Do Not Archive

[loficharm]

Martin has no idea how this happened.

Well, he does. He knows the technicalities, the moving parts: the comfortable affection of a lazy Sunday morning, the lighthearted chatter over breakfast, the playful turns that took them toward personal territory. Whatever specific conversational juncture prompted him to finally come clean, so to speak, about the open secret of his workplace fantasies, is long forgotten in the aftermath: John's quiet delight, a few teasing suggestions, and the familiar layer of dry incredulity that Martin could've ever wanted him when he'd been such a prick.

That must've been it, Martin reasons. Because he's incapable of not arguing against that. It had nothing to do with you being a prick, all indignant. And, not wanting to get lost in those particular weeds, the flustered shift to how John could be a bit meaner now, though, if the mood ever struck him. Under the right circumstances. With the right conditions.

He hadn't expected... would never have dared to expect anything. No matter how many times John surprises him, or how consistently and relentlessly he seems to be seeking new ways to turn Martin on. He can ever expect it, because to expect it is to admit to himself that he wants, and more complicated, that he deserves to have what he wants. He's no stranger by now to being forced to confront that; but never quite like this.

He hadn't expected the steady and decisive switch in John's demeanor or the issuing of an actual safeword — something they've never had occasion to use, primarily because they never really do scenes — or the suggestion that they ought to head out, then. The Archive is usually closed Sundays, now that it's just the two of them. And of course they certainly aren't going to open it.

He walks a little ahead of John, feeling the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up even in the warmth of summer. He had just sort of chosen to do this, to get a step ahead and stay there — not like he's leading, but rather more like he's being escorted. Even ostensibly out front, he is unquestionably being led.

His heart is racing and his mouth is dry, and it's all he can do to keep his composure while still out in public on this relatively short walk. He has no idea how this happened, but he is desperate to see where it leads.

Comments

[statement_ends]

If this truly was the disciplinary meeting they might have had all those years ago, this is the moment where John would probably have turned off the tape recorder and asked Martin if he was on drugs. He considers turning the recorder off regardless, just for the dramatic flair of it all, but he leaves it running. Aside from wanting an uninterrupted tape for his own reasons, he likes the implication that this, too, is on record — as if, CV errors aside, Martin might just as easily be angling for a dismissal due to workplace harassment. Going out with a bang, so to speak.

Not that John intends to clutch his pearls. But there's no reason to be eager, either — he's not playing a version of himself that conveniently trades in sexual favors. If Martin intends to sell him on this, he'll have to close the bloody deal, won't he?

John manages not to smirk, but one eyebrow does cock itself as he drawls, "Is this your idea of a proposition, Mister Blackwood?"

[loficharm]

So much for the knife's edge. John's question is more of a knife point, and it more or less tumbles Martin all the way off of that shaky metaphor and into the hardening reality that he is, in fact, going to have to make this a really bad, really obvious set-up. It was inevitable, and he can't even bloody complain. It's not the only thing that's hardening, again, already.

"Suppose it is," he says, his voice far too thready to really stick the landing of airiness he might have been going for. That isn't enough, anyway. He needs to get specific or they'll be dancing back and forth like this until he crumbles. He draws a short breath and barrels on: "It's just, you work so hard. And I've not been the best help." He lowers his head slightly to show some mildly theatrical contrition. "But I... well, I've been told," he swallows around thickening embarrassment and continues doggedly, "that I am exceedingly pleasant to touch."

It sounds so bloody stupid, just said out of the blue like that. He stares at John, flushing hotly as he keeps a desperate grip on his own composure. "And you could. If you think it would help. With the, erm." His mind struggles to keep up with the flimsy logic of his own ridiculous scene. He swallows again, his mouth terribly dry. "Stress."

[statement_ends]

John has to bite down hard on the inside of his own cheek. It's not just that the set-up is funny in its own right, it's that most of the rejoinders that he can imagine would be impossible to utter with a straight face, either. They either veer too close to what he can only assume are pornographic clichés, or they zag away from that and land, inevitably, in absurdist territory. He imagines saying something indignant about the presumption that he has any desire to paw at Martin like he's a human-shaped stress ball and very nearly loses his composure entirely.

Perhaps it wouldn't be the worst thing, if they both had a bit of a giggle before continuing onward. But that also feels like giving up, and a stubborn part of him will be damned if he's the one to break first.

Well. There's really only one path forward that doesn't come with an immediate risk of snickering: he needs to be meaner. And while he doesn't exactly relish it, he does welcome, with some private relief, the sense of composure that follows that conclusion. It wouldn't even be that hard, really. One could easily interpret the offer as more patronizing than adorable.

"So this is a favor to me," he says, distantly impressed by how cool his tone manages to sound. "I'm the one who's meant to want this, am I? It has nothing at all to do with how pathetically desperate you are to be touched?"

Christ, this might be a bit much. He watches Martin closely, as much to make sure he hasn't laid it on too thick as to make sure he's kept them both from cracking up.

[loficharm]

For just a moment, Martin could swear John's about to laugh, and if John starts laughing, he'll start laughing, and that'll be it for the whole bloody thing. Not the end of the world, probably, and he's sure they could salvage something nice out of it, but nice wasn't really what they were going for.

So it's a bit of a disproportionate relief when John doubles down on the nastiness instead, hitting Martin with a pointed question that would topple him in any other context. Instead, strange as it may seem, Martin feels calmer in the teeth of it, even as he feels his face heating, his heart pounding ever quicker. Even as he squirms in his seat.

After a moment's crackling silence, he tips his head down demurely. "It doesn't matter what I want," he says. "Does it?" He raises his chin enough to meet John's eyes, holding contact for only a flickering instant before he looks down again. "You can have whatever you like."