Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On the edge of Belgravia, where the streets began their nebulous transition into Chelsea, was an office building. White walls, tall windows with the flourish of Art Deco, and a lobby made narrow by ground level offices.

There was a central elevator, but it lacked the usual row of opalescent buttons numbered with floors. Instead, there was simply a ten key pad.

The right combination would direct the elevator up to the law firm on the top floor. Or to the exclusive restaurant on the second floor. Or to a very exclusive tailor with a knack for express orders.

Or, the correct five numbers in succession would bring the elevator up to Blackwood House. Which wasn't a house, obviously, but was welcoming enough to those with the right connections. The number combination was known only to trusted clients; all others had to wait in the lobby to be let up.

Not that it was impossible to get in with Blackwood House. Once per season, they hosted a night at a reputable club, making it possible to meet up and talk to new clients. It was an important way to draw new people in.

Most clients were regulars. Many were perfectly behaved and discerning people, as Blackwood House was very attractive to people who valued discretion highly. A few were troublesome, perhaps a little too used to special treatment or paving over every grievance with money. They never lasted very long.

Martin Blackwood, proprietor and manager of Blackwood House, could handle the broad spectrum of clients. He'd been in the business of pleasing people for a fair chunk of his life. There was a particular knack to leaving people thinking they'd gotten everything they wanted as Martin guided them along to his tune. He was good at it, and troubleshooting, at knowing how to end a day with everyone happy for once.

Except, of course, for Jon Sims, a man who had never been happy a day in his life.

This was how Jon's visits to Blackwood House went, inevitably and without variation.

Jon showed up promptly for his appointments, always around ten minutes early, and as he waited for his host, he worked at his phone, frowning deeply at the screen.

Gerry would greet him, confirm the details of his appointment, and when the time arrived buzzed Jon back into his assigned room, whichever was best suited for the appointment.

When his time was up, Jon returned, his face drawn into a perturbed expression. As he settled his bill and left his tip, he did not once smile, did not seem more relaxed than when he arrived. If anything…

Sometimes Martin stood in the door to his office and watched Jon as he left, and considered how Jon looked. It was hard to tell, honestly, because Martin only knew Jon as a patron of Blackwood House. Hell, it was fair to say he'd never seen Jon Sims smile. But at the end of his sessions, Jon's face was something a little distant, a little lost. He never looked like a happy client.

And yet, Jon came back. Two sessions per month, sometimes three.

Today was the same. Martin consulted his computer; for obvious reasons, the appointment book was only saved locally. As he glanced at it, he saw:

3:45 JonathS, Timothy, 120m. Req: Restraints, impact, NBTB, TLC. Room 4. Pre-paid.

Martin could translate it in his head easily. A two hour session in a purposefully sparse, utilitarian room with a one-way window overlooking the park outside. Tim had tied or cuffed Jon, struck him with something, but hadn't touched him below the belt, and then spent most of the time helping Jon through the come-down.

Tim was exceptional at his work, and had been doing it almost as long as Martin. (If Martin still counted; he'd not taken a client in a long time.) He handled Jon regularly and they had a rapport.

Still, as Jon spoke to Gerry at the reception desk and arranged a tip, there was only taut discomfort to him. He didn't look like someone who'd just completed a session with a sex worker who took diligent care of him. He looked… tired, and drawn.

After Jon had left, Martin stepped out of his office and stood over Gerry's desk.

"Hey, boss," Gerry said, stapling the credit receipt to a paper and filing it away. "Just missed trouble."

"Don't call him that," Martin murmured. "Same as ever?"

"Looking like he's swallowed a lemon? 'Course."

"Did he say anything?"

"All his pleases and thank yous, nothing out of the ordinary." Gerry hooked a pen behind his ear, letting it push his hair back out of his face. "Why?"

Why indeed. Martin frowned.

"Listen," Gerry said, quieter and more earnest. "He pays well, he comes in regularly. No complaints."

All of that was true. But still, it gnawed at Martin a little.

His work— their work, it existed in a strange median between different services. Sex, obviously, was core to it and for many people it was everything. But there was always emotional care involved. Especially in Blackwood House, ensuring clients left in sound mind was vital. They weren't anyone's therapist by any means, but.

Always that. But.

Martin slipped into the back hall, past the reception area. It was framed on either side by sturdy doors, each adorned with a golden number.

Each door was soundproofed. Really, the entire floor was silent as a whisper. Necessary for their work. To announce himself, Martin walked up to room four and pressed the buzzer twice before letting himself in.

Room four was a favorite. It sat against the tall windows at the front face of the building, and plenty of natural light spilled in, illuminating so much, there was no need for lamps. The glass was treated; a clear view outside, but not so much as a shadow visible inside.

There was a bench by the window. Tim sat there, idly tapping a long whippy riding crop against his thigh in a steady rhythm.

As he looked up and spotted Martin, a sunspot of a grin broke through his stormy look. "Hey, boss. How goes it?"

"Just checking in." Martin walked to the window. The sun was sinking low, casting brilliant light over the city. "Everything go alright today?"

"Yep. Nothing out of the ordinary. Good hard day of work." Tim tipped him a wink, and chuckled when Martin rolled his eyes at him.

From where they were, the front pavilion was visible, the perfectly arranged trees, the pale stone path to the narrow car park. Timing would have it, that as Martin stood there, far below Jon stepped out of the building and walked between the trees, head bowed, phone in his hand.

Tim stopped tapping his thigh with the crop and laid it over his lap. "Poor bastard."

Blinking, Martin looked away from Jon climbing into a hired car and to Tim. "What? Who, Jon?"

"A-yep." Nodding slowly, Tim flicked the glass with the crop. "Enough to make a veteran second-guess himself."

"I doubt he's… He always seems…" Martin floundered. "He tips well?"

Tim punctuated a laugh with another crack of the crop. "Well, yeah, that's true! But, christ, I don't know what he gets out of it. Something, I hope."

"He keeps coming back," Martin pointed out mildly.

"So does that thousand mile stare of his." He shrugged one shoulder. "I'm doing my… eh, it's not even that I'm doing my best. I do good work. We know each other. I think we've got good energy." Tap-tap against the window. "And there he goes, presumably to sit in a dark room somewhere and sulk himself to sleep."

"Bit dramatic." Reaching out, Martin plucked the crop from Tim and set it on the table nearby. "I'm sure he's fine."

Tim, within him, contained a catalog of sardonic, unimpressed looks. He fixed Martin with a bespoke one, upturned lips and lifted brow. "Like you're not concerned."

"Concerned," Martin murmured, and rubbed his face. "It's none of my business."

"Uh, I think it's actually exactly your business, in the most literal sense of—"

"I'm not prying," Martin said defensively. "I just… don't quite know what to think?"

"Fair dues. I don't either." Tim pushed up from the seat and stretched. "That was my last appointment. I'm heading out. Don't stay in office too long, alright?"

"Have a good night, Tim," Martin said.

"Go home at a halfway decent fucking time, will you?"

"Bye, Tim."

With a flippant salute, Tim grabbed his bag out of the locked cabinet by the door and left.

Martin had gotten where he was for two reasons.

One, he'd needed to do something when money got tight.

Two, he did genuinely have a strong inclination towards taking care of people.

