Chapter Text
The thing is, Jonathan Sims is someone you’d call the police on if you saw him hanging around a school, those frazzled clothes and bags under his eyes, the frantic muttering and thousand-year stare.
Yet there he sits, head teacher of The Magnus Institute for Gifted Young Minds.
The name’s a bit misleading, it is. They’re in a bad part of town. The parents are either terrible or absent, and the kids—
“They’re monsters,” his new and handsome coworker grins, when Martin’s signature on his contract is barely dry. “Absolute monsters. Get too close and you’ll lose some fingers. Or maybe your mind.”
“They’re babies,” is all Martin can feebly manage, in reply, and Tim’s eyes narrow at the fondness in his voice.
“You’ll learn.”
And it is a bit creepy, it is, watching Angie dangle ratty Barbies from a string to lure other kids into her amateur booby traps. Having to drag screaming kids from the sandbox because, he realizes when he watches Jon grimly fly out of the office with a leafblower, there’s a kid in the dirt grabbing at the others.
“So,” he admits to Sasha that Friday, when little Graham in a mask nearly shanks him in the leg with safety scissors, of all things, because he wasn’t done at the craft table yet. “They have some issues.”
“Just a few. And our funding isn’t… great.”
That’s an understatement. Martin had originally attributed the utter mess in the offices and filing cabinets to Jon, but after sticking his head in with tea a few times, it became evident that this was actually what they looked like after Jon had spent months organizing them.
“This is from Gertrude,” Jon sighs. “Lovely with children. Terrible with paperwork.”
So this is Martin’s life. He goes to work, takes care of the children, and he goes home, and takes care of his mother. You’d think it would be harder, taking care of the person who raised you. But when you have a kid bribing the others into giving him their baby teeth and you find his… treasure chest of a trash bag… hidden under a bush, it’s a close call.
But for every kid like that, there’s another like little Harriet, clinging to his pants leg because she’s afraid of being alone. Martin’s always been good with children (he didn’t lie on his resume about that). Despite his height, and the too-broad set of his shoulders, children are far from intimidated. He supposes this is the only thing that never changes, even when they become adults. As it is, he’s constantly being climbed on by at least three children at any given time.
“Martin!” Jon hollers from his office at least once daily for his first few weeks. “Martin!”
The first time he actually manages to exit his office instead of clearly becoming reabsorbed in his work, he watches Martin trying to extricate himself from four pairs of jam-covered hands for a solid twenty seconds.
Then, he sighs, and walks away.
I am a good teacher, Martin tells himself. Clearly, Jon’s not going to say it. Apparently, Jon has quite a lot to say about him—but only when Martin’s not involved in the conversation.
“Does he actually manage to cover his lesson plan, or do they do whatever they please?” He asks Tim, once, when Martin is about to enter the tiny staffroom and make his first cup of tea for the day.
“What do you think?” Tim asks, seeming genuinely curious.
Jon scoffs. “I hardly think he’s directing them around. He’s—he’s indulgent with them. I think it’d be best if you and Sasha follow-up on his work.”
Martin doesn’t get his cup of tea.
(He tries, he really does, not to bring Jon one later. But at 6pm, when Martin’s heading out, Jon’s still hunched over his ancient computer monitor, squinting, and… what else is Martin meant to do?)
The thing is: Jon’s not strictly mean. As a boss he’s hands-off until you ask him for help, and then he’s already got a solution ready. When Tim invites them out for happy hour, he always goes, and he volunteers to pay half the time, even though his salary is hardly better than theirs. When Martin needs to leave early because something happened with his mother, Jon never even asks for an explanation. Martin’s not sure he could give a tearless one, so he’s relieved by what he later attributes to a complete lack of interest in his personal life. And despite Jon’s appearance, and personality, and—well, nearly everything about him when he interacts with adults— the second he walks into a classroom, the kids light up. Jon’s always got some fantastical story. Jon’s always got some game from the room Tim’s very gravely dubbed “artifact storage,” because the toys there haven’t been replaced since the nineties, but he makes it fun.
All of this isn’t what got Martin. To be honest, Martin transferred from working as a helper at another daycare, and his crush on Jon precedes even his interview to work here. There’d been some holiday party or another, and Martin had been timidly socializing, but mostly just standing in a corner nervously drinking punch. On principle, Tim flirts with everyone the first time he talks to them, and they’d just been introduced. Obviously, Martin needed to find a way to exit the room.
Apparently, the side-room was dedicated to kids of coworkers, so they could attend. It was manned by a frazzled looking older man, and—well. Jon was sitting there, picture book in hand, with a small gathered crowd of enchanted little faces. A different voice for each character. There was something in him, when he read.
Under no circumstances would anyone describe Martin as intense. This is the only word Martin could think of, at the time, to describe Jon. Well, that and—handsome. Martin thinks he’s very handsome. His small, tightly held frame, hair swept back in a bun, cuffed shirt unbuttoned and rolled up to the elbows, with a green sweater pragmatically dragged over the entire ensemble. Dignified and yet not pretentious. Empathetic. When one of the kids toddles up to look at a picture more closely, Jon leans towards them.
What’s wrong with me? Is Martin’s first thought. His second is, not again. Martin’s lived a boring life with limited interactions, and he’s done this dance before. He fell for someone in his year in secondary school. The most that came out of it was a brilliant “thanks!” when Martin was brave enough to offer to carry something. Martin isn’t the kind who falls often, but apparently he is the kind who falls easily.
Martin walks back out and almost directly into Tim’s chest.
“Ey,” says Tim, smiling conspiratorially, even though they share no secrets. Martin understands why everyone likes Tim, he does.
“Oh, uhm,” says Martin. He’d been hoping Tim would have met someone else new by now and moved on to flirting with them. Don’t, something wise inside Martin begs, but he still says: “do you, erm, know who the person running the kids corner for this event is?”
Tim blinks. “Mr. Fogherty? About this tall? Surprisingly spry for his age?”
“No, I mean—the younger one. Really, he looks like he needs—a nap? He’s in there reading a storybook.”
“Oh,” says Tim, “you saw Jon. Is he really in there? God, he’s a workaholic. I’ve been trying to train him out of that. He’s supposed to be out here, enjoying the punch that Sasha and I worked hard to spike. Excuse me a moment.”
Tim nearly marches Jon back out a few moments later. Martin’s heart, which had only been introduced to Jon mere minutes ago, gives a few quick beats.
“It was fine,” Jon says, giving a gentle glare to Tim.
“Come on, enjoy yourself,” Tim encourages. “Have you met my friend? The marvelous Martin?”
“Hullo,” Martin peeps.
“Hello,” Jon says simply in return.
“Nice to meet you,” Tim prompts. Martin’s not sure which one of them it’s intended for. “Jonathan Sims. Martin Blackwood.”
Later, when Martin goes in for the interview, Tim has to introduce them again, because Jon’s forgotten altogether.
Martin hadn’t.
Martin hasn’t been scared of an elementary schooler since he himself was in elementary school, being bullied. And honestly, he’s not actually afraid of little Jane Prentiss. It’s just that—
“Jane!” He yelps, when he opens his desk drawer and finds: worms. So, so many earthworms. He’d known Jane was obsessed with bugs, and had spent many recesses wandering over to him with a beetle or worm or something cupped in her hands.
(“Is it a bug?” He’s taken to asking her, resignedly.
“No,” Jane says seriously as he comes close, and opens her hands, joyfully screeching, “it’s an insect—“
Martin is struggling.)
He should, maybe, not have told her that he was afraid of bugs. Martin just hadn’t thought he’d need to hide his weaknesses from a third grader. Martin’s already pulled his notepad out in staff meetings and screamed there, too, because Jane likes to slip wriggling surprises into his bookbag. Jon had scowled at the interruption, and snapped, “Martin! Can you pay attention in one—is that a ladybug?” It was twenty ladybugs, wrapped up in a paper towel. Martin still hasn’t figured out what kind of snake-charming routine Jane used to accomplish that. Even Sasha has come to him sympathetically, saying, “she was in my class before. I see not much has changed.” When Martin wanted to know how she handled it, she just laughs. “Oh, I had a little boy who dropped all of them in a terrarium. It was sweet.” So it’s terrifying, but ultimately harmless (and when Jane brings butterflies, it’s sweet).
