I don't even know the guy! | martin edwards
pairing: waiter! martin x rich! reader
synopsis: you've always thought that fanfiction obtained its roots from real life experiences. so why is it that when it's your turn to pull off a cool and romantic stunt, the world decides to use you as an example?
genre: comedy, slice of life, non-idol au, fake dating
word count: 1.5k
a/n: i have to write something unserious lest i explode, apparently. i also wanted to release something now as im gonna be a lil inactive this week— since this was a spontaneous idea, i don't think it'll be having a part two.. but then again that's what i told myself with the boo series and now look at us lmao, ig i'll think about it, anyway—enjoy!
"Mother, father. Meet my boyfriend."
The tall guy holding your plates of food just about manages to catch them back after nearly dropping them straight on your lap.
No amount of hospitality training could have prepared him for those words.
Two pairs of haughty eyes flit to him within half a second, and he can already feel plucks of white hairs growing from the suddenly induced stress he just got thrown into.
Which is rich, considering this entire disaster could’ve been avoided if your parents had just stopped bringing up Gerald: their favourite suitor, their chosen one, the man you were apparently supposed to be head-over-heels for by now.
"Um..."
He's still holding the plates, completely clueless.
The older woman seated across the table looks him over once, then finds your eyes.
"You're joking."
"I am, in fact, not joking, mother." You fold one hand over the other with poise and control, unaffected by her bewildered stare.
Your father hasn't moved from his spot. His gaze is trained on the poor lad that is visibly too afraid to set the food down and much too involved to even attempt a runaway.
"There's no way this is him."
You haven't even made eye contact with the guy. Don't even know what he looks like, and frankly don't care. Whatever lifeline will help you get out of this situation, you'll gladly take.
So you straighten up and reach for your fancy glass of apple juice.
"Believe what you want."
Clearly displeased, your father scoffs.
"You've never even hung out with anyone before. I bet you, you don't even know his name!"
"Sure I do," leaning over to grab a piece of bread from the middle of the table, you sneak a quick glance at his name tag.
"It's Martin."
"You just read that off his shirt!"
"Honey." Your mother warns, attempting to regain face after noticing some wandering eyes from the nearby tables.
"I just don't believe it. You haven't left the house in 3 weeks and as soon as I mention Gerald's name once you have a boyfriend?"
Barely keeping yourself from rolling your eyes, you can't help but mumble a small lament under your breath.
"Listen, I've been seeing him for a while. It's just," your eyes shift to his form. He's standing awkwardly, sweat pooling near his temple, hands shaking from nerves. "He's just shy!" You offer, like that's going to help with anything.
"Oh, yeah?" Your father retaliates. You nod lightly.
"Fine, then. Let me ask him a few questions."
You watch the waiter's soul leave his body and silently pray he’s better at improv than he is at waiting tables.
Somewhere in the dining hall, a tray clatters. He doesn’t flinch. He’s already past the point of reacting to anything that isn’t directly threatening to his life. And right now, that's your father.
"Where are you from?"
"I'm from...Nebras...ka?"
The waiter looks at you for confirmation, but you're too immersed in conjuring up your next lie.
Resigned to his fate, he stares straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with all three of you.
He really doesn’t want any part in this.
He starts lowering the plates, making one last desperate attempt to escape, but your father's voice snaps him back into place.
"When did you meet?"
"Three months ago," You blurt out.
A vein pulses in your father’s forehead.
"What was your first impression of her?"
"He thought I was funny, smart and impressively exotic—"
A gentle slam against the table serves as your cue to shut up.
"I'm asking him, not you."
A scowl finds its way to your face. You cross your arms over your chest, sinking deep against your chair as an act of retaliation.
Your mother almost faints at the lack of table manners and you can only huff some stray hairs out of your face as you watch your father go on the hunt all over again.
"What's my daughter's favourite colour."
That's not even a question, he straight up asked that like it was a threat!
The poor guy swallows down hard, eyes flickering in all sorts of directions.
You can see him almost form a thought. Your body automatically rises to interrupt again—
"Cement."
The table plunges into a silence so deep you swear you start to hear the hum of the chandelier lights above you.
You stare down at your napkin, suddenly finding the weave of the fabric incredibly entrancing, contemplating whether it is socially acceptable to simply crawl underneath the table and start a new life in the crook of the marbled tiles.