Establishing Blackwood House was a way to deal with the latter. It was both impossible and a demonstrably bad idea to try to take care of every client who hired him. But he could certainly handle a small crew of people who agreed to work out of the House. Ensuring everyone was safe and had the resources they needed, it settled something in him. After his mother passed away, his desire to do something grew into a clawing thing that cut him up inside with no outlet.

Now, he had people. And things were better.

It wasn't a huge surprise that Jon's haunted looks stuck with Martin through the stretches between his visits. The natural tendency to want to help had just found purchase in someone else. Annoying, sure, but not exactly a revelation.

Once per week, Martin tended to the front of house himself, on whichever day Gerry asked to have off. Jon's next appointment coincided with the same day, and Martin tried to give Jon his best welcoming smile as he arrived.

"Welcome to Blackwood House, Jon. Prompt as always."

Jon leaned on his elbows on the divider between him and Martin. "Mr. Blackwood, good evening. Gerry hasn't been sacked, has he?"

"Day off. Apparently I have to let him free once in a while." He checked the appointment book, humming as he clicked through. "Mm, ah-ha. Today, you're seeing Sasha. Would you like to review the booking?"

Jon's face fell, so suddenly Martin felt some sharp urge to— do something, a tense feeling racing through his muscles. He pressed his face into his arm for a second, grimacing before looking at Martin. "Could I speak to Sasha beforehand? I think, my day has been— I'm not sure."

"Of course. That's always fine." The reception area was empty, private enough, so Martin buzzed Sasha's room.

After a short delay, she stuck her head through the back hall door. "Need me? Oh, Jon, hey there." With a fast glance around the room, she saw it was empty, and slipped through to join them. She approached Jon, standing close but keeping her hands behind her back. "How're things going?" The tilt of her head, the way her curly hair shifted over her shoulder, was perfectly solicitous and kind.

"I, ah. Hm." Jon drummed his fingers on the divider, staring down at his hand. "Today has been… I don't know if I'm up for the, ah, usual tenor of our sessions." His lips pressed together unhappily. "Doubt I could handle a single kind word at the moment."

Sasha crossed her arms and leaned on the divider next to him. "Would something else be better?"

"I don't—" He reached up under his glasses to rub his eyes. Martin noticed his skin was smudged with paint, greens and blues embedded into the fine lines and beds of his fingernails. "Not sure, but a sharp tongue seems best right now."

Sasha frowned. "Hm. If that's what you need, Jon, I don't know if I'm suitable. I'm mostly a velvet glove type of woman. But I think ," and she cut Martin an inquiring look, "Basira might be available?"

"Tonight, yes," Martin confirmed.

"No," Jon said quickly, looking even more pained. "I don't want to cancel on you, not on such short notice. I just." His hand curled into a fist. "I'm unsure I could handle… that."

"Hey." Finally, she touched him, just two fingers on his arm. "You come see me when you want to be sweet, okay? Go see Basira today."

"Sasha," Jon sighed.

She prodded him firmly. "You're not doing me a favor. I don't want you miserable and I'm not… geared for what you'd like. Next time, right?"

There was a long moment of hesitation before Jon nodded. "Thank you. I'm sorry for the trouble."

"Are you kidding? I just got ninety minutes free!" She beamed at him. "I hear the thai place across the street calling my name. You want me to bring you something, Jon?"

He tried to return her smile, but it was wan. "Enjoy your thai."

Patting his wrist, Sasha left quietly.

A deep sigh rolled out of Jon's body as he glanced at Martin. "Well then. I hope that won't cause her any trouble. I'd like to leave her a tip anyway."

"Don't worry about that for now," Martin said, pitching his voice low and gentle. "Basira's free, but you know she won't interact with you below the belt."

"That's perfectly fine," Jon said. After a beat, he asked, "Is… is Daisy in?"

"Not tonight, I'm afraid." He half-typed a message to Basira before pausing. "You can cancel altogether if you need, Jon."

"No! No. I just…" He jogged a leg, bouncing anxiously. "I need something grounding. Been a… rather long day of difficult clients." A slightly more genuine expression flickered over his face. "I imagine you are very familiar with the feeling, Mr. Blackwood."

Oh, Jon was a difficult one, but not in that way. "Not today, I'm not," Martin said, and shot off his message to Basira. In three seconds, she sent back an affirmative. "I'm going to let you in early to discuss with Basira. She'll take care of you."

He began to say something before simply nodding, and circling around to the back hall. Pressing a button, Martin unlocked the door, and watched him go.

An hour and change later, Basira walked Jon out.

"Get a lift home," Basira told him, her voice flat and stern.

"Yes, ma'am," Jon said with something close to humor. His eyes were on his feet as he walked around to the desk. "As soon as I—"

"Home, Sims. You can settle accounts later." She jerked her head in the vague direction of the elevator. "Go home. Eat a solid meal. Don't pick up a paintbrush for twelve hours."

"Impossible," Jon said, too flat to be truly petulant. "I have to finish my work."

Walking forward, Basira rested her knuckles on the desk. "You know how to follow instruction, Sims. Go home. eat something, and take care of yourself."

Whatever was going on, Martin didn't dare intrude, and simply watched between them as Jon met Basira's gaze, then slowly wilted.

"Fine. I'll see… Next time, yes. Excuse me." His tired eyes slid to Martin's for a moment, as if anticipating him to intervene or something. When Martin did no such thing, Jon turned and left quietly.

Only when the elevator doors shut did Basira's shoulders relax, the tone of her voice softening. "Damn. What a mess he is."

"What was that?" Martin asked. "Is he alright?"

"I don't know the details," she said, resting both her arms on the desk and letting her head hang loose. "Something about a client who's unhappy with a restoration and has been on his arse for the past two weeks."

"Restoration?"

"Art stuff. He…" She waggled her fingers expressively. "Fixes paintings, mostly for rich collectors. Seems a bit high stress."

Oh. That slotted well into place with what Martin knew about him. "Poor thing," he murmured before he could catch himself.

Basira snorted loudly. "Sure. Don't really understand it much myself."

"I hear there's a lot of very finicky little skills to it," Martin said. "Have to know a lot about chemicals and the history of different paints and—"

"What? No. The hard talk thing. Most of the time, he's coming in for submission. No, not even submission really." She gets a contemplative little turn to her lips. "Just controlled punishment, really?"

"He turned down his appointment with Sasha today," Martin whispered. "Said he couldn't handle a kind word."

That made Basira smile ruefully. "Well. I think I know that type. Think what they need is a harsh hand." She knocked her knuckles against his shoulder. "Can't fix them all. Can't fix most of them that need it, honestly."

She was right. Still, Martin couldn't dislodge Jon from his mind.

There were a lot of preconceptions about various elements of their work, almost all of which were wrong or varied based on the individual. The punishment thing was one of them, for certain.

Often, for people new or still learning, pain of the physical and verbal varieties was something to be feared. The upper echelon of kink, as it were. Only the most experienced could handle the rough treatment and make it through alright, could even gain something from it. After all, why would someone go to a house of pleasure, a den of ill repute, for someone to take a flog to them or to give them a tongue lashing?