Until Martin starts noticing the holes in his furniture. He’d attribute them to his mother, but she’d finally won their decade-long argument over going to a nursing home.
“Yeah,” the pest expert grunts, flipping the seat cushion back down. He’s already circled the outside of Martin’s flat three times. “You’ve got a pretty bad case of woodworm.”
“Which is…?”
“Type o’ beatle. Eat up your whole foundation, it will. The larvae look like--” and in an event Martin will never forget, he cracks open the arm of his wooden chair, “—that.”
Martin has vague flashbacks to watching three beatles scurry out of his bookbag and into the cracks on his wall. He stares at the wriggling mass and tries to push down tears.
“I can’t live here,” he says, trying very hard.
“Nah,” the pest expert says, completely unsympathetic. Martin barely makes enough money to live in what is now an actual deathtrap. He has no idea what he’s going to do. He has no good friends, no significant other or exes to run to. The thought of sleeping in a worm-infested bed is making his stomach turn.
He doesn’t know why he goes to school—surely, there’s more bugs awaiting him there—but at least there’s a couch in the staff lounge. If he pulls up his legs into his chest as far as they’ll go, he can just balance on the cushions. This will do for one night. He gets about fifteen minutes of uncomfortable, barely-sleep, before the lights flick on.
It’s a Saturday, at 10pm. There is no reason for Jon to be standing there, coffee mug in hand, staring at him.
“Martin,” he says, slowly. There’s no judgment in it, probably because his tone is completely made of surprise. It’s not a sound Martin is used to. They continue to stare at each other. “Did you,” he squints, “forget something…? Your keys or wallet?”
And of course. Of course he assumes that only Martin’s incompetence would land him here.
“I, erm.” Today has been terrible. He can feel his eyes growing hot, feels like there’s worms under his skin.
“Where is it,” Jon demands then. His voice is stern. Fed up. Martin wants to shrivel into nothing.
“I—what?”
“I told you that you can’t have dogs in here. This is a school! We can barely contain the children of this community, much less the actual—“
“I can’t go home,” Martin bursts, quietly.
Jon’s anger dissipates.
“There’s… no dog?”
“My house is infested with woodworm,” Martin whispers. “I guess with Jane Prentiss it’s, er, all fun and ladybugs until someone gets worms.”
Jon’s mouth is opening and closing. The story sounds ridiculous, but Martin’s fairly certain it’s true.
“That’s terrible,” Jon manages finally. “Are you, ah, going to go stay with family?” Martin must look so miserable at the question that Jon doesn’t even let him answer. “Or, I suppose, you could stay here.”
Martin looks down at the couch. It’s for the sake of his own back that he says, “I’m not sure that would, you know, work long-term.”
“Oh!” Jon says then. “Not—not here. I have a cot.”
Why, Martin generously does not ask, do you have a cot?
“Come along,” Jon says briskly, almost in his teacher-voice. Martin stands automatically, begins trudging after him. Before he even really registers it, Jon’s flicking on a light in a small backroom that Martin’s never seen, just off his office. “I hardly use it anyways. You know where the bathroom is, and the old shower off the staffroom. We have everything you need here. In the meantime, it’s probably best for us to warn the custodian in case there’s also a problem here. We’ll schedule a sit-down with Jane’s foster parents, of course…” He descends into a half-muttered silence. Numbly, Martin sits on the cot. It squeaks beneath his weight. Jon’s slept here. Absently, Jon pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll be back.”
Apparently Jon had blankets, somewhere, even if he doesn’t see fit to use them himself.
“Oh, uh, thank you,” Martin stutters, and Jon just tilts his head at him. Martin’s seen Jon care for children a thousand times; of course Jon is capable of caring for someone. He’d never expected it to be, well, directed at him.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Jon says disaffectedly, dropping the blankets into Martin’s lap. “I’ll be in my office. Goodnight, Martin.”
And Martin almost lets him go. But the feeling of worms all over has disappeared, and now it’s—questions, itching at him.
“I’m not going to,” Martin laughs awkwardly, “you realize I’m not going to, ah, sue the school or anything? If you don’t help me out?”
Jon starts, like this thought hadn’t even occurred to him. He peers at Martin suspiciously for a moment, then relaxes. “Martin,” he says. “You got this problem because of your work with us. It’s only right that you use the resources at hand. Tomorrow, you can bring your personal effects here, assuming they’re not—infested. Stay as long as you need.”
Martin can’t say anything to that but a mumbled, “thank you.” Jon waits for him to lie back, pull the blanket over himself, before he nods firmly, flicks off the lights. His final words are:
“No dogs, Martin.”
Martin rolls over. “No promises,” he murmurs to himself. Between the blanket and the pillow, he’s slowly becoming aware of a strange scent, a smoky mix overlaid with the comforting scent of… books.
Jon, he thinks. His heart thumps. Jon is twenty feet away, just past a door. Jon invited him to stay. Jon gave him blankets.
In the silver-quick panic of the evening, Martin hadn’t even considered how it would feel to live in a place that is constantly inhabited by his one-sided crush.
Tim would be delighted to know that Martin rolls over. Hugs the blankets to himself. Whispers: “Fuck.”
“So you,” Sasha repeats dubiously, “live here now? Because of a few worms?”
Jon, who is drinking coffee like it is water and reading, states firmly, “they’re fumigating his flat. Jane Prentiss’ family is also having to get their flat fumigated.”
“Please tell me the little bug girl isn’t going to move in, too.”
Martin winces. “No, though I made her devote a recess to watching The Miraculous Ladybug.” They stare at him. “So she can, erm, direct her love of bugs to healthier outlets?”
“That’s smart,” Sasha says, nodding. Jon continues to drink his coffee. “So, it is true that Jon never sleeps?”
“I still haven’t seen him actually leave,” Martin confirms.
“Maybe if both of you did your jobs,” Jon says, then adds just for Martin, “competently, I’d have time to sleep.”
“Would you, though,” Sasha muses. They don’t have time to continue to fight, because Tim bursts through the door.
“Hi,” he says, “were any of you aware that the concrete steps leading to our boiler-room are getting used by the fifth graders to play a game that starts like hopscotch and probably ends with an ambulance?”
“Fifth graders,” Jon snarls, “why do the oldest always set a terrible example?” He storms out of the office, already shouting, “Albrecht!”
“How does he know who it is?” Martin questions.
“Eyes in the back of his head,” Sasha snorts. “Classic teacher skill.”
Martin’s spent a lot of time staring at the back of Jon’s head, so all he mumbles is, “Jon doesn’t notice everything.”
“Yeah,” Tim and Sasha both sigh, half-pitying and half-sympathetic, “we know.”
Because Martin can’t catch a break, it’s Butterfly Week at school.
“Can we tell Jane’s guardians the school is closed?” Martin desperately asks Jon the Friday before, who sighs. “Or that the school caught fire? Can I tell them she’s just, er, incredibly gifted and ready to advance to fourth grade on Monday?”
“Look, man,” Tim says. “We empathize, but there’s not much we can do. The kids are going to riot if we don’t watch the cocoons open up.”
“Riot,” Sasha emphasizes.
“Besides,” Tim says. “It’s not worms. It’s butterflies. Colorful, flower-loving, sweet little butterflies.”
“He’s even—even flirting with bugs now,” Martin whispers shakily to Sasha, because he is stressed. She gives him a shocked, if still delighted, look.
“You have hidden depths,” she tells him. “I love it.”
“What?” Jon and Tim both say, before they shake it off.
“Tim’s right,” Jon says. “All the same, I can be in your classroom with you, Martin. Just to ensure things go… smoothly.”
“Nothing’ll go wrong. Little butterflies,” Tim continues, soothingly. “Little—“
“MOTHS,” Martin screams on Wednesday, “MOTHS MOTHS MOTHS MOTHS MOTHS—“
“This one’s a wasp,” Jane pipes up happily from somewhere within the mass of screaming kids. At least one of Martin’s children is allergic. He is piling third graders onto his arms and legs to carry out like he is a lifeboat for a sinking ship.
