Chapter Text
It’s a well known fact that sometimes people get transferred, not because of their unique skill but because of their secondary gender.
It isn’t good. Most people aren’t going to be doing that nowadays, since the world has moved on past 18-hour work days in factories so full of Type As that it caused time and energy expensive gender flips. It’s an old, outdated practice that is steadily growing out-of-fashion.
Apparently no one told that to Elias Bouchard, though. Mr. Elias Douche-ard, who decided that Martin should be transferred as a living perfume bottle.
He said yes, obviously. He’s not in the habit of saying ‘No, fuck you,’ to people who control his paycheck. And the raise he got was…
Listen, Martin Blackwood has ideals. He also has bills to pay and a nursing home to fund. He’s not exactly picky about where his raises and bonuses come from.
The only not-horribly sexist thing about this is probably the fact Martin is actually Type A. Specifically the kind of Type A most people label as female at first-sniff. But…well, Martin is not going to let that happen, no-siree! Non-functional breast tissue can go fuck itself, if it’s going to get him labeled as a woman!
He’s not actually got dysphoria so much as he does…well, he’s mostly ambivalent to his body. But he knows he’s a man, and he vastly prefers it when he’s not smacked in the face with a, “Hello Ma’am!” everytime he goes outside.
Most of the people in the Archives are Type O, barring Martin, so hopefully enough they’ll be less…bitey and show offy. Especially since Martin’s job description actually includes forgoing the usual heavy deodorant and suppressants. Because that’s just his life, right now, being the token Type A.
Still. It feels rude. And he’s not sure he wants to — well, he really just hopes he won’t end up seeming like a dickhead. He really, really hopes that no one ends up expecting him to start strutting or displaying or anything.
He’s never…Martin’s never really been one for competition. His instincts only really rear their ugly heads whenever people start touching stuff he’s arbitrarily decided counts as his. His subvocals are a constant stream of be okay-no worries here-oh precious poor thing, broken up by the occasional back off-get away get away-it's mine all mine all mine mine mine.
Most of the time that thing is either a small animal or a trinket or a tea cup he’s been wanting to order for weeks, he’d saved up money for it, it was going to have a little swan’s neck as a handle and it was made of delicate, beautiful porcelaine and Martin was going to stash it away into his nest where it would be his and lovely and unlike people, this could never ever leave him alone and wanting and abandoned. But someone else had gotten the last one in stock and now he’ll never have his beautiful little tea cup, his entire life is ruined, and —
Fuck, thinks Martin, as his subvocal suite starts preparing for the longest stream of distress calls he’s ever let out. Fuck, fuck, wait.
“You alright, big guy?” says Tim Stoker. Very pretty man, Tim. Ridiculously pretty. Oh God. Oh God, Martin’s embarrassing himself.
“I’m fine — just…just dealing with nerves, you know?” Martin laughs. Why did he laugh? Oh fuck, now this guy’s going to think Martin’s some kidn of psychopath who does things like laugh in public, is that weird, is he going to be judged for this?
This is why you take suppressants, Martin thinks sulkily. This is why you don’t hire some random Type A as a living perfume bottle. This is why you don’t do living perfume bottles, my hormones were well-managed, my body was fine, and now everything is awful.
Tim nods sagely, as if to say, ‘Ah, yes, nerves, I too feel nervous despite being an absolute marble statue of a man.’ Like seriously just gorgeous, that face should be on a painting, and then Martin could have that painting and hang it in his nest and have it be his, all his, all forever, keep it so nice and so safe and so loved.
Noooo…. thinks Martin. Just in general. A general nooo… to everything that’s currently going on. Really brain? Tim’s not an object and his pretty face is not keepable, not at all. Please, Martin begs the world, be nice to me, stop bullying me.
Tim makes a choked out sound and Martin realizes that his train of thought was, in fact, said aloud using pleading little whines.
He wants to die. Stop hurting, help me, quit standing around, come on over my love, Martin’s vocal suite continues for him, uncaring as the man himself begs the Universe for some iota of mercy.
“Dude,” Tim says, eyes alight with glee. “Oh my God. Are you the perfume bottle? I’m so sorry,” he adds, not sounding sorry at all. “But also… that was adorable.”
You’re bullying meeeee… Martin whimpers. “Please ignore that,” Martin says. “The uh — the suppressants? I don’t go usually off them so…”
“Hormone hell?” Tim makes a sympathetic sound. A it’s fine-don’t worry kind of sound. Martin’s entire being slumps over, it’s ridiculous, he’s about to fucking collapse, someone end this please. “I get that,” Tim nods again, that same grave little nod, and he is so pretty. Shit. Hopefully some of Martin’s other new coworkers will be slightly less stunning. All three of them can’t be this good looking, right? That’s not a thing. Probability wise — it just — it wouldn’t make any sense.
“You get that?” Martin replies, because he’s found that echoing the last few words someone has said in an ‘oh do tell me more’ tone of voice can make up for a complete and total lack of a mental script.
He usually has a script for conversation. A mental, internal dialogue he can pluck words from. But his brain and his body are kind of just screaming at him right now.
“Yep,” Tim smiles. It’s a really nice smile. Someone should paint that smile and give the painting to Martin — wait, wait, he could ask for a photo and hang it up and have it and keep it all to himself. Wait no, that would be weird. “You should, uh,” he pauses. “I don’t know if you’re fine with it but your scent’s kind of outing you right now. I could help with that, if you want?”
Martin’s mind runs wild with the many, many activities that would hypothetically alter a man’s scent. Then, he realizes Tim’s probably just offering perfume or deodorant or something. “Sure,” he says, because there’s only so much that could go wrong with that.
Then his hands get grabbed and oh. Oh, that’s kinda intimate. And there’s that same smile, just a bit coy and rough around the edges, just sly enough to feel playful.
He’s being scent-marked. And well. Well, that’s certainly a masculine scent he’s just had his wrists lathered in. Very manly. Muchly man.
Martin’s still error screening as Tim chuckles, waving goodbye with a mocking little bow.
Goddamnit, he curses. I am not getting a crush on him. I am not going to make this weird. I am normal, I am polite, I am…
I am so alone, he cries out. I am so lonely.
Fuck me, Martin thinks. Fuck me, his subvocals squeak out.