Imagine El eerily mimicking Brenner’s style in s5 by slicking her hair back and wearing more crisp clothes and slipping into his more controlling, cold attitude without even realising it; her trauma as the abused turning her into the abuser because taking back the power by lashing out and mimicking her abuser’s actions was the only method she ever knew that kept her alive.
she could’ve spent the season trying to unlearn those self-prevailing instincts in a time of life or death, relearning empathy, maybe even having her constant insistance in killing Henry get in the way of her ability to care for others (especially Henry) which could result in something bad happening to one of her friends/family from her recklessness and that wakes her up to the truth: that her trauma has conjured an invisible enemy (Henry: a fantasy where killing the villain magically ends all the suffering) for her to focus on so she doesn’t have to face the reality of her situation: they’re in an apocalypse and death is inevitable everywhere (even for Max), and no matter what she can do, it seems as though the blood of thousands drips from her hands, so the best way she can make it up is by following the same goal everyone, her friends and family, NINA, has planned for her: to kill the villain, and they will all be saved. She has a destiny, and nothing will get in the way of her fulfilling it.
Personally I think we can never have enough Brenner so can we please have Brenner content.... Brenner betting that he can beat the reader in a game of Chess and whoever wins gets to take the lead on their date night but the reader keeps teasing him and trying to distract him which makes him lose. Obviously he doesn't take "cheating" at chess lightly and how smutty that ends up is up to you. 👀
Is This Just a Game?
Summary: Dr Brenner takes his chess games very, very seriously. You should have expected that he wouldn’t take kindly to you being a blatant cheat. (AKA a game of chess during overtime with Dr Brenner results in you being bent over his desk.)
Notes: I (maybe unfortunately) have a real soft spot for this terrible man latelyyy
I wrote this with young (more specifically the former Bway Brenner in mind), though my mind did go to Matthew Modine’s Brenner a few times while writing it, soooooo…. Imagine whoever you want to lol
Enjoy!!! 🩷
Overtime in the lab is the closest thing you often get to a date with Martin.
Often, these nights are filled with little more than work and idle chit chat. Sometimes, deeper conversations occur and much less paperwork gets done. Then, on some rare occasions such as the one you’ve found yourself in now, Martin decides to make the late night shift a little more fun.
This could mean one of two things. One - you both give into the tension that built up throughout the working day, and spend your evening getting very little done. You study each other rather than the paperwork scattered around the place. Two - he produces one of an array of board games or books, and allows you to get paid for really doing very little.
When he produces a chess board on his desk, you know that he intends for tonight to be the latter. It certainly is his idea of fun - though maybe not entirely yours. It normally wouldn’t be a game that would entice you too strongly, though this time, Martin decides to add an extra condition to the rules that certainly does pique your interest.
“Winner gets…” he trails off, mulling over the prize he’s suggesting. Even if he pretends to be none the wiser, he knows he’ll be the one winning it. Then, with a tug of his lips, he smirks upon deciding it. “Winner gets whatever they want tonight.”
This, to most people, could mean many things. But with the way you and Martin have started to spend some of your long and lonely evenings, you know just what he refers to.
It means that tonight may result in a little bit of both forms of fun. Chess isn’t your idea of fun, though you don’t mind going along with Martin’s plans and playing it, especially if it means doing very little paperwork. You’re much more looking forward to the other sort of fun that may follow.
Martin takes his first move with care. He analyzes the whole board with intense precision, not leaving himself with any inch of room for error. It doesn’t take long for him to get far ahead into the lead, and this gives him a very smug satisfaction while he watches you take every unsuccessful turn.
Tonight, while you play, the stakes feel much higher than usual. There’s usually no hope that you’ll win against him - with his intelligence and general skill at the game, the odds are often stacked against you - but this time you decide to play a little differently.
While Martin is busy eyeing up his next move, you pull your chair in just a little closer to the desk, elbows resting on it while you stretch out one leg beneath it. It begins a slow search while his hand picks its piece. After a moment, it finds its target, touching off of his own foot with the tip of your shoe.
“Your-“ a sudden brush of your foot along his shin makes him stutter. “T-turn.”
A little shift in his seat before he sits up straighter, clearing his throat in an attempt to still appear collected. Even after adjusting his position, you notice he hasn’t bothered to pull away his leg.