“Raid insect spray’s in my top drawer,” he calls pleadingly to Jon.
“Why do you have—“ Jon begins.
“Why’dyou think?” Martin snaps, over the sound of little Jane’s cackling.
After all the children have been deposited safely into Tim’s room, which are enchanted with their adorable blue butterflies, he takes a deep breath and returns to his classroom. He finds Jon, Jane, and a wasp in a jar.
“Jane,” Jon says. “You scared some of us today. Do you understand why?”
Jane blinks her big blue eyes. “No,” she says. “I like moths. I like wasps.”
All Jane draws is bugs. All Jane reads about are bugs. All Jane talks about are…
“Jane,” Jon says gently. “I’m happy that you love bugs. I love that you have something you are so passionate about. But we need to consider other people, and we need to consider the bugs, too. Do you think the wasp likes it in here?”
Jane considers. “Wasps like meadows, and wood, and eating other bugs.”
“See?” Jon says, “most bugs aren’t meant to be inside, with people. We need to think about them, too. About not hurting bugs, or our human friends, who they could hurt.” And of course. Of course Jon knows what to say; how to empathize with someone so young, without making her sacrifice what she loves. Martin had tried for so long to believe she’d grow out of it, or that he could just give her enough love outside of bugs for her to stop. He should’ve adjusted. Accepted her as she was, ugly parts and all. Things don’t get better with you just offering—offering tea and biscuits and candy and hoping very hard.
Martin wants to be better.
“We,” Jon says, after the children have left for the day, “we need something stronger than tea.”
“Yes,” Tim agrees fervently. “No,” Tim groans, when ‘stronger than tea’ turns out to mean ‘coffee.’ “Is the stick up your ass just a tree? Is it growing bigger all the time?”
Jon rolls his eyes, scoffs, and blows on his black coffee.
“Congratulations,” he says, “on us surviving another day of elementary school. We’ll have a proper happy hour on Friday.”
“Cheers to that,” Sasha agrees.
“Also,” Jon says, “has anyone seen the state of our library recently?”
“What’s wrong with it?” Martin asks, curious, but Sasha interrupts with a,
“Shh, shh, that is a problem for another day. Can’t we celebrate just making it through today in one piece?”
“To not being killed by eight-year olds,” Tim toasts, and nothing truer has ever been said.
It is a Tuesday. Martin and Jon are taking tea in Jon’s office, with Jon focused intently on reading some child psychology book, when there’s a call.
“Hello,” says a voice that is pretending to be deep on the phone. “This is Miss Sasha.”
Jon and Martin blink at it. Jon has a look on his face that indicates he is about to begin a lecture, so Martin whips his index finger up in a shush and only knocks over one of Jon’s teaching awards.
“Is this Miss Sasha?” He says, smiling. “You sound a bit different than usual.”
There is a muffled “stupid!” and then: “I’m sick.”
Jon hmms. “Miss Sasha, Mr. Blackwood and I are very busy. How can we help you?”
“My classroom has run out of snacks,” says not-Sasha, very seriously. “Could someone come drop off a bag of candy?”
Jon mutes the phone. “Do they think we get funding for—for candy?”
“Elementary schoolers don’t really, erm, think about funding?” Martin leans over and pokes at the mute button. “Miss Sasha, that is terrible. But you know the rules. If your first graders don’t behave, there can be no candy. And I know I saw some of them running through the halls at quiet reading time.”
He looks up at Jon across the phone. He half-expects a sneer, a you’re ruining their young minds, Martin, but Jon is looking at him with a smile flickering at one corner of his mouth.
“But Mr. Martin!” Not-Sasha whines. Leaning forward, Jon gives a very put-upon sigh and continues speaking.
“I’m sorry, Miss Sasha. But you know the rules. We’ll come by later this afternoon and, well, if everyone is behaving, we may be able to help you out. Good day, Miss Sasha.”
There are a few beeps as Not-Sasha hits some buttons. “Did we hang up?” A muffled voice peeps.
“No,” Jon says, and if Martin didn’t know better, he’d say Jon is amused. “Put the phone back on the hook. Make sure it’s pressing the button underneath.” There is shuffling, and then finally, the call ends. “There you go,” Jon murmurs. His voice is deep, and gentle, and there’s not even children anymore. He’s just—so fond. Something warm unfurls in Martin’s chest.
Crushes are unbearable, Martin thinks distantly, watching Jon stand. Then, Jon starts putting on his coat, which is overly large.
“Where are you going?” Martin can’t help but ask.
“Hm? To the corner store, of course. If they behave and we don’t follow through, I have a feeling the real Miss Sasha will have a rebellion on her hands.”
Martin can’t help but agree. Except—
“You don’t, erm, already have candy?”
Jon blinks. “Oh, do—do you, Martin?”
Martin just nervously laughs, and walks him to his classroom. To what he can only define as a ‘stash.’
“Martin,” Jon says, with deep disapproval. “Firstly, you are going to give us an ant infestation.”
Martin now hates the word infestation. “No, I keep everything sealed, I—I promise—”
“Secondly,” Jon continues, “how much sugar are you giving your class.”
Martin has to answer. You don’t just—not answer Jon, when he gets like this.
“I only bring it out when they’re very, very good,” or moreso just when they’re not being very, very bad. “Or—if they’re, you know—crying? Everyone likes a treat, or a snack, as a comfort. Leanne goes to piano lessons after school on Wednesdays, and she’s always terrified, so I slip her a chocolate and a pat on the head and—and it cheers her right up. Or, see, Kathy is scared of the dark, so at naptime—“
Jon is rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand. Specifically looking away. His hair is practically greying before my eyes, Martin thinks.
“What am I going to do with you, Martin,” he murmurs, very quiet.
Whatever you want, Martin thinks, dimly. He doesn’t reply.
Finally, resigned, Jon asks: “do you have Smarties?”
“Yes!” Martin scrambles. “Yes, right— here!” He raises the bag with both hands. All he hears is a snick, when Martin accidentally pulls off the clip he’d used to close it. Then there are Smarties spilling onto Jon’s lap, the classroom floor, to every corner of the room. “Whoops?”
“Martin!”
…Martin fully expects to be kicked out of the institute almost every day. Instead, that evening, Jon briskly walks in and drops a bag of Jaffa cakes onto Martin’s cot. “I saw you had several of these. Black currant flavor is my—it’s the best one.”
“T-thanks, Jon.”
“Not a problem. Goodnight, Martin.”
Martin curls up on his little cot. Today he’d barely managed to stop one of his kids from eating a Smartie out of the cobwebs under his desk. Sasha had, when presented with a bag of candy in the afternoon, been predictably confused.
It was a good day.
Martin is making up a snack of peanut butter and apples, debating how best to make this seem casual, when Tim snags a slice and pops it into his mouth, then says:
“You don’t wanna do that right now.”
Tim never wants Martin to pine.
“Sorry that me making a snack is inconvenient for you,” Martin huffs.
“No, no,” Tim says, swallowing, “he’s just busy. Elias is here.”
Martin blinks. “Elias?”
“Yeah, he showed up half an hour ago. They’ve been locked up in Jon’s office ever since. I wouldn’t go over there, if I were you.”
Oh, no. Martin’s never seen the superintendent or a member of the school board or—or whatever Elias is. Not in the building, not like this. Maybe this is because one of the little girls gave herself a questionable haircut and started putting strands it in other kids’ milk bottles. Maybe this is because their field trip to the nursing home last week served less to introduce the kids to the elders of their community, and more to introduce a lot of gummy peanut butter to the nursing home’s walls. Maybe it’s—well. It could be almost anything that’s happened in the last month.
So Martin tries hard not to go to Jon’s office. As a distraction he drops by the lost and found and gathers up everything there to pass along the next day to little Andre, who he saw leaving school earlier with only one light-up sneaker, running through mud puddles. That child’s lost everything except his wiggly two front baby teeth. Normally Martin does this every Tuesday as a routine, but he’s early, so he only can gather up said sneaker, a shirt, and a coloring book. He’s admiring one of Andre’s coloring book pages, which has almost artistic spirals in big green crayon he’s used to color the grass, when someone smacks into him.