Martin had long since learned better. He knew how sometimes, having a controlled, careful application of pressure could help. Everyone had nagging voices in their heads, terrible urges that arose when self-loathing insinuated itself into the cracks and expanded like ice. For the right person, having a professional hurt them made the urge to do it themselves go soft and harmless.

And of course, some people just liked it. Not everything was a window into the soul of the client.

But sometimes… there were people like Jon, who wanted something.

And here was the inverse: sometimes pleasure was much harder to take. Gentle treatment and kind words could be a diamond-tipped glove, and Martin had known people to tap out of praise as swiftly as pain.

It depended on the person, and he had a feeling Jon was very… specific about his foibles and desires and boundaries.

Martin was not anyone's therapist. He might as well gotten a cross stitch saying as much for his office. It was not his job to do that work for anyone.

He kept telling himself that, trying to be quite firm with himself. But it wasn't easy to apply The Dom Tone to oneself, no matter how much practice he had.

There was a day, right as the season was hinting at turning cold, when Tim got struck right in the face with a flu. It came on practically overnight and at four in the morning, he'd called Martin's personal cell to inform him.

No host of Blackwood House worked while contagious. Just no. It was a bad idea, to put it mildly. So as soon as Gerry came in for the day, he set to calling Tim's clients for the day to inform them. Then, just to be certain, the next two days of clients as well.

Generally speaking, no one wanted to fuck someone with influenza, so this went on without much complaint.

There was always a hiccup somewhere, though, and in the early afternoon, Jon arrived, only to be told that Tim was out sick.

"I did call," Gerry told him, with the candor only appropriate for very regular clients. "And texted. And left you a voicemail."

"Oh. I… turned it off. Problem client keeps… calling. Right." Jon rubbed his face. He looked a little extra unkempt, though Martin thought the rising stubble across his jaw was handsome enough. It was shot through with some silver, and Martin fought the sudden desire to look at the records and see how old Jon was. His apparent age seemed to fluctuate wildly.

"Sorry. I can get you in with Melanie."

Jon pulled a face, a clear and unmistakable oh hell no. "Ah, no, no, that's— I think Melanie and I are both in agreement that's not going to happen."

Gerry laughed. "Right, guess it's a bit weird paying your ex's girlfriend to domme you."

"A little bit, Gerry, yes," Jon said, rolling his eyes. "God. Now what. I quite needed the… well."

"How about Friday? Sasha had a cancel."

"Isn't Daisy back in town yet?" Jon asked.

"No, next week. You're her first back, actually."

Face falling, Jon nodded. "Then I… will endeavor to be patient."

There was a moment when Jon just lingered there, fingers drumming on the divider, as Gerry took a call. And Martin just entirely lost his head. Stepping out from the open door of his office, he said, "Would you like a cup of tea before you go?"

Gerry stumbled over his phone script, turning in his chair to glance at Martin.

Jon lifted his head, a dour expression still firmly in place. "Sorry?"

"Tea. For your trouble. I'm sorry you made the trip."

"My own fault, not looking at my messages," Jon murmured, but he was straightening up, resting his gaze on Martin. That thousand mile stare, Tim had called it, and Martin had known exactly what he meant. Being on the receiving end of Jon's stare was a weighty thing, felt right in the ribs.

On a… a hunch, a moment of insight that came fully formed from Athena's own skull, Martin lifted his chin slightly and said, "Come have tea before you go, Mr. Sims."

The effect was immediate. Jon inhaled deeply, and nodded, circling the divider with his head low, walking to Martin's office.

Behind him, Gerry rolled his chair out to frantically mouth, 'What the hell,' at Martin.

'It's fine,' Martin mouthed back, giving Gerry a quelling gesture as he stepped aside to let Jon in.

He was going to hear about it from Gerry later. And from whoever Gerry mentioned it to in the meantime. But Martin just felt an ache when he looked at Jon, like his particular brand of exhaustion might be catching, some strange ailment transferred by observing it. Looking at Jon made Martin's joints hurt.

Martin shut the door quietly and walked around his desk to sit. "I really am sorry about your appointment."

Jon stood in the middle of the room for a moment, being quite blatant about examining his surroundings. "Th-that's fine. Things happen, I am fully aware of the fallibility of the human body. Hopefully Tim recovers soon." He turned and looked at the shelf holding Martin's books, right above the shelf that held a row of small felted animal figurines. "Nice selection. Calvino's decent."

"Don't damn him with faint praise," Martin said, flipping the switch to turn on his little electric kettle. It was glass with a twee little blue LED that lit up the water as it started to bubble. He opened his box of teabags and retrieved two Darjeeling, carefully tearing them loose and dropping them into cups. "You could sit."

Jon lingered, examining the painting on the wall. Or, it was a nice print. Martin didn't much understand the desire to own a real painting. For a moment he felt concerned this might offend an art conservator's sensibilities, but Jon let out a soft hum.

"Pine Forest. Most people only know Klimt for the gold stuff."

"You know, I never liked The Kiss that much? The position the woman's in, it just looked rough on the neck."

Another hum, vaguely affirmative, before Jon settled into the chair across from Martin. He clasped his hands in front of him, still looking anxiously around. "I think this is the only room I've not been in yet."

No, Martin's office was strictly off limits to anyone who wasn't staff. Unwilling to announce that, he instead said, "There's also a sort of green room for the hosts."

"Been there," Jon said. When Martin shot him a curious look, he looked contrite. "Daisy, uh. She showed me once, since the med kit's in there. Apparently I'm much too twitchy for, uh, knife play."

"That's normally done with blunt blades," Martin pointed out slowly.

The contrite grimace on Jon's face was nearly a smile, just topped to the brim with bitterness. "I was insistent. And I trust her. As much as…" He looked down at his hands and sighed. "I'm… aware, you know."

"How do you take your tea," Martin asked, flicking the kettle off right before full boil. Wouldn't do to scald the tea. "Aware of what?"

"Oh, I could— I, let me."

Martin waved him off. "You can tell me or I'll guess. Sweet and dark?"

Slowly, Jon nodded. "Well spotted." He watched for a moment as Martin prepared the tea, and set the appropriate cup in front of Jon. "Trouble. I'm aware I'm… trouble."

"Who told you that?" Martin asked.

Jon's lips curled briefly before resettling into a severe line. "No one needed to. I know, I'm aware, Mr. Blackwood."

"I don't think you are. You seem like a man under a lot of stress." Martin added a small bit of milk to his own tea. "You mentioned avoiding a client."

Staring down at his tea, Jon said, "Yes. They are well aware I have a full docket of restorations, that I won't have time to assess their painting until next week. Yet, they're calling me daily. I lack the… I can't keep talking to them, it just takes it out of me." Picture perfect, he dug his nail into the side of his hand and a fleck of paint came off in a solid piece. He did seem to always have some clinging to his skin, now that Martin had been looking for it.

Martin took a sip of his tea and found it just about the perfect temperature. Jon seemed to be sort of sinking into himself, like a collapsing souffle, picking at more paint. So, gently but firmly, Martin said, "Drink some tea."

It wasn't quite fair, and gave Martin a tangled feeling in his gut. He knew Jon would look up and would pick up his cup and sip it, because Jon was a regular. His request record at Blackwood House was fairly consistent; with a glance, Martin would guess that Jon took to being dominated two-thirds of the time. Not always submissive per se, but he obviously preferred a certain tone.