Without much thought, you move one of your pieces, and then continue in your distractions once done. Rising your foot up along it further, you bring the hem of his trousers along with it, grazing over the ridges of his socks and their garters. You let the toe of your shoe linger with a teasingly faint touch against his skin.
Still, even though his jaw ticks, he perseveres with his put-on ignorance. A steady hand moves his piece, and in doing so, puts himself in the lead.
You sigh just a little at the realisation that you’ll have to become more brazen.
You take your next turn without much regard as to where your piece moves to. It seems that Martin disapproves of your careless play style, giving a small groan as though almost embarrassed by you acting so devoid of any real chess skill, but it doesn’t bother you much - you know you’ll prove him wrong by winning this match.
Even if you know you’ll have to play dirty to do so.
“Don’t you find it warm in here?” It isn’t, of course, but it’s an excuse to distract him even further. A free hand rises to deal with the top button of your blouse. Your foot still brushes against him. “Feels like I’m burning up.”
Whether he’s ignoring you on purpose or just too engrossed in this game to care, Martin barely acknowledges this. He seems entranced by the board before him when he hums a quiet response.
A roll of your eyes goes unnoticed too. Apparently separating him from his favourite game is much more difficult than you had anticipated.
Undoing your top button doesn’t draw his attention just yet. So, you undo another. Martin is still far too focused on his next move to even notice when you pop open a third.
That is, until your turn rolls around, and you decide to make this action far more obvious.
With your eyes stuck on the board, you lean forward just a little bit more. It takes some effort to pretend you’re only trying to get a better look at your pieces, despite knowing this new angle provides him with a very convenient view down your blouse. At first you’re unsure if he’s even noticed it, until you hear his breath hitch in his throat, followed by a small cough in an attempt to hide his surprise.
When you tilt forward just a fraction more than needed to move one of your pieces, you allow yourself a quick glance up to his face, and notice him wetting his lips with a very darkened gaze. You resist the urge to tease - even an intelligent man like him falls so easily at this sort of sight. His eyes are stuck firmly on your cleavage with a very hungry fire behind them.
To your relief, this decision appears to have been a successful one - both moves did just as you hoped. Your turn in the chess and your attempt of distraction both served their exact purposes. When you sit back into your seat, forcing him to pull his attention back to the board in between you, Martin seems surprised to see you firmly in the lead.
Though he tries to act disinterested while he takes his next turn, it’s quite hard to ignore the way he awkwardly shifts in his seat. A hard swallow and a gentle tug at his shirt collar makes it seem as though he’s beginning to feel that heat you had mentioned as well.
Just before he takes his turn, he speaks up to address your behaviour.
“I know what you’re trying to do.” The accusation comes out in a harsh, low grumble.
You’ll have to try harder to blind side him in the way that you wish, considering how perceptive he seems to be. Perceptive, or perhaps just not totally tuned out of your intentions.
Tilting your head with a smile that feigns a slight innocence, you speak to him softly. “What do you mean?”
Rather than respond right away, Martin just glances up from the board with an icy glare. Still, it’s difficult not to notice the redness now dusting his pale cheeks. A shake of his head with a weighted sigh. “You know exactly what I mean.”
You don’t bother to respond, not wanting to give up the gun while ahead.
Once he makes his next move, he sits back just slightly and rests his head on his hand. A furrow in his brow conveys his frustration, though a flicker in his eyes betrays a temptation he refuses to speak aloud. His body grows stiffer as the awkward moments pass. Part of you wonders whether he may be starting to regret choosing chess in the first place.
Another few turns go by with the same sort of routine. You take yours with the same careless movements, and even Martin’s precision lessens as the time goes by. The more he notices your cleavage, and the higher your foot rubs along his long leg, the less he manages to hold himself together while he plays.
At one point, just as he goes to move a piece, you meet his gaze with eyes full of pure want. A seductive and submissive look at his face, tongue darting out to wet plump lips while you continue to push your chest out. This alone almost makes him choke on his own breath. Reddened cheeks betray his attempt of composure even further.
And, much to your delight, results in his next move being a foolish one. Just like many of the other ones he’s made since you’ve started your obvious distraction.
It’s with some great satisfaction that you eventually take your final turn.
“I won.”
You declare the result proudly. Martin’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times, attempting to spit out some words, before his jaw falls slack. He stares down at the board in total and utter confusion.
“How? How did you…” he trails off, brows furrowing, mouth snapping shut in frustration.