“Who the hell are you?”
Well, Martin certainly wouldn’t have said that. Andre’s light-up sneaker is flashing on the ground, right beside his shirt, where it’s fallen.
“Pardon me,” Martin says automatically, and then, also automatically: “language. We’re in an elementary school.”
“I don’t care whether these babies learn the word shit or not,” the gangly tween in front of him sneers. Martin really doesn’t want the superintendant exiting Jon’s office while they’re having this conversation. Also, this is a middle schooler. Middle schoolers are horrific. Martin still crosses the street when he sees a group of them; they have a tendency to figure out everything you’re sensitive about and just—use it.
“Young man,” he says, trying to be stern. Martin is not good at being stern. He knows this, but he always tries it anyway.
“Oooh, think you’re scary, do you? I’ve got news for you! Just because you’re some timid ass who hangs out with kids that listen to you all day doesn’t mean you get to tell me what to do. I’m—“
“Elias Bouchard,” Jon’s voice roars. “What are you saying to Mr. Blackwood?”
He grabs Elias by the shoulder, who is now staring at Martin with a petulant, fiercely devious look. “Is this Martin?” Elias asks shrewdly. “Your Martin?”
Don’t tell him, Martin thinks, nonsensically. He’s terrifying.
“This is Mr. Blackwood,” Jon says sternly. “You owe him an apology.”
“You’re not the superintendent,” Martin blurts. He is soundly ignored.
“It is Martin,” Elias says with glee, continuing to stare, like he can see right into Martin’s soul. Martin scoops up the rest of his things from the floor. “And he’s already dropping things everywhere.”
“You ran into me,” Martin points out. If only this would cover up his wince at the fact that Jon even complains to random teenagers about Martin. Elias waves this fact away with one swish of his hand.
“Whatever. I thought you’d be more interesting, but you’re not. Hey, do you have crisps or soda anywhere in this goddamn building?”
“Language,” Jon and Martin chorus together.
Elias scowls. “I’m going to get what I want or I’m going to make all of you regret it. You shitty godda—“
Jon takes his shoulders, steering him down the hall. “There’s a vending machine at the end of the hallway. I know you’ve seen it. Here’s a dollar. Can you at least get beef jerky or something with protein?”
“I’m getting Walkers crisps,” Elias threatens, and then he’s off. The only thing that remains is the chill in Martin’s spine. Jon sighs, then steps back through his office door. Without thinking, Martin follows, says:
“Well there’s a pleasant one.”
“Sorry,” Jon mutters, taking a deep breath. “I run a counseling program for troubled or at-risk youth, with a focus on the LGBT community. I’ve been working with him for a while, so he tends to drop by. Elias is…” He trails off. There are no words.
“Troubled?” Martin ventures.
“Very,” Jon confirms grimly, shutting his office door. “I have to apologize for his behavior.”
“What,” Martin says, lightly. “The boy he likes doesn’t like him back? Despite him being so sweet?”
Jon startles, then grimaces. “Among other things. He got a scholarship to a private, very affluent secondary school, so going there with his rough attitude and hand-me-downs is definitely not helping his self esteem. Also, he’s going through puberty and—you know what that’s like, it’s practically jumping into a new body. He feels so uncomfortable.” Oh, Martin remembers. Puberty was a lot of growth pains and embarrassing smells and a mess of hair. “He’s very manipulative so he can feel a sense of control, it’s quite—” he breaks off. “You don’t want to hear about this, I imagine.”
Martin blinks. “You think I don’t want to hear about your counseling work for at-risk youth? What, do you think I don’t have the time? You apparently have the time to do that and run the school. Why—why would I not?”
Jon tilts his head, says: “you’re very sensitive. Dark things and troubled kids don’t seem quite like your—forte.”
Martin swallows. He looks around the room, which is obviously empty, before he even realizes why he wants to confirm they’re alone. Don’t do it, his mind is screaming. Don’t, don’t, don’t. He already doesn’t like you.
“I dropped out of school,” he says. “When I was seventeen.”
Jon’s jaw hangs. “I’m sorry, you—you did what?”
This was a bad idea. Martin’s face turns hot. “I. I got my GED,” he fumbles, because maybe that’s what has Jon looking so shocked. “I.” He turns his chin up. “I got my bachelor’s online, Jon, okay? Not everyone goes to some fancy college, but it’s still a degree. And I didn’t want to drop out, not really, but I had—I had family things. My mum was one thing but—my dad wasn’t winning any awards.” Jon doesn’t say anything. “I really liked school,” Martin finishes quietly. “That’s why I came back.”
Jon still doesn’t say anything. Martin feels like he’s flayed himself open, raw. He could go for some biscuits and tea.
“Wait,” Jon is saying, as Martin steps back. “Wait, don’t go. I’m—I’m glad you told me. I had no idea. With all the self-effacing comments you’ve made about your education, to be honest, I was wondering why you always described yourself like some glorified babysitter rather than an educator.” He approaches, and before Martin can really register it, he’s got a hand set gently on Martin’s elbow. “I just want to say—“
A jarring smack sounds from the door, and they startle apart. Elias’ face is pressed up grossly against the the glass of the office window, his eye and the baby fat of his cheek jammed flat. It is very unattractive.
“I see you losers,” he says, then makes a grotesque kissy face, “oh Maaartin, oh Joooon—“
“Elias,” Jon snarls, whipping his hand off Martin’s elbow and stalking towards the door, furiously muttering to himself, “can I have one minute of peace without a child peeping in on my life? No, of course not.” Martin understands the feeling all too well. Jon wrenches the door open with a disapproving, “why are you like this?”
Martin skirts out, past where Jon’s got Elias by the collar, who is squirming and screeching, “you think you can understand me! You can’t! Why the fuck do you think I’ll give you all the answers, huh! What makes you think I’ll even know ‘em?”
Martin, despite his size, is used to being able to slip away, unnoticed. Being invisible is Martin’s curse and his superpower. Yet when he reaches the end of the hall, he hears a deep, breathless,
“Martin?”
It’s Jon, so he’s turning before he can register it.
“I’ll, er, see you tomorrow,” he calls sheepishly, with a wave. Jon looks like he has more to say, but Martin’s not sure he wants to hear it. “Good luck!”
With Elias, Jon’s going to need it.
Oliver Banks has been circling the classroom for the last hour, moving his favorite toy ship up and down. Oliver has some behavioral problems—which kid in this school doesn’t?—and gets overwhelmed by too much noise, so Martin generally lets him do whatever he needs. This, though.
“Please sit down, luv,” Martin says.
“Something’s wrong with Mr. Moocow,” Oliver replies absently. Martin stops writing on the board. Mr. Moocow is their class guinea pig.
“What’s wrong,” says Justin, instantly interested, somehow awake despite the fact that Martin knows he was sleeping through the lesson not two seconds ago.
“He’s not moving,” says Oliver, and Martin throws down his chalk.
“Hey!” He says brightly, “how about we leave Mr. Moocow alone for a minute and play a game—“
“He’s dead,” Mary screeches with glee, and that’s when Martin’s classroom goes to chaos.
There are five kids clinging at him, sobbing, others looking shocked at their desks, while the more morbid children have circled around Mr. Moocows’ habitat. Martin manages to drag the children with him over to his desk, where he calls Tim.
“Hello,” he says sheepishly. “Erm. I may have a problem?”
“Have you tried,” Tim huffs, and it’s hard to tell if the screaming Martin is hearing is coming from over the phone or from the corner of his own classroom. “Offering them candy?”
“This is a problem beyond candy,” Martin says, feeling very tired.
“Join the club,” Tim cheerfully snipes. “Eustace in my class has bitten not one, not two, but five children today. I think I need to get him tested for rabies—do you think?”
“I am not qualified for this,” Martin realizes, blankly.