It worked. Jon took a sip, humming softly. His tongue swiped his upper lip after, and he sank back in his chair, still holding the cup. "I can only imagine your work must be stressful as well. In its own ways." He blinked, and flushed. "I, god, I shouldn't ask, I'm sorry."

Martin folded his arms and leaned his elbows on the desk, one hand still curled around his cup. "And why is that?"

There was a rabbit look to Jon as he met Martin's eyes. "I… am I being tested?"

With a soft laugh, Martin shook his head. "Mr. Sims. Jon. You've been coming to Blackwood House for almost a year and despite your concerns, have been nothing but gracious to the people who work here." He leaned in an inch more and lowered his voice into a stage whisper. "I don't know if you noticed, but it's my name on the wall."

A snort slipped out of Jon before he covered his mouth with his knuckles. "That, that's a fair point. You must be… very familiar with the industry."

Martin leaned back, and felt the way Jon relaxed a little, tension unspooling as Martin demanded less of his attention. "Yeah. Worked for myself for a long time. Eventually entered an arrangement with a particularly wealthy client. Saved up to start this place. Wound up behind a desk, mostly! Sort of how it works, when you go in for yourself."

"Do you miss it?" Jon asked, then squeezed his eyes shut. "My god, don't—"

"It's more dynamic, being the actual sex worker or dominant," Martin answered anyway, a little amused at how Jon, who had so much experience here, could be bashful. "But it's important to me, to keep everyone working here safe."

"Your security is excellent." Jon looked into his cup. "Even I've often… felt rather secure here."

Smiling warmly, Martin said, "I'm glad. Obviously I want my people to feel safe more than anything but…" Delicately: "Well. You have to feel secure to fully let go of yourself, I think."

"That does sound nice," Jon murmured. The last of the tea went down quick, and Jon set down the cup so carefully it made no sound against the desk. "Thank you for… this. I do feel more— feel better, I think. You didn't need to do this."

"It was my pleasure," Martin said. "We'll see you next time."

There is was, finally. Jon's teeth flashed briefly around a smile, narrow and faint but unmistakable, before he nearly bowed to Martin, and left the office.

With a long sigh, Martin fell all the way back into his chair, letting it creak wearily under him.

After a moment, Gerry rolled along in his chair to the office door, hand catching on the doorframe to drag him along. "So… What the hell?"

"It was fine! I said it'd be fine!" Martin flicked his wrists in the universal gesture for shoo now. "Back to it, please."

Unabated, Gerry pointed at his own eyes and then at Martin, but thankfully did glide back to his desk to welcome the next client.

Shutting his eyes, Martin leaned his head all the way back, trying to calm the jittery feeling in his hands.

Gerry told everyone.

This was, in hindsight, not very surprising. When you had a close knit group of people, everyone lived in each other's pockets a bit, and gossip was fucking manna from heaven. In four days, everyone knew.

Tim was in Martin's office when Martin arrived to start the day.

"Get your feet off my desk," Martin said automatically, hanging up his coat.

"Boss. Sir Blackwood. My esteemed Madame." Tim looked aghast, theatric and ridiculous. "I cannot believe you."

"Oh god, what have I probably not actually done this time," Martin complained loudly. "Don't you have a room to prep or something?"

"Not unless you'd like some TLC for yourself," he said and waggled his eyebrows. Flirtation always spilled so easily from his lips, the default of his speech even before Martin hired him on. "You, me, room two?"

Arms akimbo, Martin shifted his feet a few inches further apart.

Tim let out a low oooooh. "Hey there, mister man."

"Dial it down fifty percent, Tim, it's too early in the morning."

"You're no fun," Tim said, but immediately did, hopping out of the chair. "So. Teatime with trouble, huh?"

"We are not calling him that! You and Gerry both, stop it." Martin had no qualms hip-bumping Tim out of his way, taking his seat.

Undeterred, Tim sat on the corner of the desk. "Taking my client? While I was tragically laid up in my bed, invalid and feverish? Scandalous."

"He was having a bad day, I just wanted to do something nice." He sighed. "This can't be a thing."

"I think it's a thing, boss." Tim smiled without an ounce of apology.

"It's not a thing!"

Another one of their regulars, Helen, was arranging her tip as Melanie stood at her side, their arms linked. Melanie smiled, biting and fierce, as Helen set up their next appointment.

"By the by, do you do escorting?" Helen asked airly. "Holiday party season is coming, and I do despise the chatter."

"Mhm, I think I can arrange something. Family parties or office parties?"

"Office. Maybe one family party." Helen smiled. "Would be nice to have some fun for once."

"Oh, I can be fun." Grinning, Melanie gave Helen a hug. "Text me with some dates and I'll see, okay?"

Helen's heels clicked musically against the floor as she walked to the elevator and left.

The doors slid shut and Melanie's face changed, from coyly fond to a viper in a second. "Really, Martin?"

Martin, who was manning the front desk today, recoiled. "What? What have I done now?"

"Shown a remarkable lack of taste. You've been retired for how many years, and now you're eyeing Jon like a piece of meat?" She shook her head sharply. "Standards, Martin. You need standards."

"Jon is nice, and I'm still retired, and I didn't eye him like anything, what has Gerry been saying ?"

"Oh, you know," Melanie said lightly, and then did not elaborate, which was terrifying. She tied her hair back. "I'm going to prep my room. Let me know when Jude's here, yeah?"

"Sure," Martin muttered, watching her go. "It's not a thing," he reminded himself fiercely.

Over lunch in the green room, Basira sucked on a thai iced tea for a long moment, her eyes on Martin in a way that made him feel like a spider was crawling up his scalp. "So," she said, tapping her straw against her lips.

Martin twirled thick rice noodles around his fork. "Yeah?"

"Getting soft on Sims, huh."

"Oh my god," Martin said, putting his fork down heavily. "I had tea with him! As a— a— a consolation after we canceled his appointment on him!"

Sasha, around a mouthful of panang chicken, let out an intent "Mmph mmph mmph!"

"Swallow," Basira said.

Doing so, Sasha sipped her own tea and cleared her throat. "It's so unfair! Swooping in on our boy with your seniority and all."

Nose wrinkling, Basira said, "Not my boy, I assure you."

"Oh, whatever, Basira."

"Can we not call it my seniority?" Martin sighed. "Makes me feel ancient."

"You look great for forty-five," Sasha simpered at him, smiling.

"Fired. You're fired," Martin told her.

"He really does require a certain touch," Basira said, ignoring the terrible slander Sasha was aiming at Martin. "Best to err on the side of caution with him."

"I am," Martin reiterated slowly, "so utterly and completely retired. I am not taking your client. I'm not taking any clients!" He attacked his noodles again. "One cup of tea does not make me some awful client poacher."

"Technically, all our clients are your clients anyway, so." Basira's straw made that irritating slurping sound as she put it between her lips and stared flatly at Martin.

"Stop," he told them. "It's not a thing."

Then, Daisy arrived back from her little vacation, her skin darker, her freckles prominent across her face and shoulders, her hair trimmed and pulled from her face. She carried her duffle bag into the House, as always, giving Gerry a brisk high-five of a hello, and then slipped into the back hall.

