loficharm | Nothing Ventured // for John

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Nothing Ventured // for John

A month to the day. It's a little horrifying to realize he and John have been here this long, have already made such strides toward getting settled, but Martin endeavors to set aside the daily swell of anxiety over it. There's a lot to do, and it's all to the end of sustaining them. It isn't settling if you look at it like that; it's survival.

Still, it helps to throw himself into it, so he arrives at The Archive early in the morning, as usual. They've spent the past week or so acquiring supplies and the place is finally starting to come together, though they're probably at least another week out from actually opening things up, and he intends to expedite that process as much as possible. He expects John will be along at some point, which is just as well. He's been perpetually cagey about how the quest for funding has gone, and although they seem to be doing all right, Martin thinks it's well past time they actually got into the particulars.

He's at the front desk setting up the secondhand computer they'd obtained - a ridiculous, boxy thing that nonetheless seems to suit the general 'vibe' they've accidentally cultivated - when the front door jingles and John steps in.

"Hullo," says Martin, barely looking up. "Wi-fi's finally working, though it's still a bit finicky. Oh, and I did make a follow-up with the electric company to go over the wiring. Hopefully they'll actually turn up this time. Apart from that I'd say we're well on our way." He straightens up, taking off his glasses to rub at his eyes a bit before looking at John.

"And you?" he says, making only the most cursory attempt at not sounding outright coy. "Any progress worth mentioning?"

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“I’ve, er... won the lottery,” John explains levelly, the truth spilling out of him with unnerving ease. He might say he feels unburdened, if not for the look on Martin’s face. “Twice. Well, technically three times, but I drafted an accomplice to make it less noticeable. She was quite keen, actually; I’m sure she won’t do any whistle-blowing.”

Edited 2019-09-03 18:42 (UTC)

"You w-" Martin is too breathless to properly interrupt, and he just keeps stammering haplessly as John's explanation gets rapidly worse. "Wait. Stop. John. You involved someone? In your crime?"

His voice really isn't coming back down from this one.

It's getting steadily harder to remain unflappable in the face of Martin's incredulous stammering, and the worst part is that John isn't quite sure if losing his own composure would result in flustered indignation or amusement. The former would be the better option, without question, but the latter is... more of a threat than John ever would have anticipated. Something about the nostalgic pleasure of seeing Martin like this and the entertaining pitches he's hitting.

Christ, John, get ahold of yourself.

"Victimless crime," he insists. "Someone had to win it, so it might as well have been me. And obviously I'm too conspicuous to just go about collecting multiple winning lotto tickets, so..." he shrugs.

"Christ." Martin pushes a hand up into his hair, then hastily grabs the envelope and shoves it under the counter. It's unlikely anyone walking by would have seen it or even cared to guess what it was, but that is resoundingly not the point.

"So let me get this straight," he says. "We agreed to divvy up the labor. I find a location, you secure funding. And your answer - the only answer that I'm yet aware of - is turning to fraud and-" he flaps his hand aggressively at the envelope on its shelf beneath the counter, "a bloody dead weight of a fortune in stolen drug money? Did you at least try anything else?"

Edited 2019-09-03 19:51 (UTC)

"What else was there to try?" John fires back. Flustered indignation, after all, thank Christ. "We're on rather a tight deadline, Martin, and it's not as if getting a job would have been of any use. And we're not as established as the Institute was -- hell, we're not established at all, which makes it a little difficult to secure private donors."

It's a sort of novelty to feel utterly unmoved by John's belatedly raised voice. Martin just pinches the bridge of his nose and says, "I know that, John. When I assumed you'd get creative I didn't think it would be this." He drops his hand, resting both of them on the counter, fixing John with the most aggrieved look he can manage. "At a push, this is an academic endeavor, and you're an academic. Did you even think about, I dunno - applying for a grant?"

Edited 2019-09-03 20:09 (UTC)

... Ah.

John rubs a hand over his face, his cheeks prickling. "I did not," he admits at length. Obviously. "I was more concerned with being... expedient." He also hadn't really considered his academic credentials being worth anything here, let alone their venture an academic one in the first place.