“I’m not paid enough for this,” Tim says back. “Good luck to both of us, then!”
Well. Jon’s bound to see this anyway.
“Hello,” Martin says sheepishly again. “Can you come by? There’s—it’s a problem.”
Jon enters the classroom, and a hush falls. It’s not fair. The children (almost) always respect Jon, and he’s pretty sure there’s even a rumor flying around that Headteacher Sims knows everything you do, everything bad you’ve ever done. Any kid sent to his office starts confessing their secrets.
“Mary,” Jon says, very gently. “Can you give me Mr. Moocow, please?”
Mary scowls, vicious, but does as she’s asked. Mr. Moocow is indeed not moving. If he wasn’t surrounded by a tiny legion of children that look to him for guidance, Martin’d be bawling.
“He’s not sleeping,” Justin declares, which shuts down Martin’s only hope of salvaging this situation.
Jon moves through a parting sea of children, and gently places Mr. Moocow back in his habitat. After moving to the front of the classroom, he crouches and says,
“Everybody come sit on the story rug, all right?”
Every kid does, even the ones that were clinging to Martin. Jon, somehow, always knows how to make it right.
He tells a story. It’s not one Martin would’ve dared tell, but it’s about how they adopted Mr. Moocow, and how many children have loved him, and how much he’s done for the school. The children are whimpering, but—but it’s real. It’s something unavoidable.
“…I think all of you have learned about death already from your guardians. But it’s okay to feel sad about this, all right? I feel sad. Mr. Martin, do you feel sad?”
“Yes,” Martin says, quietly.
“See? It’s all right to say it. And we’ll be keeping Mr. Moocow in our thoughts. We’re going to do right by him, too. We’ll bury him, show him respect, and keep him in our hearts.”
Somberly—quietly, for the first time he’s seen— Martin’s classroom files out the door. Jon’s conjured a shoebox out of somewhere, and some flowers. They form a strange procession, going out the door to the little garden in the school’s courtyard. It’s a nice place, for a grave to visit. Jon says another few, gentle words, and then he is setting the shoebox down.
“I,” Oliver sniffs, “I want to see him one last time. To say goodbye.”
So Jon opens the box. Gravely, Jon opens the box, and—
Mr. Moocow jumps out, into the grass, and begins to make a break for the garden.
“ZOMBIE GUINEA PIG,” Mary screams, again with glee. Almost twenty small voices begin screaming right after her. Martin really needs to have a talk with her guardians about whatever media she’s consuming. He doesn’t like the way she wields her Courage the Cowardly dog themed silverware at lunchtime.
If Martin thought the chaos was bad before, it’s now a thousand times worse.
“He’s ALIVE,” Justin is cackling, “he’s alive! Death cannot have him!”
Several kids are crying again. Mr. Moocow is happily chewing on a flower stem.
Jon is standing, frozen, still staring at the open shoebox.
“This,” he says, sounding deeply shaken, “is unexpected.”
“Yeah, we’re—we’re going to need a lot of tea.”
It’s not like Martin can sit around drinking wine at school, but he gets some very strong grapejuice for himself that night. Jon’s clacking at his computer until around 9pm, and then there’s a gentle rap on the door to what is, now, Martin’s room.
Racing to open it, he doesn’t really know what to expect. But—but it’s Jon. Just Jon, blanket over his small shoulders.
“Hello,” he says, softly. Almost wary. “How’d it go at the vet?”
“Oh, erm, it’s fine,” Martin says, stepping aside and gesturing behind him. Mr. Moocow is currently enjoying Timothy hay from a towel that Martin’s laid on the cot. “Apparently we just have a very, uhhm, nefarious guinea pig. With plots to escape captivity.”
“A true escape artist,” Jon says. He points a stern finger at Mr. Moocow, who remains unimpressed. “I have my eye on you, little one.”
Something has to be said. He can’t have Jon just—just in the doorway, doing this. He’ll go mad. “I have to—just—thank you. Thank you, for today.”
Jon blinks. “Of course,” he says. “Thanks to you too.” There’s a long pause. Then: “Martin, may I ask you a question?”
I am in love with you, Martin answers automatically, in his head. Yes, I’ve tried to stop.
Out loud, he says, “of course, Jon.”
“Do you think I’m doing a good job,” Jon says, and this is not where Martin thought it was going at all, “in my role?”
Martin doesn’t know what to say. The main office is still a mess. The kids are underprivileged and misbehaved. Jon doesn’t sleep. They have the nearby doctor’s office on speed dial. They’re both laughably underpaid, and the children are learning out of textbooks that probably were printed in the 1800s.
But for all the flaws, Jon’s done nothing but make this place better. As wild as it is, it’s on the mend.
“Yes,” Martin says. Tim might accuse him of wearing rose-colored glasses, but it doesn’t matter. Martin loves Jon, but he recognizes that Jon has many, many flaws. This is not one of them. “Jon, what you’ve done here, it’s—“ he takes a breath, blushing. “It’s incredible.”
Visibly, Jon flusters. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, well, I—I didn’t know you thought that. That you thought so positively, of me.”
Martin lets that slide. If Jon’s still pretending like Martin’s crush isn’t visible from the moon, there’s not much he can do.
“Jon,” he says, “you’re great. Just, do you mind me asking—why are you worried about this?”
Jon grips the doorframe. “I think,” he says. “I think someone else is trying to become the headteacher. Make me look bad, in front of the school board.” He doesn’t look Martin in the eye as he says, “I thought, for a while, that it might be you.”
The warmth Martin felt, in his chest, practically goes up in smoke.
“And then,” he swallows, “you decided I wasn’t, erm, smart enough to stage a coup?”
Jon’s face snaps up. “What?”
“Because,” Martin grits his teeth. “Because you think I’m incompetent.”
“What—“ Jon’s eyes go wide. Then, sincerely: “Martin, no, I was highly suspicious of you.”
That shouldn’t be comforting. “Okay then.”
Rubbing his temples, leaning against the door, Jon mutters, “I can see why you’d think that. I’ve said—things to you. But I know now that you’re just—you’re too good. I can’t imagine you doing something like that for no reason. You’re not the type to make a power play unless you think there’s something morally wrong.”
Martin stares at him. “You, erm, you think I’d make a power play?”
Jon misunderstands almost instantly, defensive. “I just said—“
“No, no,” Martin interrupts quickly. “You think I could make a power play?”
Jon narrows his eyes. “Martin,” he says softly, “I think, if you were a bad person, you’d have the potential to be cunning. Admittedly, I didn’t see that for a long time, because… I assume because it took you a while to get settled into your new position at the school.”
More like it took Martin a while to stop stammering, or tripping, or in general being terribly flustered around Jon.
“I suppose,” Martin replies, weakly.
“Ahem. Anyway, you’re not a master manipulator,” Jon finishes, “you are a very considerate third-grade teacher. With a,” his facial expression looks like he is in the process of chopping off his own finger, “a heart of gold.”
Don’t hurt yourself, Martin thinks. Out loud, he dryly says, “well, thanks.”
They spend a few moments looking at each other. Martin puts his hands into his sweater pockets so it’s not obvious that they’re shaking.
Maybe, Martin thinks. Maybe he’s beginning to see me. What little there is to see.
Martin’s always optimistic. Overly so. But when you have almost nothing, outside a class full of demon third-graders who’ll as soon hug you as jam a spork in your arm, hope is a precious thing. It’s not wrong, to want good things for yourself and the people you love. It’s not absurd, to try to keep everyone and yourself happy.
Maybe, Martin thinks, which is why he’s very unprepared for what happens the next day.
Martin is making his fourth cup of tea for the day, staring dreamily out the window, when Sasha wanders in and asks Tim,
“Did Jon’s girlfriend show up yet?”
Martin drops his teabag on the floor with a wet smack.
“Oh dear,” Sasha says.