A shrug of your shoulders while your face beams bright. You’re sure your very wide grin is only rubbing salt in his fresh, sore wound. You intend to rub it in even further. “I won. So, once we’re finished with work, I’d like you to make me feel good.”
“Feel good?”
“Mhmm.” He glares with an obvious annoyance. It’s very keeping in with his usual ways to be a terribly sore loser. “Like you said. Winner gets to choose tonight.”
This statement doesn’t get much of a response other than a very heavy sigh. If he hadn’t already regretted his decision to pull out the chess board, you’re sure he must be feeling it now. Like a spoiled little kid, Martin turns away from you in a sulk, very clearly in a much fouler mood than earlier. He returns to his work with a huff.
This sets the tone for quite a large chunk of the night shift. After putting the board away in a tempter, Martin zones in on dealing with his work, paying little mind to you sitting across from him. The silence makes your skin crawl, feeling awkward no matter what way you sit - you had hoped your teasing may ignite some tension, but certainly not whatever this is.
You try to busy yourself with your own work, avoiding his occasional narrowed eyes while they stare, and focus on just getting as much done as you can now that the rest of the fun seems out of the question.
It continues like this, your evening spent sitting across from him at his desk in a very uncomfortable silence, until Martin decides to break it.
“I lost. How did I lose…?”
It sounds almost more like a personal musing. A low mumble while he debates the answer to a question he seems to already know the answer to.
Martin is many things, and you suppose that a sore loser is a one you should have expected him to be.
Despite your uncertainty as to whether he actually seeks an answer, you speak up. “Well, I don’t… I’m not su-“
“Because you cheated.”
The bluntness of the accusation takes you off guard, and especially with it being accompanied by a swift movement on his side of the desk. Martin stands up, a steely glare set on you, though it softens only slightly when you meet it with some confusion. Still, he looks thoroughly dissatisfied while he makes his way over to you.
Your eyes track his movements all the way, slow steps bringing him around to approach you, until he comes to a stop towering over you.
“Get on the desk.”
It’s a stern sort of order. Hands in his trouser pockets, Martin stares down at you with what you’re sure is supposed to be a nonchalance, but the fire sitting just behind his eyes says something much different.
“Wh-“
“Come on. Up.” You don’t even get a word in before he interrupts. A gesture of his hand towards his own desk, and a very expectant gaze. “You said you want me to make you feel good, didn’t you?”
“I mean, sure, but I didn’t think that meant right no-“
He interrupts you with a scoff. “You didn’t have a problem bending the rules earlier. I suppose it’s my turn now.”
You’re hesitant, though not at all reluctant. You’re certainly happy to take whatever pleasure he plans to give, though you hadn’t expected to receive it so soon, and especially not with piles of paperwork still loose around the room.
Without breaking his stare, you perch yourself on the very edge of his desk. This, though, doesn’t seem to be enough for him - with a harsh grip, two hands push your hips back, moving you until your feet are dangling off of the floor.
His gaze burns into your features, pausing just a moment on your lips, then dragging down along to your chest. With your blouse already halfway unbuttoned from your own doing, all Martin needs to do is open it just a little further to expose your front fully to him. He does just that, popping enough buttons to allow himself an even better view of your breasts than what he was already given earlier. Though overly confident earlier, you feel suddenly shy under his stare.
You bite your lip to hold in any relieved sounds that threaten to escape when a large hand pushes under your blouse and finds your breast.
Martin leans down to finally take your lips into a gentle kiss, his busy hand still fondling you over your bra. Both hands rise to hold his face and you sigh as you settle into him, enjoying the feeling of his warm body near you while your mouths move together. Even just this has you already feeling an excitement pooling down south. You know he’ll have something smart to say if he finds you to be so eager so early on.
That hand on your breast moves to snake lower, down your front with an achingly slow pace, until it finds itself running up one of your thighs while lifting your skirt with it. Once only inches from your heat, it rests for only a moment until you spread your legs very willingly, giving him confirmation that you’ll be showing no objections to him if he proceeds.
As he inches towards your wetness, a red hue fills your cheeks. You know your arousal will be evident to him, despite the lack of any real pleasure just yet, but his presence along with the promise of making you feel good has proven enough to have your body react with an eagerness already.
When he runs a finger along the fabric of your underwear, feeling even through it just how soaked you’ve made the material, an initial hum gets followed up by a very low chuckle. He breaks the kiss to pass a cocky comment, just as expected. Warm lips brush against your ear as he speaks.