Martin folds his arms, marginally satisfied by the admission that no, John didn't consider it. He understands the desire for speed, though he's still struggling to wrap his head around how easily John slid into all this - but he thinks he's barked enough for now. Point made, now he just has a mess to deal with.

"Well," he sighs, "it might still be an avenue we can pursue. Assuming your extracurricular activity doesn't catch up to you. You're sure this... accomplice can be trusted? Who even is she?"

John makes a low, dismissive sound in the back of his throat. If the drug thing was going to catch up to him, he'd expect it to have happened by now. The city's legal departments might move at a slower pace, but he'd been careful to win modest enough amounts that some sort of metaphysical scam wouldn't be the first thing on anyone's mind. The largest prize is the one he split with Kat, and since she only won once, there's less cause to examine her too closely.

When Martin asks about her, John fixes him with a deadpan stare. "If you're that worried about my fraudulent chickens coming home to roost, wouldn't you rather have as much plausible deniability as possible?"

Martin stares at John, and considers just continuing to stare until John backs down from his rather petulant evasion. This more or less confirms this isn't someone Martin knows, which means John's met someone he apparently feels safer confiding in than he does with his purported 'business partner.' Spectacular.

"John," he prompts, pointed and stern.

The atypically stern look Martin's giving him, combined with the atypically stern tone, leaves him shoving his hands into his pockets to stop himself rubbing the prickling feeling from the back of his neck. "She's fine," he insists, still hesitant to actually give out any identifying information simply because he doesn't know that Kat would want him to. Nor does he really want to reach out to her and ask; he can't imagine she'd be impressed by 'hello, I'm in the process of caving to mild pressure and telling my business partner everything, do you mind if I give him your street address?' "Christ, it's not like I picked a local. She's like us."

"Well I should bloody hope it wasn't a local," says Martin, exasperation showing through the cracks in his disapproving veneer. "John, this person could get you into a lot of trouble if it suited her whims, so maybe instead of using all this energy protecting her I'm-sure-very-sensitive identity, perhaps you should focus on how I'm going to be the one handling this end of things, and I need to know what the hell it is I'm dealing with!"

He pulls back a bit, his frustration finally catching on self-consciousness. He can't remember ever snapping at John like this. He hunches his shoulders, subconsciously shrinking a bit, staring balefully at the ill-gotten envelope.

"Her whims?" John repeats with an incredulous undercurrent of laughter. "She's not a--a bloody sea witch. And if she does try to get me in trouble -- regarding money in my account that I've used -- then the less you know about it, the safer you'll be. You needn't 'deal with it' at all."

It's only after that little outburst that John realizes Martin's shrunk in on himself a little. Christ. Just like old times. John sighs quietly, then makes a loose gesture towards the envelope. "That is what needs dealing with," he says, at a much more reasonable volume.

"Safer," Martin repeats in a dubious mutter beneath John's continued carrying on. Christ, this is just a pared down version of John's usual thing, isn't it, 'protecting' everyone around him with the great power of ignorance. How wonderful to see nothing's changed.

But it's with a weary sigh and a nod that he has to acknowledge John has a point. Frustrating as the light fraud and this mystery accomplice is, John did lead with the more pressing issue.

Martin lifts the envelope from its haphazard hiding place and sets it gingerly back on the counter, taking care to place it so the computer will block it from the vantage of the front window. "You really have no plan about this, do you," he says dryly.

John hitches his shoulder in an awkward shrug. "I wasn't really thinking. Well, I was, I was--I was trying to think of ways to obtain funding in a hurry, and when I walked past the bin I just Knew something was there, so I..." he makes a halfhearted swiping gesture with one hand. "Didn't even know how much it was until later." He doesn't say 'otherwise I would have left it,' because he probably wouldn't have.

Martin pinches the bridge of his nose briefly. "Right." He sighs, letting his breath out slowly, and when he inhales again he feels only marginally more in control of the situation. He drops his hand and looks back at John. First things first. "Are you absolutely certain no one is going to come looking for this," he says, arching his eyebrow.