Your father’s voice finally breaks through the tension, more-so sounding like he' trying to recover from a startling nightmare.
"Cement?"
With your lids closed and in complete surrender, you lower your head against your folded fingers.
It's over.
"That's... not even a colour—"
"Everything is a colour if you believe hard enough." Martin says quietly, almost to himself.
He needs to stop talking. Now.
Your boisterous guffaw catches everyone off guard. Clapping your hands together, you tilt your head to the side affectionately.
"My Martin here is ever the jokester."
"...I wasn't joking." He mutters, a little confused.
"I thought your favourite colour was purple?" Your father mulls, still not over the conversation.
"That was ages ago, isn't that right, honey?" You flutter your lashes at Martin.
He blinks at you.
"I guess?"
You burst into another fit of forced laughter.
"You're so funny! Isn't he so funny?!"
The three of them look at you in growing concern.
"Right..." your father starts. "How old are you?"
His question is once again deflected as you pipe up.
"25."
"I am?" Comes Martin's perplexed voice.
You close your eyes, astonished by his complete inability to read the room.
Your father presses on. "What's your favourite sport?"
"Football!"
"It is?"
You slap your hands across your face.
"When's my daughter's birthday?"
This time, he actually tries to answer, and you're almost proud of this complete and utter stranger until—
"Tuesday?"
You bang your head on the table.
"Holy—"
"No, November the 31st!" He finally spits out with far too much confidence.
Your parents don’t say anything.
You want to cry.
After what feels like eternity, your father speaks up.
"November only goes up to 30 days, son."
"Oh, right...g-gotcha!"
Finger guns. A wobbly smile.
Martin might as well have buried you alive.
It seems like your parents have heard and seen enough.
Your mother sets her napkin down first, slow and careful, like she’s trying to look composed for the table four feet away that have definitely been eavesdropping. Your father doesn’t bother with composure though. He’s already pushing his chair back, coat half-way up one arm.
Safe to say they will not be coming back to this restaurant.
On their way out, they pause and look at you. Your father's sanity is hanging by a thread and your mother already looks like she's aged twenty years in the span of five minutes.
"So, tomorrow. Brunch at 12. Gerald."
"Yup." You sigh.
"Great! See you tomorrow!" Your mother strains. She pats your back before drifting off to who knows where, your father attached to her hip like an injured soldier.
It's only you and Martin now.
You listen in on the moving noises of the restaurant, quietly settling in the atmosphere you wish you hadn't created.
For the record, both of you are frozen in place, and you're left to wonder why in the world he's still standing there looking like a lost puppy.
With little interest, your eyes lazily drag to finally take a good look at his face.
And it makes your day even worse because he's actually attractive.
Somehow, that pisses you off even more.
He sends you a hesitant look. "...um, you're staring."
"I'm rating this place 0 stars."
"Oh, um. Okay." A silent moment goes by. He's still holding the same plates and you're sure he's completely forgotten to put them down by now.
"Would you like to add a tip?" He says out of nowhere, his customer service mode magically retrieved from the depths of Narnia.
You wait for a second to see if he's joking.
He's looking at you with the slim hope of gaining an extra dollar out of this whole thing.
Unbelievable.
You slap your hands on the table, the bread basket rattling in the process, and get up to stand near him.
You’re close enough to feel his tentative breath fan against your face.
"No."
You walk out of the restaurant, your empty stomach growling all the way to your car.
You cannot believe you genuinely thought those stupid romantic scenes you see in fanfictions would actually work.
That’s what you get for believing in romcoms and werewolf AUs.
Turning your ignition on, you stare ahead, deep in your thoughts.
Your hand grips the seatbelt.
Next time you see that guy…
Click. The mirror catches your deeply offended expression.
Actually...let's just hope you'll never see him again.
From the restaurant's front, Martin's eyes watch your luxurious car pull away.
With over two years of experience at this job, he has never once considered quitting. Until today.
Clutching his pen and pad, Martin releases a well-deserved breath.
Maybe it’s time to find a job that doesn’t require spontaneous improv...
a/n: martin strikes again!
should i make a taglist for cortis/cortis members? would u lot acc wanna be tagged in these fics?
anywho— i'll be responding to comments after my exam day which is thursday—ik ik (╥ ᴗ ╥) unless i see them before i log out today, that is!
what was your favourite part? let me know! let me know! >:)
