CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LIFE AT the Agency was very much about routine. Arriving, finding analysis assignments in the inbox then reading, translating, writing briefings and suggestions that everyone believed were never actually read. Sometimes some part of the world would go a bit nuts, or come close to it, and the few people with the right background would work like mad for a few days, then it would all settle back down again. It was boring, but the pay was decent, the benefits good, and his level of analysis was unlikely to ever be hit by resource reallocation or administrative changes.
Outside of the rules of the Agency, Arthur had found another routine. Quiet lunches. Books read in silence, yet with a sense of togetherness. Saturdays at the library, then going back to his place for cooking lessons. Sometimes the lessons would run late and turn into dinner at retro movie theaters. It was a comfortable routine, but a happy one, and as winter crawled towards spring, Martin was prone to smiling more easily, and eating a bit more. When Arthur dropped a whisk, flipping whipped cream across himself, Martin laughed a proper laugh. Sometimes their hands would brush over ingredients or books and Arthur felt warm and a little happier.
ROUTINES BREAK. That is their nature.
Martin had a precision routine for his tea, so when Arthur heard the swivel of a chair and footsteps behind him at the wrong time, he looked over his shoulder
Martin was standing there so still it seemed unnatural. A phone was clutched in his hand. His eyes locked onto Arthur's. Arthur said nothing. Whatever was going on, the words that needed to be said were not his. Finally, he raised his hand and touched his fingers to his forehead. "I can give you this." He lowered his hand and pressed the tips of his fingers to the center of his chest. "And I can give you this. But not the rest. It's not who I am. Or what I am."
Arthur nodded unsure what to say or even to think. Martin gave a small nod in return before turning into the depths of the cubicle labyrinth. Arthur didn't turn back to his computer, instead he stared at the gray gap where Martin had been.
'Head and heart but not the rest. Not his body? His job? His past? Did he even want those things? Did Martin want anything in return?'
He knew Martin had his head. His peace, and intelligence, and very dry humor had slid into his own mind. His days didn't feel right without it. His heart? Carol referred to Martin as his boyfriend and refused any arguments to the contrary. And he was listed as such on some hospital documents. Arthur had never had a boyfriend, or girlfriend. He'd had dates sometimes with the same person more than once, but they never lasted long enough to apply terms. The rush for sex in his younger years had been off-putting in ways he knew didn't line up with others his age. And the lies to dates when he was older were equally off-putting.
Outside of an occasional desire to weave their fingers together and trying to eyeball his weight, he'd never considered access to Martin's body.
'A child who is disappointed can be difficult. An adult who is disappointed is dangerous.'
Were there others who had been disappointed? Others who became dangers, wanting more than what Martin was willing or able to give?
Arthur closed his eyes and took deep long breaths. He felt sick and a little dizzy.
Head and heart. He'd take them if offered and he'd give them in return. He already had.
'We'll have to talk.'
ARTHUR LOOKED first to the table he usually shared with Martin. He wasn't surprised that it was empty as Martin had yet to return to his cubicle, but there was a little disappointment. He sat down with Carol instead.
"Boyfriend not in town, so I get the honor of your company."
He pushed across the table a small tupperware box. "Homemade baklava."
"You are forgiven."
In teaching Martin to cook, he'd been trying to expand his own day-to-day repertoire, but the baklava had still taken a half dozen attempts to get right. Phyllo dough was not forgiving. He opened his own lunch of a Caesar salad, but didn't feel hungry. He picked the croutons out and crunched on those.
"So, what happened?"
Arthur looked up. "What?"
"That's more than 'my boyfriend ditched out on lunch' glum."
"I'm fine." The bog standard social nicety fell from his lips.
"No, you're not. Did you fight?"
"No," he snapped.
"Nah, he doesn't seem the fighting type. Make you vanish type maybe."
Arthur just grumbled and picked at his salad. He was aware of Carol's scrutiny.
"Okay."
Arthur looked up and saw her grin.
"I'm going to take a guess. Did someone screw up the 'I love you' moment?" he wasn't sure what look must have crossed his face before he got it under control, but Carol winced. "Oh, you did."
"No. It wasn't-- "
'Yes, it was, you idiot.'
"I just mean... ." Arthur pressed his face into his hand. He'd screwed up the 'I love you' moment.
"Yeah." Carol dragged out the word. "That one's going to hurt for a while."