"It's been nearly two weeks," John replies, resisting the urge to shrug again, like a sullen teenager. "If anyone had actually seen me take it, I imagine they'd have made a move by now. And here I am, kneecaps intact and conspicuously not dissolved in a barrel of acid, so."

Granted, all of this falls much more under the general umbrella of 'conjecture' than 'certainty,' but that's all he can really offer. The larger threat might be that the money was intended as part of some sort of sting operation, and that they'll be caught by the police if they actually attempt to deposit it. But he's been holding onto the envelope for long enough that he thinks he would have picked up on something like that.

Martin knows John's being sarcastic, but he can't stop himself from staring in horrified disapproval at the idea. As if enough horrible things hadn't befallen him, does he really have to joke about this stuff?

"Barring that," he says stiffly, "well..." He eyes the envelope begrudgingly. "Well we obviously can't deposit it like that. Which means... Christ." He can't believe he's about to say this. He covers his face briefly, rubbing at his brow. "I suppose I could just... feed it into the till, so to speak? Add it to our earnings in pieces and deposit it bit by bit. Have to fudge the books a little, but... I think I can do that."

He can't believe this is where they're at, that he's talking about this seriously. He nudges the envelope open, glancing through the stack. Not a lot of small bills, of course. Which means the odd fifty will have to blend in.

They haven't made much headway on the subject of actually sustaining the Archive since the inception of the idea, both of them drunken fools in the Japanese restaurant. Seems like ages ago now, and there's been little time to discuss it since. They've really been going about this backwards: result first, plan later. It was sort of necessity, really, establishing the building - they knew they needed an Archive before the idea of what to do with it ever entered the picture. Easy to forget they can't just... do their usual work here.

"Well," he says, "with that in mind, we need to talk about practicals, if we're to have earnings through which to funnel all... that. I've had some thoughts." He hides the envelope beneath the counter again, this time in a drawer. It'll need a better spot later, but that's a later problem. "D'you want some tea? Got the electric kettle running, finally."

That's probably as sensible a solution as can be reached. John supposes they might also just skim the occasional fifty off the pile for personal expenses, too. Which feels a little like a misallocation of funds, since their own wages ought to be wholly above board, but since these particular funds aren't on the books to begin with... well. If they each walked out of here with a cash bonus every couple of weeks, who would be the wiser?

He doesn't outright suggest it, though; he has a feeling Martin might just have another blood pressure spike if he suggested any of these ill-gotten goods be applied directly to their own grocery budgets or what have you. He'd much rather just change the subject, which Martin fortuitously does.

He almost asks, 'with spreadsheets?' but he can't quite bring himself to reference what had been a much less tense interaction than this one. Doesn't feel as if he's earned it. He sticks with a more blandly polite, "Oh, good," and then a cautious, "Please," more interested in fostering a tenuous peace than an actual cuppa.

Martin fixes them each some tea, a process which has always helped him feel a bit more in control of a situation, largely - he knows - by placebo effect. But the situation here is considerably less 'John is quietly going insane with paranoia' or 'John is missing, again,' or 'John has eight new scars and won't say what any of them are' or... well, point made. A bit of extra money, ill-gotten and unwieldy or not, is a problem much more worth having, and the quiet comfort a nice cuppa is a little more appropriate when all he really needs to do is calm down.

He hands John his cup and leans back on the edge of the desk he's temporarily using as a tea station, letting his cool a bit before he takes a sip.

"Well," he says, feeling much better, "an Archive doesn't exactly run on its own terms, does it? I mean, anything we try to sell would make it more of a... a shop of some kind. And I don't know about you, but I'd really rather not muck around with something like that. I figure we should try to stick to what we've always done, y'know... just keeping records. And I got to thinking, well, who's likely to have records, maybe in desperate need of organization?"

He sips his tea for... dramatic effect, perhaps? "This city has a constantly shifting population. And I don't know if you've tried to talk to any of them about it, but the only impression I can reliably get is that they hate it. If we can make a good pitch for it, I just thought... they might be grateful if someone took it off their hands."

Normally he thinks he'd feel a bit self-conscious, saying so much at once, spelling out a... well, a scheme, perhaps. But he actually feels very certain about this. It's a good idea, and it's his, and he thinks it'll work. So he just smiles.