“No,” Tim says, and then, almost apologetic, “Martin—“
“Who’s his, erm, girlfriend?” Martin asks immediately. He is trying to be calm. This shouldn’t be a surprise—of course Jon would eventually find someone. But are they going to take care of him properly? Are they going to interrupt his late-night sessions with tea and gently encourage him not to skip dinner for the third day in a row? Oh, no, what if she’s here to bring him take-out dinner? Martin can’t compete. Well, he’s always known he can’t compete—
“Slow down there,” Tim says. “As far as I can tell, all they do is chat in Jon’s office. Her name’s Basira—she’s a police officer at the station down the road. Wonderful woman. If you tell her that her biceps look fetching in her uniform she will smile but also threaten to tase you.” Martin gives him a flat look. “Hey, I saw her in the hallway before I realized she and Jon were having whispered conversations.”
Martin’s stomach lurches. When he takes a sip of his tea, it’s been steeped too long, bitter.
“We understand you’re going to struggle with this,” Sasha adds gently. “But if it helps—she has a golden retriever named Daisy.”
Martin takes a deep, watery breath. “Does she, by chance, have a cute little working vest?”
“She’s a police dog. Of course she does.”
Martin begrudgingly takes off down the hall.
An indeed lovely woman with a navy hijab is exiting Jon’s office. On a leash is Martin’s new love in life, he swears to himself, now that Jon is apparently taken. She and Jon are still discussing something.
“I’ll take a look and see what I can find, and then—oh.” The expression on her face almost looks—caught. “Hello. Can I help you?”
Jon’s head sticks out of the office. “Oh, Martin. This is Basira. We’ve been discussing,” and Martin knows when Jon is lying, because Jon is an awful liar, “the possibility of her coming here with Daisy for a—a police education day.”
“Yeah, of course you have,” Martin sniffs. Basira stiffens, but her voice remains soothing, so calm. To distract himself, Martin squats down to grin at Daisy, who is unfortunately not wearing a cute police vest. Of course. Nothing can go right for Martin.
“She’s off duty,” Basira informs him dryly. “You can pet her.” Well, maybe something’s going right. He opens his arms and, after a suspicious sniff, Daisy crowds into them. “Well. When he’s done I’m heading out, Jon.”
They nod at each other. There’s nothing inherently romantic about it, or even anything that speaks of something beyond a sense of comraderie. Martin hates himself for hoping.
Daisy nuzzles his face. He coos at her. Above him, Jon sighs. Martin doesn’t understand how this could possibly be a Martin, pull it together moment. School ended an hour ago.
“Good luck with that,” Basira snorts, nonsensically. Once Martin’s gotten his fill of golden retriever love, and Basira and Jon have finished… longingly staring into each other’s eyes, Martin assumes, because they don’t really talk… she heads off down the hallway with a relaxed, “see you later. Nice to meet you, Martin.”
“So,” Martin says, trying not to be either passive-aggressive or aggressive, “apparently she’s come by a few times.”
Jon whips his head to stare up at him. “What? Who told you that?”
Startled at the fervor, Martin blinks. “What, are—are you two trying to set up some anti-drug campaign? The school district would, erm, support that. I won’t reveal your secrets to the kids.”
Jon relaxes marginally. “Oh, ah, yes. Of course, Martin. You found us out.” Martin knows, when he says this, that he has not ‘found Jon out.’ “Martin,” Jon says then, “how’s the flat, now that you’re back to living there?”
Lonely. “Worm-free,” Martin says with a nervous laugh. “I think it’s, you know, going to be safe this time.”
“That’s—great. I’m glad, Martin.”
I miss knowing you’re right there, Martin thinks. I worry about you, here. All alone.
But apparently, Jon’s not alone anymore.
“Well,” Jon says, “if you, ah, miss your cot.” He smiles, like this is some kind of joke. “You can come by.”
“Oh,” Martin says. “Oh, um. Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
They smile awkwardly at each other. Martin doesn’t know how else to smile.
“See you tomorrow,” Jon murmurs, and Martin stammers something back before he runs off.
He has no idea how to get through this.
They’re taking lunch in Jon’s office—moreso, Martin is harassing Jon into consuming anything at all, even if it’s just mystery meat from the school lunchroom—when Martin makes the terrible mistake of opening the blinds to try and get them some sun.
“Oh, recess,” he sighs. There’s no way Jon’s going to eat anything now. At least three misbehaving kids are visible from where they’re sitting. He’s pretty sure he can see Mikaele Salesa doing his best to deal Pokemon and Yugioh cards, along with a few Tamagotchi, out of his puffy coat. Jeff Amherst is scraped and bleeding in at least three places and, from the way he’s hanging upside down from the monkey bars by his knee and shooting with a Nerf gun, is ready to bleed in a few more. Martin clicks his tongue. They need to get that kid into club sports or something, work out all that restless energy.
“Annabelle is going to get me sued,” Jon says grimly, looking out the window to the playground.
“Her crocodile tears are terrifying,” Martin agrees. “Last week I watched her happily finish her ice cream and then get Ms. Sonya to give her, um, another child’s by working her way into full-blown sobs in under a minute.”
Jon shivers. “Children are evil.” Martin nods. Then, at the same time, they both say:
“I want three of them.”
Well. Martin didn’t need to have that piece of fuel to feed to the bonfire that is his crush on Jon. Self-destruct, he commands himself. The way Jon is smiling hesitantly at him isn’t helping.
“Is, uh,” his mouth says, without his permission, “is Basira on board with that?”
The furrow always present between Jon’s brows deepens. “What do you… Basira? I don’t think she’d arrest me for having three children. I know I’m not the most—I’m probably not anyone’s first choice for a parent, but I would try. I’m not the worst choice.”
Martin blushes, but it’s too late not to go on. He coughs. “No, you know, I just meant—I meant if you’d talked about kids with Basira. Your… kids. I guess you haven’t been dating for long.”
“My—“ Jon makes a choking sound. “Our—“ he breathes in. “No, no, erm, we’re not. We haven’t—I can see how you might be under that impression, it’s reasonable that you might assume—“
“You’re not?” Martin interrupts, simply.
“Basira is helping me with a project,” Jon says, which would be reasonable if not for the fact that Jon is an elementary school headteacher and any project he has shouldn’t be nefarious enough to involve the police.
“But—but not an anti-drug campaign,” Martin clarifies. Still staring out the window, shoulders tightening, Jon says,
“No. I’m going to hire security for our school.” He whirls, one finger out and pointing. “Do not tell anyone about this. I don’t want anyone implying that it is unsafe here before I can put together a proper statement.”
“So your relationship with Basira has never been,” Martin has to almost repeat it to himself. “it isn’t—romantic? So it’s just—“
“Marriage,” Jon snarls. A lump rises in Martin’s throat, the floor practically disappearing beneath him, and maybe he’d turn and run except—
Jon’s flinging the blinds out of the way, pressing himself up against the window. Out on the playground, a glut of children are following around a fiery-haired girl, decked out in a white dress, with a little flower crown. A nervous-looking little boy is fiddling with a Ring-pop about twenty feet away. Agnes and Jack, maybe? They’re in another class. Jude Perry looks like she’s about to start throwing rocks or launching fireworks.
“Oh hell no,” Jon says, “that is not appropriate,” and then he’s storming out his door with righteous concern. At a dead-sprint he manages to separate them right after Jack slips the ring pop on, when they’re going for the kiss. Martin can’t really hear much through the window, but Jack immediately bursts into tears as Jon hoists him up and away from his lady-love, and then the kids are shrieking, dispersing in giggling groups of twos and threes. Agnes, ever calm, plops down into the grass and begins braiding her own red hair into pleats. Love is hard.
“Sorry,” Jon pants, once he’s returned to his office, pushing his glasses up his nose. “What were we talking about?”
“Oh, nothing much,” Martin sighs. “Please eat the mystery meat sandwich, Jon.” Really, what is it? Turkey? Schwarma? The world may never know. Martin doesn’t enjoy thinking about meat.
“Yes, of course,” Jon says, but he’s already picking up his phone, probably to call someone’s parents. “We’ll talk again later?”
“Sure,” Martin says. Probably not romantically involved, Martin tells himself, warmly. Not like it matters. Even if he’s not dating Basira, Jon definitely isn’t dating him.