Getting up, Martin followed her. Room five today, she was settling her things into the locked cabinet with the door ajar. When he entered, she stilled and looked up.

"Welcome back. How was the continent?" he asked.

"Big. Quiet. I liked that part." She finished packing things away and locked up. "Glad to see the fort has held while I was away."

"Just barely," he said. "We missed you terribly."

"I bet." She stretched, her arm up and behind her head, pulling with her other hand. Her body bent like a willow, easy and supple. "And you? Been keeping well?"

"Same as ever." Taking a little initiative, he took the hand of the arm she was stretching.

She pulled against his grip and held position for a moment, letting out a little grunt before relaxing. They traded hands, and she repeated the process.

"That's not what I heard, actually," she went on in the same mild rumble. It always brought to mind a tiger's purr to Martin; potentially dangerous, but situationally gentle. "Tim was quite insistent that our Madame was going to snap up our best client."

There was less of a tease in her voice than everyone else's, but her register always made her sound more serious than the others. With a tsk, Martin let her go. "I made the mistake of taking tea with Jon, and now everyone's in an absolute tizzy about it. As if I've done trade in the last four years."

Daisy pulled her hair loose and started braiding it back, her eyes on him and fingers with practiced agility. "That how it is?"

"How what is?"

Her shoulder hunched briefly, not quite a shrug. "I'm asking how it is."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Martin leaned back on the cabinet. "Why is everyone going on like this? It's getting silly."

"Mm, 'cause it's Jon, I reckon. He's a singular one." She looked away, at the room around her for a moment, as if taking it in for the first time. Room five was comfortable, had a drinks cabinet, a nice bed, but also a wood and cloth director-style chair. Martin didn't recall what Jon's appointment requests were, but the room was dark, no windows, and warm. Someone, probably Gerry, had lit an incense stick earlier. It was burned half down, filling the room with Frankincense and resin smoke.

"You know how it's a bad idea to become invested in any client?" Daisy asked quietly.

"Yeah," Martin said.

"Yeah," she said. A smirk broke over her face, tipping to him like a poured shot. "I'd say it's like… seeing a stray kitten, that heartpang that makes you want to help out, but." She tied off her braid and flexed her fingers. "Don't think any of us are that naive, to give a shit about a john."

"Pun intended?"

"Ha." She sat in the chair, crossing her leg over her knee. "Jon needs help, and seeks it out, and pays for it. He values the work more than most on that side of the contract, you know? Still." She waved at the door. "You see him."

This conversation felt almost perilous now. "He's never… I don't know."

"He's lookin' for something. Thinks he's close to it here, and I figure coming here at least unwinds that tangled mess in his head enough he can function. But he's not found it yet. Whatever he needs." She smiled again, and it transformed her face from somewhat off-putting to something inviting. "I'm happy to help him try and sort it out."

"Doesn't really…" He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I get all that. But why all the teasing?"

"Well. Batter up."

Martin didn't know if he wanted to be part of this. How did you solve a problem like Jon Sims? It was a fascinating question, no doubt, and it made Martin ache a little, the desire to uncover that knowledge.

It was a terrible idea, though.

There was a soft knock at the door, and they both looked up.

Jon stood in the doorway. Shaven, this time, and looking well. Or, well for him. Still taut like canvas liable to rip. "Daisy. Ah… Mr. Blackwood." He frowned at Martin, then arched a brow. "Double booking?"

"You're more than enough for me to handle, Sims," Daisy said, sardonic but with an undercurrent of rich familiarity.

That was Martin's cue. "I'll leave you to him," he told Daisy. Then he left as quickly as politeness would allow, closing the door quietly behind.

Fine. It was maybe a thing.

There was a palpable relief in Jon when Daisy returned. She'd always been his favored host, though he booked appointments with everyone except Melanie. It was sort of funny to Martin, to see how everyone just liked Jon.

Still, when he was finished with Daisy, it was the same thing again. The same hangdog look. He rested his chin on his palm, staring blankly at the wall while Gerry finished processing his tip payment.

Martin watched him from his office, and thought about it. Having him come in for tea again. Maybe it would soften the blow of another session that didn't turn out how he wanted.

He deliberated too long; Jon gave Gerry a nod, took his card back, and swiftly left.

Next time, Martin thought.

How did you solve a problem like Jon Sims? At his desk, Martin brought up the client records, narrowed the search to one name, and started to read the extended notes.

Blackwood House offered a lot of services and accommodated as many requests as possible. And Jon had… apparently tried the majority of them. Bondage, cuffs and chains and hogtie and spreader bars and even three sessions of shibari. Impact, riding crops and various flogs and once with a paddle (though that session had a notation to avoid doing it again). He'd done suspension in room five with Daisy several times; Daisy was the only one who had the training for it. There were a couple instances of dominance, mostly with Sasha though once with Tim, but they vanished from his records months ago.

Martin picked up a pen, set it to his scratch pad. Then, deliberately, put it back down. He was not going to take written notes on Jon. No. That was a bridge too far.

But there was more. Scenarios didn't seem to appeal to him, though he'd tried most of the pre-arranged scenes. The Boyfriend/Girlfriend Experience he'd done, but mostly with Sasha, who excelled at it. Then, there was a catalog of experimentation. A little impact here with some blindfolding, some suspension with overstimulation there, two hours of nothing but wax play once (which Martin felt was just too much wax), everything they had to offer, especially along the submissive spectrum, Jon had tried it.

He kept coming back to certain things. Impact, especially a crop. Verbal commands, precise orders. Sex, but only in conjunction with submission. More verbal things, unspecified in the notes.

The instinct, with a record like this, was that the client knew what they wanted and weren't shy about requesting it.

Jon's dark, tired eyes were vivid in Martin's mind. Closing out the window, Martin made himself a cup of tea, and thought about trouble.

Not every session went smoothly. Such was the nature of the work.

There was a poetic intimacy to safewords, and Martin was, deep down, a fan of them, a chosen password to signal vulnerability. But when so many people entered Blackwood House and everyone saw to so many clients, keeping track of so many individual spoken talismans was just not feasible.

So, they used the stoplight system. Everyone, upon signing their paperwork and waivers and NDAs, were informed of the system and agreed to follow it. Green for good, yellow for slow down or change tact, and red for a hard stop to the session.

Everyone knew about it.

Martin was covering the front while Gerry was on lunch when Daisy swung the back hall door open and said, "Need help, now."

Before his brain caught up, Martin was already responding to her grave tone, standing and following her. "What's happened? Injury? Do we need an ambulance?" Oh, fuck, she'd been in with Jon, was Jon hurt? Did suspension go wrong?

She led him down the hall, bypassing their assigned room and to the green room. "Bloody idiot, I'll have his head later. He wanted me to lay into him. Kept pushing for more. Started shaking real bad, freaking out." She put her hand on the doorframe, and turned to face Martin. "I moved him out of the room, but he's not… can't look at me without shaking again."

"Okay," Martin said. "Okay. I've got him."

"Be kind," Daisy told him. "I'll have it out with him later, because he should have safeworded, and I asked him his color—" She shut her mouth, lips pressed together, shaking her head hard. "Later. Be kind. Pressure's good for him."