Edited 2019-09-15 18:16 (UTC)

The tea, to John's surprise, actually does seem to help. Not him so much as Martin, who seems to find the whole process of fixing them each a cup either diverting or soothing enough to prompt a noticeable uptick in his overall mood. It's enough to engender a little cautious optimism in John, though he's still wary of spoiling things and remains politely subdued as he accepts his cup.

And then Martin launches into his pitch. It has the air of something he's put a good deal of thought into, and possibly even rehearsed (as evidenced by the dramatic pause he casually executes). But more to the point, it's... not a bad idea. Actually, it's a shockingly good one, provided the city lets them get away with it. The impression he's gotten from any relevant or adjacent authorities is that the city's feelings about the immigrant population are more apathetic than antagonistic, which makes it hard to judge whether their... unhelpful tendencies stem from laziness or a more deliberate intention to stonewall. If it's the latter, then giving two new arrivals access to all of their immigration records might be the last thing they'd want. But if Martin's right, and they would be willing, if not eager, to offload it onto some willing adjuncts...

John hums pensively, mulling it over. "And I imagine the city's immigrant population might prefer to have their records in the care of a few of their fellows as opposed to gathering dust in some mysterious sub-level of City Hall," he muses. "We could charge a small access fee, offer copies, that sort of thing." They probably wouldn't bring in that much, but it might be enough in the way of on-site earnings to accommodate their more ill-gotten gains.

Martin nods eagerly, any lingering irritation almost completely forgotten. He's far too busy feeling delighted that John's on the same page with him. It's entirely novel, first of all - no one, not even Peter, ever took the slightest interest in his work before - but it's far more special now because... well, it's John. John, who used to openly discuss his incompetence, now listening to him with open consideration.

"Exactly," he says. "We'd be working for the city primarily, and then get a bit of extra from anyone who wants access to their files. Simple." He takes another sip of tea and shrugs. "Well, not simple at all, probably, but... feasible. Enough to let us keep on with our own work."

He nods toward the computer up front. "I've been looking into how we might apply for something like this. It's all very labyrinthine, of bloody course, but I think I can figure it out. They either aren't interested in keeping us completely out, or they're very incompetent. Possibly a bit of both."

With a glance back at John, he smiles, just shy of a smirk. "Told you I'd sort it."

Simple is far too optimistic a term, and John quirks his eyebrows in agreement when Martin acknowledges that it actually won't be. Christ knows how the city is currently organizing it all, with the actual numbers and locations being in a more or less constant state of flux. He might be inclined to preemptively call it a nightmare, but then again... he certainly has experience trying to bring order to chaos, and that's assuming the city's existing records are a shambles, which they might not be. It would be a significant undertaking, but it would be doable.

And it would put a lot of information at their fingertips. Depending on how detailed the records are, they might discover any number of leads on the Statement front.

He looks down at Martin, who's all but radiating self-satisfaction in way John doesn't think he's ever seen before. This is hardly the first time they've plotted together, or the first time they've come up with a workable scheme, but it might be the first time the overall situation wasn't so fraught that being pleased about it all was an option.

It's a little contagious, and a smile sneaks into the corners of John's eyes even as he feigns a stern approach. "I believe I was promised a spreadsheet."

Relaxing into a more thoughtful and more overtly hopeful expression, he continues, "Christ, that'd be a lot of information to have at our disposal. If the city allows it." He belatedly follows Martin's gaze to the computer, then asks, "How onerous do you think it'll be? Tossing our proverbial hat into the ring, I mean."

For just a moment, Martin is so startled by the joke - the inside joke, to be specific - that he doesn't know what to do; then a laugh bursts out of him, a little bit awkward, like he'd forgotten how, but no less genuine.

"I'm pretty sure I'll be making a lot of them if this works out," he says, grinning a bit ridiculously. "If that helps."

There's part of him that wants to reject feeling this good - too much too fast, all that. He's been getting by on little bits and pieces of contentment or actual pleasure, few and far between, for so long it's a bit of a shock to find himself in a perfectly good mood, laughing at John's reference like they're just... friends and this is all normal. Part of him wants to feel guilty for it; surely he doesn't deserve it.