“Hi,” Sasha says breathlessly, sticking her head into his classroom. “Have you seen a skinny blonde kid around here? Ye tall? Super long and sparkly-painted fingernails? Michael?”
Martin looks up from where he is removing clumps of sand and toilet paper from one of his children’s hair. He’s not clear on the details of why this has happened—something about pretending to be a mummy? The rest of them are almost-quietly working on a homework assignment. One of them is doodling in a big black book—he’s going to have to check on that. It doesn’t look like multiplication tables.
“You can look among my kids, I suppose,” he welcomes. “Do you mean Michael C.? Could be on the roof again.” That would instantly mean Jon’s involvement.
“No, other Michael.” She wanders between the desks, scrutinizing. “He wouldn’t sleep at naptime and was keeping another girl up, so I sent him out to get a drink from the water fountain, and he never came back.”
“No, I haven’t seen or heard him, and I wouldn’t, what with all the noise the AC vents… are making… today.”
They both look up.
“No.” Sasha’s devastated.
“He’s skinny, erm, is he,” Martin says nervously. “Do’you want to call Jon, or should I?”
“Oh, definitely you,” Sasha mutters. “He is going to tear me a new one. I’m gonna get a million questions.”
“So would I,” Martin scoffs. “It’ll be, oh Martin, how could you possibly not screw the grates on properly in your free time? Oh clumsy Martin, why did you not predict—“
“Stop, he loves you in a way that is incredibly annoying,” Sasha sighs.
“Ouch,” his kid yelps, as Martin accidentally drags at a curl, blinking at Sasha with wide eyes.
“You call him. I’m gonna start screaming into the vents, I suppose. God, do you really think…”
From above, there is high-pitched, echoing laughter. It’s bouncing weirdly around inside the vents, but it is unmistakable.
“Bloody—“ Sasha says, and Martin clamps hands over his mummy child’s ears. The rest of them are hopefully not listening. He calls Jon.
Thirty minutes later, they drag a beaming, no-worse-for-wear blonde kid from the vents.
“Hi, Miss Sasha,” he says. “Headteacher Jon.”
“I hear you don’t like to settle at naptime,” Jon says.
“Sleeping is for the weak,” Michael says seriously, clearly quoting a show he doesn’t understand.
“How do you feel about Scooby Doo?”
“I like when they chase them around through all the doors,” Michael grins. There’s a collective sigh. Well, Jon’s office is now used for Scooby-Doo at naptime. It’s worth it.
“Martin figured it out,” Sasha says with a shrug.
“I thought so,” Jon says, nodding. Despite the fact that he’s spent twenty minutes trailing a cackling first-grader through the ventilation system, Martin smiles.
Basira actually visits fairly often. Now that Martin is in the know, so to speak, he often gets to sit on the headteacher’s office couch that’s intended for little troublemakers, cuddling with Daisy, while they chat smoothly in the background. Naturally, he is also drinking tea.
“You are a ferocious police dog,” he tells her, ruffling her ears and kissing the soft golden top of her head. “Aren’t you? Yes you are.”
“Excuse me,” says a little voice, gruffly. It will not stand to be ignored.
“Christ—“Martin snorts tea out his nose and tries to compose himself. “Ow. Oh, ahem, yes?”
“It’s me,” says what actually amounts to two kids in Sasha’s peacoat. They’ve also donned sunglasses and her beanie. The effect is precious. “Miss Sasha.”
“Oh, yes, hello,” Martin breathes, trying desperately to control himself and not burst into laughter. “Ahem. How did I not recognize you at first? Hello, Miss Sasha. How can I help you?”
“We—I heard there was a dog,” Not-Sasha says.
“That’s correct,” Martin says, gesturing to where Daisy is happily sprawled across his lap, tail wagging. “Would you like to pet her?”
“Yes,” Not-Sasha says seriously. In an impressive balancing act, she shuffles over. Two pairs of little arms come out of the peacoat and work their way through Daisy’s warm fur.
“It’s late in the afternoon for you to be here, Miss Sasha,” he says. “The buses have already left. Are there children in your class that might need some help getting home?”
“No,” the child that isn’t the upper half of the peacoat says. “Dad picks us up, but he’s always late.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You know you’re always supposed to tell the teachers when that happens, so we can watch the kids.”
“They’re old enough,” Not-Sasha says stubbornly. Martin decides to go for another tactic.
“How about you stay here, Miss Sasha, and play with Daisy with me?”
“Kay.”
By the time Jon and Basira come out, Not-Sasha has shuffled back to Sasha’s classroom, and Martin (from a distance) watched the two kids run out to an old pick-up truck that pulled up alongside the school. When Basira and Jon exit the office, talking seriously, and Daisy hops off his lap to sit dutifully at Basira’s feet, he grins at Jon.
“I have pictures to show you.”
“Do you?” Jon says simply, and he smiles right back, coming to perch lightly beside him on the couch.
Basira wrinkles her nose. “The others weren’t kidding.”
“About what?” Martin asks, holding the phone as Jon flicks through his camera roll.
“Nah, I’m not giving you my detective skills for free,” Basira says. “It’s my profession.”
Jon frowns at her, but says, “thanks for coming by,” anyway.
“Sure, see you,” she says amiably, and disappears.
Jon is smiling at the phone, but after a few moments, he hands it back.
“Martin,” he says, suddenly. “I have something important to ask you. A favor.”
Martin’s heart kicks in his chest. “Okay,” he says with a tongue like a menthos in coke.
“Would you,” Jon’s saying, and oh god, this is it, Martin’s not even wearing his best jumper, he probably smells like dog, oh—“and Tim—“ Martin’s fantasy begins unraveling here “—help keep the kids out of my way for the next few weeks?”
“I’m sorry, what?” Martin asks dumbly.
Jon looks strangely apologetic. Jon never looks apologetic. “I began an initiative that is going to take a lot more effort than I expected. I need the library and library hallway for a few weeks. We’re going to have a Scholastic Book Fair.”
Oh, now his heartrate is going for a different reason.
“I’m sorry, you what?”
Scholastic Book Fairs are an insane amount of work. It’s enough work that it’s going to get them killed, and there’s no way Martin can let Jon do it by himself. Even Tim, who likes to have time for himself outside of work, begrudgingly gives up his weeknights to help carry in boxes and boxes of paperbacks, to set up shelving.
It’s awful. All three of them have, at some point, fallen asleep in a tiny library chair from the sheer stress.
Jon fits surprisingly well into a small library chair. He scowls and shifts a lot in his sleep, but he also mumbles. Martin’s heart had some problems. Luckily, he knows where Jon keeps blankets in his office, now.
“Oh,” Jon mumbles, stirring, when Martin is trying to quietly tuck the blanket around him. He freezes, caught. Jon looks at him, eyes practically bloodshot.
“You really need rest,” Martin says, finally. “You pushed so hard for this.”
“It’s for the kids,” Jon mumbles. “All the other schools have opportunities like this. I won’t stand to let their circumstances rob them of reading.”
“Some of them are going to eat the books,” Martin whispers. “Like, pull them apart with their teeth and—and eat them.”
“I know,” Jon chuckles, smiling at him sleepily. “They’re monsters.”
“Our monsters,” Martin nods.
“Ours,” Jon agrees, and then he’s moving to sit up, but just that is too much. Martin needs to—he needs to go write poetry. To go have a good cry in the tiny children stalls of the bathroom. He begins to back away. “Martin?”
“Gotta go move more boxes,” Martin says quickly, tucking the blanket around Jon’s arm like he’s a scowling, scarred little burrito. “Have a nice nap, Jon.”
It’s not all cringingly good moments.
“This is a bloody maze,” Tim says, standing up from the last box he’d carried in, wiping sweat off his forehead. Martin sets down his own four boxes.
“Yeah, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but it seems like the shelving keeps…”
“Moving?” Tim supplies.
“Yep. Do you—d’you think it’s Jon?”
Tim gives him a pitying look. “You think… Jon… who would probably be destroyed by any fifth grader in kickball… is moving a shelf with the entirety of the Harry Potter series stacked on it.”
“No,” Martin sighs.