"I'll take care of it," Martin said.

With a curt, unhappy nod, Daisy turned and stalked away. He assumed she'd watch the front.

Right. Steeling himself, Martin let himself into the green room.

The green room was actually green, a soft pastel hue coating the walls. There was a kitchenette, an enclosed side area with a shower, and a plush sofa in the middle of the room.

The lights were dimmed, and Martin left them as they were. There was enough illumination to see Jon as he paced in loops around the sofa.

His feet were bare, and a quilt was wrapped around his shoulders, hanging just past his knees. His ankles were very delicate, narrow.

His glasses were missing, and Martin couldn't see clearly but his eyes seemed red and unfocused.

The pacing stopped as Martin entered, Jon taking an instinctive step behind the sofa. "Oh. Oh, fuck, I can't believe…" He ducked his head, pressing a hand over his eyes. "Another screw up, another , of course, right, that sounds just like me."

Martin stepped in slowly. "Jon."

"No, don't, j-just don't. I know I— I fucked up, Daisy must be…" His face crumbled. "Daisy, goddammit."

Taking a breath, Martin tried again. "Jon. You should sit down."

"I can't, I really can't, no thank you," Jon said, words tumbling in a mess out of his mouth. He gripped the quilt with both hands, twisting it further around himself. He kept murmuring softly, ' no, no, can't' under his breath.

The key was moving gradually. Martin kept one hand out, half-outstretched as he moved around the sofa. Jon took one step back, but seemed to be holding his breath as Martin got close.

Very carefully, Martin put an arm around Jon's shoulders. He was stiff as a corpse, and exhaled hard as Martin touched him. Shushing him, Martin pulled, more and more until Jon staggered a step, and he could draw him around the other side of the sofa.

A tremor was running through Jon, and he started shaking his head again. "It's all just a travesty, everything's gone wrong." A harsh laugh punched out of him. "I've ruined everything, just Midas in reverse, you shouldn't risk it."

Coaxing him to sit was difficult; Jon resisted, shuffling away from the sofa until Martin put a hand on each of his shoulders and said "Sit, Jon."

Jon did. On the floor, by the sofa, weird and petulant and shaking like a leaf, hands clenching in the quilt.

Martin could work with this; he sat on the sofa and positioned himself behind Jon, his legs bracketing Jon's shoulders. Hands back on Jon's shoulders, Martin said, "Midas' story was pretty grim. If you've reversed it, I daresay that's a good thing."

Jon rolled his eyes, then ducked his head again. Drawing his knees up, he wrapped his arms around them, curling up. "Is Daisy alright?"

"Daisy is fine. Worried about you more than anything," Martin said, and pressed his hands into Jon's shoulders. Pressure was good. "Just take a few breaths and try to relax."

"I can't," Jon snapped, then flinched badly enough he swayed into Martin's leg. "Sorry, god, I— I've just…"

Martin closed his legs, exerting more pressure on Jon's sides, squeezing him as he rubbed Jon's shoulder. "It's alright. You're alright, you're safe here, Jon."

"Stop being so damn nice! You don't—" his voice cracked. "You don't know. How I've screwed it all up." He tugged at the quilt, pulling the fabric. It looked ready to fray.

Bending forward, Martin took his hands, held them still. "Shh. Shhh."

From here, Martin could see Jon squeeze his eyes shut, could feel the shudder run through him. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to…" A fragile laugh rattled out of him. "Doesn't matter. Didn't mean to hurt Daisy. Didn't mean to kill a painting. Fuck." He worked a hand free from Martin's to rub the heel of his hand over his eyes.

"A painting?" Martin began rubbing Jon's arm over the quilt. he could feel the juttery way he breathed.

Sniffing loudly, Jon pressed his hand over his eyes. "Killed it. Just destroyed it. Client wanted t— to repair a painting their great grandmother did. Managed to get one from an estate sale." He took a shuddering breath, and let it out sharply. "I killed it. The last owner, or some idiot anyway, they coated the thing in polyurethane."

He said it like a curse, so Martin said, "That sounds bad."

"Horrible. You can't— you have to chip it off, and hope for the best. I was." Breath, exhale. "God, I was being so careful. Chipping it off with a scalpel, I thought it was coming along fine. Under the— the coating, it had gone brown, but under it all the pigments were good, Very vibrant.

"Except the yellows." He tucked his chin against his chest. "I don't, I haven't figured out why, but the yellows stuck to the polyurethane and ripped right off the canvas. Just a disaster."

"What was the painting of?" Martin asked quietly, squeezing Jon with his knees, his hands, pressing down on him.

"A forest scene. Right at dawn. The morning light was coming through the trees and— and catching light sparks." He swallowed. "Very nice for an amateur. Until I killed it."

"Admittedly, this isn't my field," Martin said quietly. "But that doesn't seem your fault."

Jon scoffed.

"Can't you, isn't it a thing for conservationists to touch up paintings?"

"Oh, yes," Jon said darkly. "Not half the painting. It won't be the same. If I had just…"

Martin put his hand in Jon's hair, running against the grain, nails against his scalp. "Jon. Did you come in wanting to be punished for it?"

"Yes," Jon said, low and sibilant.

Asked and answered. Martin had suspected as much, and wondered how often that was Jon's goal. But that required a lot more context than Martin had. Instead, he dug his fingers in at the nape of Jon's neck, stroking up, pleased when Jon lay his head on his knees.

"Does it help?" he asked softly, continuing the long petting motion.

"You know," Jon murmured, eyes lidding slowly. "I'm not sure anymore. And that... " A sharp inhale through the nose. "I need it to. I don't have anything else that works. If this fails, then I fear I'm going to rattle apart into a thousand pieces."

That was too easy to imagine, honestly. Jon's entire body looked and felt like it was held together with loose bolts, liable to come loose in a catastrophic manner any given moment. Martin wanted to hold him in one piece somehow. He wasn't sure how.

Releasing Jon slowly, Martin sat up. There was a twinge in his spine from the bent position, but he ignored it. "How are you feeling?"

"Embarrassed. Unbelievably foolish."

Martin flicked his ear, startling him completely. Jon turned and gave Martin a bewildered look.

But he did look better. Martin tipped his head and smiled. "How are you feeling?"

"Very tired. Bereft. But, ah, stable. For the moment." He shifted out of his tight, almost fetal curl and stretched out his legs, rearranging the quilt around himself. "Also astonishingly naked."

"Do you think you're up for dressing and having some tea?"

Jon glanced at the door and his body tightened, pulling in. "I don't… don't think I can see her yet." His voice picked up tempo. "Which is my own fault, I take all the blame for ruining the session, and I will do anything I can to make recompense, but a-at the moment—"

Martin stood up and walked to the corner of the room. Beside the fridge was a door. He unlocked it and opened it. "My office is right here."

Bracing himself carefully and clutching his quilt, Jon stood and padded on quiet feet over to look. "Huh. Oh, to… for safety, that's very clever."

"And more banal stuff, like avoiding people," Martin said with good humor. "Come inside. I'll send Gerry to get your things when he's back from lunch."

"Someone else aware of my disastrous behavior," Jon muttered.