“Does chess normally get you this worked up?”
You’re too relieved at the friction to answer instantly, rocking your hips with a gentle movement against his hand, but after a moment you do so with a soft sigh. “Only when I play it with you.”
This results in another quiet chuckle, before he pulls the fabric aside and finally touches you bare.
When he sinks one long digit into you, your hands rise to tighten in his hair, and a whine falls out into the room. Fingers twirl through his neatly combed style. You know it’ll be a mess by the time you’re done with it, but you know you will be too by the time Martin is finished with you.
It isn’t long before one finger is joined by a second. Though slow at first, allowing you to adjust to the slight stretch, he doesn't waste too much time before picking his pace up gradually. It already feels too good to allow you to keep quiet. Martin is clever, and his knowledge of anatomy is second to none - he knows where all of your most sensitive buttons are, and he knows all of the right ways to push them. The way he so easily draws desperate moans from you now only serves to prove that.
You pull him into another kiss, an attempt to hide just how loud you’re starting to become, and it’s a one he returns with zero hesitation while he pleasures you. One hand moves down from his hair to grip his strong shoulder, then the other descends to join it on the opposite side, your fingers pressing into the dark fabric while his own bring you nearer and nearer to your peak with the ease of a man who knows you far too well.
When he pulls back enough to speak, his half lidded eyes stare down at you with something slightly darker than just arousal.
“Doesn’t that feel good? Hmm?”
Something in his words sounds condescending, almost patronising, but you ignore it. You nod quickly with a moan while he hits your most sensitive spot. You hum in response. “Yes, so good.”
With a tilt of his head, and a pull of his lips, it looks as though he enjoys the way you turn into putty from his doing. As though the way you melt into his touch brings a smugness about him.
Leaning down, he presses his lips to your forehead, then to your temple, while his fingers still keep up their pace to push your orgasm along. Kisses peppered around your face only further your already blooming pleasure.
The addition of a flick of his thumb against your clit in conjunction with the long fingers pumping into you has you crying out even louder. Your hands grasp onto him, wrinkling his suit underneath your tight grip, and your eyes flutter closed with a quiet string of whimpers and moans.
You’re so close to finishing that you barely even hear it when he mumbles against your skin.
“Do you think you deserve a reward?” Another kiss, this time to your cheek. “For cheating me out of my win?”
At first, you barely register it. The snide remark muttered under his breath, only just loud enough for you to be able to hear, but you’re too far along and so close now to your orgasm to really even process it.
Then, just as you feel your pleasure ready to burst, Martin pulls his hand away entirely.
The loss of his stimulation snaps your weary eyes open, mouth flying wide to object, until he gets a few words in first.
“Doesn’t feel nice to lose when you know you deserve to win, does it my darling?”
There’s a wicked satisfaction in his face as he says it. Desperate hands fly out to grab at his arm, longing for his touch and aching for him to give back the pleasure he’s just taken from you, but it’s no use. He’s already stood up straight enough to stare down at you with an almost mocking smirk.
Then, just as you’re about to complain, he cuts you off once again. This time he does so with far less words.
Martin grabs at you quickly, and in one swift motion he twists you around so that your back faces him. It’s done so fast that the motion very nearly winds you.
A hand flat between your shoulder blades shoves you down with some light force to have you bend over his desk until your chest is flush against it. The way your skirt was already hiked up means you’re now fully on show for him, your dripping wetness totally exposed. and the new coldness against your hot skin makes you shudder.
Any initial annoyance at his edging leaves your body now once you realise what’s next. Before it had any time to fester, it’s gone, and replaced by a very eager anticipation.
Martin presses against you, letting you feel just how much he wants you already, rubbing his front up on you and leaving you desperate for more contact than this. The sigh that escapes him lets you know that this is just as much of a relief to him as it soon will be to you. He ruts against your bare arse - once, then twice, groaning as he pushes his covered erection against your skin - before the sound of a zipper lets you know that you won’t be waiting much longer for some friction of your own.
When he does push inside you, barely pulling your knickers aside to do so, you’re glad that you have the empty office to yourselves.
Martin moans loudly, and you match it, sounds falling from each of you that would leave any stragglers outside with no doubt as to what you’re doing. It’s no secret that the doctor has a soft spot for you, even if he tries his best to hide it, but you’re not sure your colleagues would approve of you using your overtime like this.
Though, while you feel him beginning to fill you, you’re not entirely sure you could bring yourself to care.
