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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?"
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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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.
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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?"
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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."
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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?"