But it's easier to push that back down than it was before, getting easier still, bit by bit. He chuckles once more and says, "Well... I don't imagine it'll be fun? But in a boring dealing-with-bureaucracy kind of way, which... I think I'd prefer, honestly, to how things have been. But I should be able to handle it. If they ask to speak to the manager or something..." He shrugs. He's sure John would prefer not to talk directly to anyone for this. "Well, they'll just have to be all right going through his assistant."

Making Martin laugh while sober is even better than doing so while drunk, and John secrets his pleased little smile away into his cup under the guise of taking another sip. It's still more than a bit foreign, achieving something like a--a friendly rapport with anyone, let alone Martin. He doesn't think he's been this comfortable with someone since Georgie, discounting the quieter understanding he and Daisy had shared.

Well. 'Comfortable' might be a bit of a stretch. Part of him is still on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, like this can't possibly be allowed to continue unabated. Georgie had stopped speaking to him, after all -- written him off as a lost cause, as far as he can gather -- and he was never Daisy's first choice for company. He can't help the quiet conviction that sooner or later, this glimmer of light will be snuffed out, too.

But for now, it's... it's nice. And as he considers Martin from over the rim of his cup, taking in how happy and relaxed he looks, he can't help but want to foster it however he can.

And it doesn't take long for an option to occur to him. John had initially taken it for granted that he'd be the one in charge, to whatever extent that applied. He has more managerial experience, and it feels closer to the natural order of things, for them. And he's not a bad manager. An unkind one, certainly, and while he likes to think he could do better on that front, that isn't saying much. The bar was in a bloody ditch, last he checked. Still, he could do it, and do it well enough that no one would think better of it.

But it doesn't delight him. It wouldn't bring him the sort of satisfaction that has Martin all but aglow as he casually assumes the responsibility of wrangling city officials on John's behalf. And Martin's hardly short on experience, these days; he'd been assisting Peter Lukas for months, and doubtless shouldering all the work that couldn't be done via memo. He could probably run The Archive in his sleep.

Not that John intends to foist anything on him; that wouldn't be fair. But he does hum pensively through another sip of tea, figuring there's no harm in putting the idea out there, if Martin wants it. "Well. There's no reason they couldn't just... speak to the manager directly," John says slowly, looking at Martin with a pointed, inquiring lift of his eyebrows to indicate that he is decidedly not referring to himself.

Martin stills, the tea not quite making it to his lips as he pieces together what John is implying. The look he's giving makes it fairly clear, but Martin is so certain he must be misunderstanding, surely not, and he doesn't want to assume anything lest he look... overeager, or even downright pathetic. Maybe it's a joke. It doesn't seem like a joke, or like something John would joke about, but...

But John doesn't clarify, and after a moment he sets his cup back down on the desk.

"S-sorry," he says, his smile small and nervous, "are you... promoting me?"

'Promoting' seems like an unnecessarily official term for it, given that they never solidified anything in the first place, but he supposes it's not inaccurate. "You're perfectly capable," he reasons with a calm wave of his own cup. "You were functionally managing the Institute, and this operation is on a much smaller scale. More to the point, you've taken to it with evident enthusiasm."

The implicit point, of course, is that it would make Martin happy. Or he thinks it would. Which is a dubious (if oddly compelling) goal upon which to make business decisions, but he wouldn’t really consider it if he didn’t think it would work.

He takes a steady sip of his tea, giving that a moment to sink in. "I don't intend to foist more work upon you, but if you want the position, I don't see why you shouldn't have it.” ‘Archivist’ is all the title he needs, personally.

"I..." Martin's glad he set his tea down, because he might have dropped it at the words perfectly capable. The rest of what John is saying is - it's nice, it's better than nice, it's kind and he actually means it, and it makes Martin stammer and his hands twitch and fidget, but he's still not over that first statement, pronounced so simply and with such finality. Like it's to be taken as rote.