Soft finger tips press into the flesh of your sides while he sinks deeper into you. They squeeze even tighter once he’s buried himself all the way, and with a bruising grip once he begins to rock his hips into you.
It doesn’t take long for his rhythm to become far harsher, with any attempt to remain collected or composed abandoned once he hears the sounds that spill out of you. His hands squeeze your flesh while he pushes himself in over and over. Groaning and moaning, pushing against your walls and enjoying the pleasure you provide inside you while they tighten around him.
With the way he’s already edged you, leaving you on the verge of your orgasm with his skilled fingers before taking control to have you like this, it doesn’t take much for you to feel yourself growing close again. You can feel a much too familiar fire build up within you, a stimulation deep within spurred on by the way you start to squeeze around him, and you can only hope that he allows it to engulf you this time.
In between pleasured moans, Martin continues his taunt.
“Does that feel good? Hmm?” His skin smacks against yours with a relentless pace, sounds of flesh against flesh filling up his quiet office. “Does it feel good to get what you wanted, you cheat?”
All you muster up is a quick nod along with a whiny mhmm, and he snaps his hips harder in response to it. This, along with the sounds of his satisfaction and his grip that still doesn’t hold up, is all it takes to finally force your orgasm over its edge.
What little composure he had attempted to hold onto at the beginning is now long forgotten. With each movement he makes, his words melt into a string of curses, muttered in between moans and whiny breaths. It’s only worsened by the way in which you tighten around him while you cry out, waves of pleasure washing over every inch of you, the intensity of your finish even greater thanks to the way he had withdrawn it from you earlier.
Twitching hips press flush against your skin while he spills himself inside you. He sounds like much more of a mess than you’re sure he intends to, a moaning fool in spite of his typically collected nature, but it doesn’t seem he can help it while he fills you. Martin’s large hands hold you tight, body stuttering against you until he’s finished every little drop.
It takes him a moment to move from this position. As though he takes some comfort in the sensation of still resting inside you, or behind you. When he does eventually pull away, it isn’t without a hint of some reluctance at the loss of your warmth. The lack of his heat against you or any part of him physically filling you gives you a newly empty feeling despite his spend.
Rolling onto your back allows you to breathe a little better, and you do so in an attempt to calm your heaving chest. It’ll take you a moment to recover after the intensity of what he’s just made you feel.
“Well…” Martin clears his throat, and it pulls your attention up to him. Tired eyes meet his own while you pant, already missing his body on yours while you watch him gather himself. He straightens himself in an attempt to appear put together despite his crinkled clothes and reddened cheeks. The colour turns deeper while you stare at him. He’s still not quite caught his breath when he continues. “I should hope that was a sufficient enough reward for your win.”
Considering all you had done was asked that he make you feel good, this definitely does feel like enough of an effort on his part.
All that it tells you is that you’ll have to play even dirtier against him the next time he brings out his chess board.
a request about Brenner having a crush on his lab assistant who keeps going on dates he sabotages by asking them to do over time. Only to the only time they go on a date he falls asleep while trying to do an all-nighter and they when they find him the next morning he says something revealing his fancy for them. You can choose how this goes on.
Lovesick
Summary: Dr Brenner finds himself falling victim to a very common illness, a one he long thought himself to be too good for, and suspects you may be the cause. When you forgo his invitation to work late in order to head out on a date, he finds himself lonely and lovesick in his office. (Dr Brenner works late while you’re off on a date, only to end up falling asleep at his desk, where you find him early the next morning.)
Warnings: maybe slight fluff, jealousy, a very small confession, and a happy ending, Dr Brenner being a lovesick fool but refusing to admit it
Word Count: 4191
Notes: I unfortunately still love this really horrible man so much
I just think he’s so clever and charismatic when it comes to his work but would be an absolute idiot when actually in love. So, this is him attempting to deal with that
Enjoy!!! 🩷
Martin takes great pride in ruining your dating life routinely.
Well, to him, he doesn’t exactly ruin it. All he does is prevent you from wasting your time on inferior men - stupid, lustful little boys - when you could be spending it all with him.
It’s easy to know when you have something romantic coming up. You’ll arrive to work on the morning of a date, hair done differently, looking even better and more put together than you usually do. To Martin, you always look decent. On the days that you have plans, he thinks you look exquisite, leaving him even more flustered in your presence than he normally finds himself to be. The doctor is calm and collected around everyone he meets. It frustrates him to find himself much less self assured around you.