"Hey. No." Martin rubbed his shoulder. "Gerry's, well, he's Gerry , but we all work here. We all know how to be discrete. And we all know these things happen, no matter what precautions we take. Everyone's human."

Jon stared at his feet, looking small and terribly lost until Martin nudged him inside. "Sit down."

Martin made tea. He made a pot this time, working meticulously and swiftly, and not letting Jon so much as touch a spoon until a cup and saucer were set in front of him.

That same thing happened, the tension leaking out of his face as he watched Martin. His hands moved anxiously, like the urge to intervene and assist was so great. But he quelled each time Martin shot him a look, and eventually he was swaying very subtly in his seat, fingers hooked through the arm of the cup.

"Thank you, Mr. Blackwood," he said quietly.

"You're sitting in my office in spare linens. I think you can call me Martin."

Jon smiled brittlely, and nodded. "Yes. Martin. Thank you."

"My pleasure," Martin said, and it was not as much of a rote line, a stock response, as it should have been.

Jon's next appointment wasn't for another two weeks, so it was a surprise when he arrives in the mid-afternoon on a Saturday. Blackwood House closed up early on Saturdays, mostly to give Martin a semblance of a life outside its walls (for all he did with it). Jon knew this well enough to arrive just as the final clients of the day were finishing up, and sat himself in a waiting chair with a sheaf of green paper across his lap.

Martin wanted to go talk to him. It was a total distraction, waylaying every other thought he was trying to have as he went over the week's expenses and overhead and income. He tallied up everything himself, and the tips had to be added manually to everyone's pay cheques. There was work to finish.

Jon Sims sitting in the reception area with his knee bouncing anxiously was not conducive to work. It wasn't fair to blame him, though; not Jon's fault Martin was… interested. Interested in Jon like a professional mystery, like a puzzle box, nothing else. Jon had a problem, was a problem, and Martin just…

He always looked so tired and alluring paint-smudged. Today, Martin could see a beautiful lilac smear over the back of his hand. As he sat, he started picking at it. The man positively shed pigment everywhere he went.

Eventually, Daisy stepped out from the back hall, her bag slung over her shoulder; she had Sundays and Mondays off and was clearly ready for her weekend.

She stopped on a toe when she spotted Jon, and he stood, a little uncertain.

There was enough ambient conversation in the lobby that Martin couldn't eavesdrop as he was so wont to do, but he did see Daisy walk over to Jon and knuckle her hip, staring down at him with her full height. Which was enough to cow most people.

Jon met her eyes steadily, stunningly unafraid, before pulling a ribbon off the sheaf of paper, unwrapping it a little.

Inside were springy white flowers on thin stems. Daisies.

Jon kept speaking, low and fast as Daisy took the bouquet from him. Without anything to hold, Jon spoke with his hands, fingers curled and supplicant as his lips formed 'I'm so sorry' among other things.

Daisy took a deep breath, her shoulders and chest moving with it. Tucking the flowers into one arm, she reached out, wrapping her other around Jon's shoulders, tugging him against her neck. Her hand cupped the back of his skull, and she whispered something forceful into his ear, keeping him close as she spoke.

A shudder ran through Jon, and his arms closed around Daisy's waist. Though, Martin noticed he did that thing, kept his hands turned outward to not grab her too close. It was a little thing, and Martin was annoyed at how much that little consideration made him flush.

Daisy finished whatever lecture was spilling into his ear, and pulled back, looking down into his eyes. Jon's smile was wan, and he nodded once.

She kissed his forehead, quick and fast as a pulled trigger, before they separated and she carried the flowers with her as she left.

In her wake, Jon covered his face with both hands for a moment, taking two deep breaths before relaxing.

Then, he looked up through the office door, and caught Martin's gaze.

Shit, he'd been staring for the entirety of that exchange. Which, to be fair, was right in the open in the lobby, but also, god. Martin cleared his throat and looked back at his computer, at the rows and columns arrayed for him to do serious work with.

The soft tap at his door wasn't a surprise. Jon stood there, looking anxious. "May I speak with you? If you're not too busy. If you are, I can come back."

"Fine, it's fine!" Martin cleared his throat, because his voice had jumped an octave there. "Come in, sit." Without considering it, he flicked the little glass kettle on.

Jon always sat so gingerly, as if expecting the chair to collapse beneath him if it found him unworthy. Which, given what Martin was coming to understand about Jon, maybe? Maybe.

"You do seem very busy," Jon remarked as he watched Martin.

"Not too much for you," Martin said. "End of the week, I'm just arranging everyone's pay."

"I thought coming in today would be the best option."

"Any day works, honestly. I'm always here, until Gerry chases me out." He fell into silence as he punched a few numbers into his calculator, then relayed the total into Tim's pay.

There was a quiet noise, hidden by the keyboard at first. Ceramic tapping. Martin looked up and Jon was leaning over the desk to arrange two cups on saucers, adding sugar.

"Jon," Martin said faintly.

"You use Darjeeling, right? Or is it the oolong? I think it's Darjeeling," he said, seemingly to himself as he set a bag in each, then poured the water, just under boiling. With a spoon, he agitated the bags a little, then sat back to let them steep, his hands folding almost primly on his lap.

Martin didn't say anything because he just knew he'd somersault a few octaves again, it was inevitable and mortifying.

"I wanted to apologize for my last appointment," Jon said, with the tone of a man who'd taken time to consider his words much in advance. "I was overconfident in my own limitations and ignored every good practice. I know that… seeing to clients in these circumstances is literally a service offered, but I never wanted to be that person. I shouldn't have been that person. It wasn't out of inexperience that I frankly screwed the entire thing up, but… arrogance. And I'm very sorry."

After a beat, he added, "I didn't bring you flowers. Your name doesn't lend itself to an obvious, pithy choice."

"That's fine," Martin said. "Thank you. I'm just glad you're alright."

"Still embarrassed, but all well otherwise." He leaned to take the cups, setting them into place on either side of the desk. "You were very kind."

"It's this grand charade I'm keeping up," Martin said lightly. "As soon as I've tricked everyone into thinking I'm nice, then they'll all see."

Jon's lips curled up. "I'm happy to be taken in by the masquerade."

"And I'm happy you're still here. I'm sure Daisy is too."

"Besides the scolding? Yes." He blew across his tea and sipped it. "You're not rid of me so easily."

"Thank goodness. Ah, listen." Martin looked at the clock. "Give me a few minutes? I need to finalize this. But don't, you don't have to leave, alright? Just sit put 'til I'm done, alright?"

"Oh. Certainly."

Good. Martin just— he didn't feel done with Jon yet, but the administrivia had to be done first.

He calculated each tip amount, revised the cheques, then double checked them again, because Martin had never been the greatest at maths and sometimes made very simple mistakes. Doing it all twice worked well enough for him. Saving each pay order, he sent them out, then handled Gerry's before finally his own. There was always a nice hum to it, when money did find its way to his account. His little venture was working, and that was the most he could dream of, honestly. Something to make the long hours and the otherwise quiet life worth it.

Sex work had never been so mundane. Sighing, he sipped his tea, and let out a pleased sound. "Oh, that's good," he said, looking across the desk at Jon. "You've done it perfectly."