He can't quite keep his smile schooled to something smaller and more professional, but he does try. "Y-you're sure?" he says. "I mean y... you really..." He shakes his head, a distracted effort to get a hold of himself. John has just said if he wants it, it's his. Not exactly managerial to be so openly flustered.

"Yes," he says, more firmly. "If you think it's best, then - I'd be more than happy to accept."

That has the advantage of sounding both professional and being entirely, precisely true.

John has more luck schooling his expression than Martin does, but his gaze still warms considerably as he watches Martin's reaction: the incredulous stammering, the fluttering of his hands, the smile that wavers on the verge of becoming a grin. The prospect of so much administrative tedium has no business inspiring this much pleasure, if you ask him.

But it's not really about that. He's not a complete idiot; he knows that compliments are rare things from him. Rarer still when they're on the subject of Martin's competence. Granted, he's made an effort to be kinder, better, since awakening in the hospital, but Martin hadn't really been there to witness it (which, given the abysmal success rate of his various attempts, might have been for the best). He wouldn't think to anticipate it. In some respects, that's a bit frustrating -- as if he's been unceremoniously dropped back at a starting line he thought he'd left well behind -- but the frustration can't really compete with the result: Martin so shocked by these little moments of decency or trust or humor that he can't even begin to mask how happy they make him.

Really, he has no business complaining that Martin's easy to please, now that pleasing him has, for whatever reason, become a more engaging prospect than it ever was before. And why shouldn't it be? They've both had a rough go of it, even before the universal displacement. They deserve better. Martin certainly does, at least.

"Excellent," John replies when Martin finally works his way around to accepting the offer, returning Martin's smile with a faint but satisfied one of his own. "That'll free me up to focus more on the Statement side of things. I can just... keep being the Archivist." His gaze slides off into the middle distance and his lips purse in consideration. "Or we could call me the proprietor, or something, if I need an impressive title. Not sure it's really necessary."

"'The Archivist' isn't impressive enough?" Martin's smile softens at John's easy slide back into considering small talk. Martin recovers his tea and turns away, moving back toward the front desk. "Anyway I think I'd prefer something that doesn't imply you have any roll in the financial elements."

Gentle ribbing aside, he's still beaming. It feels silly to be this delighted about acquiring responsibility over a haphazardly formed business that is still without a surefire means of sustainability, but, well, here he is. He looks over the paperwork he'd left out, and around at the Archive itself, still in some disarray.

"Well," he says, "as the manager, I think we'd best get to work on some of this." He half-expects to be told off for not taking this seriously enough, but nothing happens, no strike of lightning, nothing to stop him from enjoying himself. "And when we're through with that," he says, "I think we ought to go and have ourselves another drink."

He says it like he's feeling gregarious, like he just wants to celebrate their movement forward, not so much like he desperately wants to just call off work today and spend time with John and soak in this feeling that still seems desperately illicit, the strange joy of - god, of having company.

Maybe this time he won't even wake up feeling like he's done something horribly wrong.

He tips his head up at John, still smiling, a little more smug now. "I believe you'll be buying this time."

"That's... fair," John allows with a quiet huff of amusement, no longer able to keep from smiling outright. If Martin can joke about their ill-gotten gains, then they're probably out of the woods on that front. Hell, even if this is only a temporary respite, he'll take it.

As he watches Martin survey his little kingdom, warmth spreads through his chest that has little to do with the tea. So many of his attempts to do something like this, to actually brighten someone's day, have ended in miserable failures -- with Martin in particular. Now, such a rousing success leaves him at more of a loss than he could have anticipated. It doesn't feel like enough, somehow -- or maybe he just wants to do more, to keep the proverbial ball rolling, to make sure Martin stays this happy. Not just happy, but confident enough to blithely boss him around, and insist they go out later, and impishly remind him that he's buying. He's never seen him like this before, didn't know Martin could be like this, let alone over something he did. It's incredible. It's nice.

"Yes, sir," he finds himself replying with a playful lilt, hardly recognizing the sound of his own voice. He sets down his cup, then rolls up his sleeves as he looks out at the rather disordered state of the place. "Where should we start?"

Edited 2019-09-23 02:36 (UTC)

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Nothing Ventured // for John

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