"He didn't actually say it." Arthur tried to defend himself.
"But he did, didn't he?"
He wanted to bang his head on the table, but it would only fuel rumors.
"Do you want advice?"
"No."
"Do you love him?"
"Yes."
"Have you told him?"
"No."
"Go tell him. That's the advice you didn't want."
Arthur picked up some croutons and crunched them far harder than he needed to. "Why am I your friend?" he asked.
"Because you eat lunch with the weird kid in class. And every pretty gay boy needs a tough, hardcore lesbian in their corner and every tough lesbian needs a pretty gay boy for balance. It's in the rule book."
"I'm not that pretty."
"And I'm not that hardcore, but we make do."
Arthur tried to disconnect and just let random thoughts bounce around his head. "I'm not that gay either."
"Okay, pretty little bi boys."
He frowned. That didn't feel right. It never had, but he never put a lot of thought into what did. "I don't think that's right either."
"Well, you aren't straight."
Arthur felt a headache coming on. "I don't know. None of it ever-- " He tried to convey his meaning by stabbing his salad.
"You know there are more options these days? Asexual, demisexual, graysexual, omnisexual. It's like Brontosauruses."
"What?" Arthur was sure he couldn't have heard that right.
"You know, when we were kids there was like T-rex, Triceratops, and Brontosaurs. Now there's Brachiosaurus, Diplodocus, Qijianglong, Dreadnoughtus. They find a new one every six months."
Arthur stared at her, suddenly considering his sexuality in terms of long necked dinosaurs. Carol sighed.
"My girlfriend's a paleontologist. Would you like to know why every dinosaur toy on the market is completely wrong?"
"If you think it will distract me from my own brain while I finish this salad, sure."
MARTIN HADN'T returned to his cubicle by the end of the day and his parking spot was empty. Arthur had never had an assignment that took him out of the building, but then he was pretty damn sure Martin was not a level 2 analyst and maybe something closer to an actual secret agent. He drove six blocks from the building and pulled over. He kept Martin's number in his head instead of his phone. Old School. It went to messages after a half dozen rings. Wherever it was, it was turned on.
"Hey, it's me. I thought about what you said and I understand. At least I think I understand. I'm pretty sure I understand and I'm okay. Really." He took a big breath. "Nothing more than you're willing to give. I'm not dangerous. I promise. Call me back okay."
Arthur closed his eyes and waited, hoping Martin would call right back, but there was nothing.
The next day Martin's parking spot and cubicle were still empty.
'The safety of the country could hinge on a tiny detail you pick up.' Arthur recited the motto of one of his prime training lectures as he tried to focus on his work: drug cartels trying to destabilize a government. Could be an opportunity to let it happen, then swoop in and get someone willing to play ball in power, but a risky move. He left out that last bit of his analysis. It wasn't his job to suggest black ops foreign policy. It was an easy observation and someone higher up would undoubtedly make it. He heard footsteps coming down the hall and looked over his shoulder, but it was just one of the other analysts walking by.
THERE WERE six rings and a voice told him to leave a message.
"Hey, me again. I'm going to drop by your place. Make sure you didn't slip in the shower or something. You know me. I worry. Anyway, if you're not there, I'll leave. I mean if you're not there, you're not going to know anyway but I'm trying not to be a creep. Bye."
HE KNOCKED on Martin's door for a solid minute before letting himself in. His car hadn't been in the building's lot but his key still slipped neatly in.
"Hello?"
There was no response. It took less than five minutes to search the place. His heart pounded the whole time waiting, to find Martin sprawled on the floor. He wasn't sure if he felt better or worse to find the place empty. His painting was still on the wall and his fine china tea dishes in the cupboard. He pressed his hands over his face.
"Get your shit together," he muttered aloud. "We are-- "
Arthur went silent.
'We are secret agents.'
There had been some field agent style training even for the desk jockey analysts. It was mostly how to tell if you're being followed, checking for bugs in your own home, and spotting honey traps. He started to search the apartment again, looking for much smaller items. He used the screwdriver on his pocket knife to check behind plugs and switch plates. He tapped light bulbs, flipped through the pages of the library books, checked under drawers and in closets. He found a cardboard box in a closet filled with identical suits and Mr. Rogers' sweaters. Inside were files with the names of all the library students. They were filled with handwritten homework as well as personal notes by Martin noting progress and development.
There were no bugs Arthur could find.