Jon had been holding his cup and saucer, just looking at Martin as he worked. Nothing else around the room, just Martin. The remark seemed to startle him, and he colored darkly across his cheeks and jerked.

The cup slid right off the plate and to the floor, landing with a dull thud. "Shit," Jon said with feeling, pushing his chair back and dropping out of sight.

"Oh, are you alright?" Martin stood, circling around.

"Fine! What is wrong with me, my entire career is built on steady hands, and here I am," Jon said viciously, on his knees and blotting up the tea with the sleeve of his jacket.

"Jon," Martin said. "It's fine. I can take care of it later."

"No," he said firmly, freezing in place, his eyes squeezing shut. "I… Please. Let me. I would like things to go well for once this week."

Still, he wanted to go fetch a towel, something. There were better ways to leech a spill out than someone's jacket.

"The only carpeted room in the place," Jon noted softly as he slid said jacket off and pressed it to the dark spot.

"Yes, well. It is a brothel. Might have to hose something down," Martin joked lightly, pleased when Jon's eyes crinkled at the corners. "That's well enough, Jon. You can stop."

The empty cup and saucer placed on the desk, Jon folded his jacket over and rested it in his lap as he sat back on his heels. He seemed calmer. At least not beating himself up anymore. His fingers ran through his hair, coaxing it back as he lifted his head— then ducked it again quickly.

Martin sort of caught up to the fact of standing over Jon as he knelt.

Something in his chest perked up and went, interesting. Martin wasn't quite fast enough to suffocate it, and it suffused heat through his body. He held out his hand to Jon.

After two agonizingly long seconds, Jon took it, and let Martin pull him to his feet. "You did well," Martin said, because sometimes old habits just would not fucking die and the words were so instinctual. "Ah, thank you."

Jon could not meet Martin's eyes for the life of him, looking off to the side, cheeks smudged dark. "Yes. Well, my apologies for the, ah."

"It's fine. You won't drop it next time." God, shut up, stop it. It was unfair, how his brain was just changing tracks. Jon was pleased. Martin knew Jon was pleased, the charge of it around him like static. And Jon was trouble, was a problem needing a solution, was never pleased.

Now, he was tucking his arms around himself and bowing his head, and Martin hadn't felt so taken with someone in so long. It'd been four years-ish since Martin had done much of anything, but he thought it was even longer since…

He cupped Jon's elbow, and felt his heart beat faster with how Jon lifted his head to look at him then. Whatever he'd been about to say, it vanished. He could watch Jon's face, see a few of the less stubborn lines smooth out, the way his almost permanent displeased squint softened. His eyes were very dark brown with paint streaks of amber swirling through.

Jon's hand curled around Martin's arm near the elbow. Light pressure. Grounding him, perhaps. He needed grounding. It would be easy. It was easy, as Martin pulled him very softly, and Jon swayed with all the gravity of a tree falling; slow at first, then his head rested on Martin's shoulder.

He was so caught up in this reexamination of how Jon felt against him, so different from the last time, the way he breathed deeply and steadily, not an ounce of panic in his body, that Martin almost jumped and wrecked it all when the light changed.

Oh, god, Gerry was at the door. It was just left open because Martin didn't have any prescient dom senses, this was supposed to be just a cup of tea and sympathy. Now, Gerry had his hand on the door, and when Martin looked at him, Gerry was the one who froze like he'd been caught out.

There was an unmistakable whoops expression on his face before he pulled the door shut as quietly as he could, just a faint click as the handle settled.

Later, he was going to suffer for this. Martin knew it. The entire House would know before Monday. Goddammit.

But know what? Martin gently rested his cheek on Jon's hair, drunk on the feeling of how nicely he fit. When Martin pressed his palm to the space between Jon's shoulder blades, he didn't so much as twitch, he was so calm.

A sigh fanned against Martin, and that ache struck Martin right in the gut. He held Jon like that for a moment before gathering himself and turning his head, ducking in against Jon's ear. "Jon. I want you to sit down. In the chair," he added, remembering Jon petulantly plopping himself down on the floor and avoiding the sofa.

A fissure of tension skated over Jon. Which Martin was ready for. "You're not in trouble. You're doing lovely. But I want you to sit."

His grip loosened, and there was a moment when Jon didn't move, shoring up before he stepped back from Martin. The chair wasn't far, and he fell into it, as if the two steps to get there had already been too much.

This time, Martin knelt, and placed his hands on Jon's knees. "Look at me."

"Oh," Jon sighed, laughing a little. "Must I? Could we pretend that didn't… That it didn't."

That hurt a bit. "We could do that," Martin told him. Because it was true and a… perfectly valid course of action.

Jon's eyes widened and snapped back to Martin. "I…"

Martin crossed his arms and rested his chin on them, holding his gaze like it were a precious, delicate thing. "Mmhm. Look. I'm not terribly surprised."

Jon shook his head. "I'm so sorry."

"No, not you, Jon. Me." He sighed. "It was all me, just wanting to…" It was hard, with Jon's face soft and his expression tilting into worry. "I enjoy your company way more than is professional, and I… rather think… you're lovely. So there's that for you."

His brow furrowed. "I cannot imagine why. I'm given to understand I'm something of a menace."

"You're not. Don't say things like that, not with me," Martin said, the command of it just slipping out. Jon shut his eyes silently. "I… cripes, I haven't done this in years." He rubbed his eyes for a moment. "Look."

"I'm looking," Jon reassured him, opening his eyes again. "The view is a little strange."

"I don't want to stand over you when I do this, and you're kind of short." The frankness startled a laugh out of Jon, and the sound was just wonderful. Martin rubbed Jon's thigh with a palm. "The thing is that I don't do clients anymore, Jon."

That fell over Jon like a blanket over a fire. He nodded, resignation writ clear to him. "Of course."

"No, I'm not— not done." Martin sighed. "I don't take clients, and I wouldn't want you as my client if I did."

"I get it, I understand," Jon said, the warm just leeching out of his voice. He shifted as if to stand.

Martin pressed firmly, keeping him seated. "You don't. Listen to what I am saying. If we were to do anything, you wouldn't be my client, and I sure wouldn't do it here. This is a place of business. Okay?"

Settling back against the chair, what was undeniably a pout broke over Jon's lips. "Okay. Then… then, are you… do you want to?"

"Yeah," Martin said. "I think I'd like to try. If you want to. Again, I've not done this for years and I haven't, ah, kept myself up the way the others do."

"What? No, you're…"Jon stumbled, flushing. "Riveting. Lovely. I, ah." He licked his lips. "I would like that. If you wanted to try. I don't quite know what just happened with the— the tea, but I've never felt that before."

Martin had an idea. Oh, he was flushed with ideas now, given what he thought he'd sorted out about Jon, and when he let himself consider it seriously, the heat in his chest went absolutely giddy. "Well," Martin said, keeping his voice steady. "You should still think about it first. And I mean really consider it. You'll be welcome back here regardless. I'll give you my number."

"Right," Jon said, sounding dazed still. He watched Martin stand. "How long do I have to think about it?"

"As long as you need," Martin told him.

"Ah, no. The— the other way 'round. How soon?"

Martin turned to his desk, grabbing his pen to write down his cell number, because there was no socially acceptable answer to that.