They stare out at the sea of colorful book titles, the Captain Underpants poster.
“Well,” Tim says. “It’s Friday, and we’ve finished, so that’s a frightening thought for another week.”
And how, Martin thinks, when he rounds the corner in the dim early morning light of the first day of the Scholastic book fair, and sees Jon wielding safety scissors against a very old man.
“Jon,” he half-shrieks.
“It’s all right,” the man’s saying, hands waving. “No, don’t worry, it’s all fine!”
“Who. Are. You,” Jon snarls. Ah, The Voice. For ages 0-99+. “Are you here to hurt my children?”
“Son,” the man says, “I’m your librarian.”
Mr. Jurgen Leitner has a work ethic worse than even Jon’s opinion of Martin, during those first few months.
“I’m normally sleeping in the back?” He says. “Gertrude never minded.”
“I don’t pay you to sleep,” Jon snarls. “In fact, I’m certain I don’t pay you at all. I know my books inside and out.”
“It’s called retirement,” Jurgen says pityingly. “I volunteer. My grandson used to go here. I thought it was best someone keep an eye on him.”
“Who’s your grandson?”
“His name’s Elias,” Jurgen says calmly, and oh, does that check out. “That’s partially why I slept in the back so much. If he knew I was here, he’d have been so embarrassed—“
“FUCKING OLD MAN,” someone screams, right on cue. “I’m gonna kill you!”
“Huh, not sure why he’s here now,” Jurgen says.
“I counsel him,” Jon grits. “I invited him to help work the book fair. Thought it’d be good for him to make a few dollars.”
“So he can take that nerdy, annoying boy in his year out?”
“KILL YOU!” Is hollered again. But the voice is conveniently trapped behind several maze rows of shelving.
“They must still be avoiding each other,” Jurgen sighs. “Ah, young love.”
“Maybe you should, erm, respect his feelings?” Martin says. “And his privacy? And not tell us any more?”
Jurgen smiles. “Why do you think he’s trying to kill me? He knows that I know too much.”
Jon has his face completely in his hands. “Tomorrow,” he says, “I need you to stop volunteering here. Or at least—stop volunteering here without me being aware. For today—I could really use your help with the book fair. Martin can tell you exactly what needs done.”
Like he finds Martin capable. Like he recognizes that Martin helped set a lot of this up, that he’d been ridiculous to try and organize an entire Scholastic book fair by his lonesome. Like he’s happy that Martin did this with him.
“It’s going to be great,” Martin says, warmly, and the optimism feels just right.
The Scholastic book fair goes surprisingly well. Sure, Nikola is very confused by the fact that there are books instead of clowns (“She thought ‘fair’ meant ‘circus,’” Martin explains in a whisper to Jon while Nikola sniffles between them. “Ah, okay, I understand,” Jon says sympathetically. “I want a circus,” Nikola says darkly from between them). Certainly, they forgot to hide the ladder they used to stack some of the tall shelves, and Martin has to catch little Michael C. from a nosedive off the top of it. Even the two kids who form Not-Sasha behave, although they do try to enter the raffle using several different kids names, and the signature on their parental permission slip is written in wobbly green marker. “I’ll make a call,” Jon sighs. Elias only threatens an elementary schooler once, and only because it’s a pint-sized kindergartener that squints at him and says, “you are so old. Are you married yet? When are you gonna die?”
But in general, all is well, and the kids leave more enchanted with books than they’d ever been. There’s no fire. There’s no blood. It’s pretty much all you can ask for, from an elementary school.
“Christ, let’s never do that again,” Jon sighs, sinking into his office chair once all is said and done. “I think I need to sleep for a year.”
“I know, I’ll be right there sleeping with you,” Martin groans, collapsing onto his usual spot on the headteacher’s office couch. At least Jon’s cleaned up most of the papers in here, or moved them to another spot for further sorting. It’s almost—it’s neat. It’s clean and calm. It’s the opposite of Martin’s exhausted brain.
“Oh,” Jon says, “I—I didn’t mean—but I’m open to—oh. You’re joking.”
“What?” Martin says, and he is too tired to decipher that sentence.
“Oh,” Jon says, sounding teeth-grittingly miserable. Well, it’s been a long day.
“Gonna go get the Jaffa cakes you gave me,” Martin sighs. “The blackcurrant ones are the best, and I need twenty of them. Anything you want from the stash, Jon? Or tea maybe? Whatever you’d like. Tell me now, okay, I’m only getting up once.”
“Mm, no,” Jon says, subdued. “I’m fine. Nothing for me, Martin, thank you for asking.”
Martin rolls over. “Basira and Daisy coming by today?”
“Just us,” Jon says, sounding invigorated again. “Oh, I meant to tell you, I found an old children’s book I used to love at the fair. I—I’ll probably reread it, for the nostalgia, if you want to join me.”
“Sure,” Martin says. “Which one?”
“A Guest For Mr. Spider.”
“Sounds creepy.” Martin rolls to his feet.
Jon snorts. “I promise it’s not. I know you don’t enjoy horror, and my 8-year-old self certainly wasn’t the bravest.”
“Then,” Martin teases, “I accept your offer. But, erm, only if we can do something suitably adult after, or Tim’ll make fun of us until the end of time for reading children’s books. Maybe—maybe we can invite Tim and Sasha down to the pub?”
“Yes!” Jon says, sounding startled. “Yes, you’re right, the pub. Tim and Sasha.”
“Cool,” Martin says. “Back in a second, okay? If you could, er, text them for us…?”
He half-jogs down the hall, not wanting to be on his feet for any longer than necessary. His stash is as teeth-rotting as ever, and he grabs Jaffa cakes and Cadbury, for good measure. Thank goodness he’s good at lying to the third-graders about where he keeps it.
When he returns, Jon is sitting cross-legged on the couch, sinking into the pillows. It’s a much different look, than in his high-backed desk chair. Less intimidating, maybe. He has a glossy illustrated children’s book open on his lap.
“Hi,” Martin greets, holding up his treasure, dropping onto the couch beside him. “Mission accomplished. So—I’m ready to be eight years old again.”
“How long ago was that, for you?” Jon asks, almost out of the blue.
“Hmm?” Martin unwraps a Cadbury and pops it in his mouth. “I’m twenty-nine.”
“We’re closer in age than I thought.”
“You mean,” Martin says unthinkingly, reaching out to brush the tips of his fingers against them, “because of your silver hairs?” And maybe that’s not the best thing to bring up. He doesn’t know if Jon is sensitive about it; he knows Jon is younger than he looks.
“No,” Jon replies quietly. “That’s not why.”
“Is each one of these a particular child?” Martin’s still brushing against them. He can’t seem to stop himself. This is a bad plan.
“Three of them are Jane Prentiss,” Jon says. “Half are Elias.”
Martin chuckles. “How many are me?”
Jon blinks. “Because I always… ah.” Something flashes across his face. “Martin, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. I know that, when you first arrived, I was truly…” Rude, something in Martin’s brain accuses. Heartless. I still liked you, because I saw something else in you, too. “Unkind. Not appreciative. I hope you know I have a much better understanding of—of how much you contribute. Of how much you’re appreciated.”
Martin rubs his mouth with the back of his knuckles, embarrassed.
Why are you telling me this.
“Thanks,” he finally ends up on. “Since you are, erm, so appreciative, do you want to read the book?”
“Read aloud?” Jon asks, sounding surprised.
“With all the, you know, voices?” Martin says, gesturing, and his hope leaks through.
“You think it’s funny,” Jon accuses.
“I think it’s great,” Martin giggles.
“All right then,” Jon says. “Listen up.”
Jon was right. It’s not a scary story. His heart beats in his throat the whole time anyway.
I like you, Martin wants to say. I really, really like you, you know. But Jon already knows. So Martin will take this, nice evenings on the couch with their knees touching, happy nights out at the pub, and he won’t complain. In fact, he’ll be incandescently happy. Being with Jon makes him feel like that, even when they’re not doing much at all. This is all he can really ask for.
But oh, a science fair and a summer and one annoying middle-schooler later, Martin will learn he was wrong.