d been lost in secondhand fear.
There was, it turned out, a small commotion coming from the other side of his door. His assistants were having an argument, by the sound of it. Jon didn’t usually like to get involved, but he was having trouble shaking off this most recent statement, and for once interpersonal drama sounded like a welcome change of pace.
When Jon stepped into the bullpen, Martin was pleading with Tim, an absolutely stricken look on his face, while Sasha was sat on his desk, patting his arm sympathetically.
“Please, Tim, I’m begging you!”
“Sorry, bud, you know I would,” Tim said contritely, “but Danny’s only going to be in town for a few days, and I only get to see him once, maybe twice a year. Plus,” he added, “I’ve seen enough movies to know that we will fall in love if I agree to do this, and I’m just not ready for that right now.”
“What’s going on?” Jon asked, and Martin startled, swinging his head around to face him.
“Oh. Hi, Jon.” He gave what looked like an attempt at a smile, but it was fraught through with such awkwardness that it was really more of a grimace. “It’s nothing, rea-”
“Martin wants me to be his fake boyfriend!” Tim interjected.
“O…kay,” was the only response Jon could give to that.
“I… may have told my mother I was bringing a boyfriend to my cousin’s wedding,” Martin admitted sheepishly.
“And you… don’t have a boyfriend.”
Martin dropped his head into his hands. “No,” he groaned. “It’s just, my invitation got lost when the whole worm thing happened,” Jon felt a twist of guilt at that, but if it showed, Martin didn’t notice, “So I asked my mum if she could RSVP for me, and she went through the whole thing, asked if I’d want fish or chicken, all that. And then she said that obviously I wouldn’t need a plus one, and well. The obviously really got to me. So, I. Lied. And now I have to find someone to go with me who won’t mind lying to my family or possibly getting eaten by worms.”
Sasha gave his arm another gentle pat. “I would volunteer, but I don’t think I’m really what you’re looking for.”
“I did say ‘boyfriend,’” Martin groaned. After a moment, he asked miserably, “Do you think I should look on Craigslist?”
Jon felt the words “Absolutely not!” slip out of his mouth without his input, but he was relieved to hear his two assistants voice their thoughts at the exact same time - Sasha with a blunt, “I wouldn’t,” and Tim with, “You would get so murdered!”
“Not everyone on Craigslist is a murderer, Tim,” Martin sighed, “I got my couch on Craigslist, and the people who gave it to me were lovely!”
“I hate to break it to you, Marto, but someone definitely got murdered on your couch.”
Martin rolled his eyes, and Jon said, “This is ridiculous.”
“Thank you, Jon-” Martin started, but Jon went on.
“Martin, I can be your fake boyfriend.”
Martin froze, his ‘thank you’ still on his lips. Then he stammered, “No! N-no, Jon, you don’t have to, really.”
“Well, if the alternative is trusting my assistant’s safety to a stranger on the internet,” Jon replied stiffly. “We’ve barely been getting by with three Archival Assistants; I’d hate to see how we’d manage with two.”
“Not everyone on Craigslist is a murderer!” Martin repeated, but Jon ignored him.
“You can send me the details later,” he said, walking back to his office, “In the meantime, I suggest you all get back to work.” With that, Jon shut the door.
The door to Jon’s office was not nearly as thick or as soundproof as the other three seemed to think. This was often a problem, as Jon could hear the distracting sounds of his assistants’ petty squabbles whenever he was trying to record notes on a statement.
What that meant now, though, was that he could hear Martin ask, “Did that just happen?” as soon as the door was shut. He could hear Tim say, “Yeah. Sorry, bud.” And he could hear the long, low, disconsolate groan that Martin gave in response. He could hear Sasha offer an unconvincing, “Maybe it won’t be that bad,” only to be cut off by, if Jon had to guess, a glare from Martin.
Jon stepped away from the door. He didn’t need to hear any more.
It shouldn’t have been surprising to learn that Martin hated him. He had been, he knew, a truly terrible boss - he’d treated Martin horribly, caused him to lose his home, nearly gotten him killed. Really, it had been ridiculous to ever think that Martin wouldn’t hate him.
Still, Jon had been trying, in his own way, to make it up to him. There wasn’t exactly a card at the drugstore that said, “I’m sorry I berated you for six months and caused you to nearly be eaten by a swarm of worms of potentially supernatural origin,” but he’d been trying. He brought Martin breakfast every morning, made sure the breakroom cabinets were stocked with his favorite blends of tea, and had tried to work some genuine praise into his feedback of Martin’s work. None of it was the direct apology that his conscience told him he really ought to give, but Martin had seemed to appreciate it. At the thought that he’d been misinterpreting all of Martin’s actions for the past few weeks, Jon felt something twist unpleasantly in his gut. Embarrassment, if he had to guess.
He wasn’t certain what motivated the decision he made next - whether it was guilt or spite or something else. He could, he knew, be quite petty when the situation called for it. Either way, he made up his mind then and there to prove Martin wrong. He was going to be the best fake boyfriend he could be.