As his assistant, Martin finds you competent. Clever, perceptive, careful. Always helping him and aiding him in every way he could need. Every way, apart from in the ways he truly needs, ways he cannot bring himself to admit to you - as an assistant you are irreplaceable. As a person, Martin finds you irresistible.
But, of course, dating is something entirely different from work to Martin. He doesn’t find it’s a world he's as confident in as others. As a doctor he is cocky, but as a human he is not as assured in his emotions as he wishes. He is not as smooth as he desires to be. So, lacking in the skill of suave sweet talk, the closest he can get himself to asking you out is asking you to work late with him. Even better when he knows that he’s the one taking up your evening instead of some other inadequate young man.
Echoes in corridors often tell him of your evening plans before they’re ever truly set in stone. Whispers to colleagues, hushed excitement as you update them on the newest potential addition to your life, and mentions of plans to go out to get to know each other more. Stifled giggles as they ask you if he’s handsome, or kind, or rich. Martin is nosey, and along with it he’s also perceptive - in his eavesdropping, he can pick up the optimism and the giddiness in your words.
Martin always makes sure to set your schedule in such a way that will prevent you from attending yet another little date. The overtime he gives you is only ever over the weekend - a Friday, more often than not - when he knows you’re likely to have made plans already.
Every time he asks you to work late with him, it goes the same way - Martin takes in the way your shoulders drop, your face falls, and your mouth opens quickly with a rejection at the ready only to shut before it comes. It would be embarrassing for you to admit to your boss that you’re heading off on another silly date, he assumes. It’s difficult to say no to him. Martin knows of your reluctance to deny the request - he wonders whether there may be an eagerness to please underneath your calm surface. He hopes there is.
Every time it goes exactly the same. Martin takes some comfort in this, despite knowing how much it disappoints you.
Only, this time, you very firmly say no.
Martin hadn’t expected such rejection to come from you. Particularly not when in relation to an event he always thoroughly enjoys. The overtime he spends with you is the most amount of time he gets alone with you all week, and the idea that you don’t enjoy it quite as much as he does bothers him far more than he wishes it to.
But, reluctantly, he finds himself working late alone regardless of your absence.
The lab seems so much more lonely in the late hours of a Friday evening. When so many of the rest of the staff are at home with their families, or out on the town with partners or friends, Martin finds the isolation of his office to be unnerving. It isn’t like him to think so - but on this particular evening, knowing that you’re off in these late hours doing god knows what with your new beau, he finds the four walls of his office to feel more like a cell than a place he should be working.
Working is the only thing he should be doing with his overtime. But, with nothing but you and your company on his mind, he finds he can’t quite make himself concentrate on it.
With his chin propped up on one hand, and his pen held loosely in the other, Martin finds he can’t quite bring himself to focus. A black coffee grows cold next to his elbow. It always tastes better when made by your hand. The steam of it is long gone while he ponders over your absence. His eyes stare off into space. Though they stare off blankly, they are drawn to rest on the spot you usually take up in front of his desk, where you sit to go through papers and discuss his experiments. Martin knew he would miss your presence tonight, but he hadn’t quite realised just how much the solitude would bore him.
Bore him, and bother him enough to cause a persistent dull pain in his chest.
The end of his pen taps a rhythm on the desk. Why don’t you enjoy his presence just as he enjoys yours? His work feels long and lonesome without you here. The paperwork feels endless without your aid in it. Quality time is just what he had desired this evening, but you’re choosing to spend yours with someone else instead.
A heavy sigh escapes him as he thinks about this,, about the ways you might be spending your night with your lover. Even the word itself makes his stomach twist and turn. Martin runs a hand through his hair. Then, another. One drops to his neck, to loosen his tie and allow his body some reprieve from the discomfort his tired flesh feels. It feels childish to him, to feel himself this worked up over his assistant's absence, though he knows it’s far less to do with your absence and much more to do with the reason for it.
And, though he very much hates to admit it, the emotions that your rejection stirs inside him.
Martin tries to push through these feelings, forcing his attention to the papers in front of him, but he finds he can’t even bring his eyes to fix on them. It makes him feel all too human to be so distracted by you.
Another minute of forcing an attempt of concentration, and Martin gives up with a frustrated grunt. The pen he once gripped tightly gets thrown down swiftly. Black coffee still sits untouched right beside him. He stares off into space once again, swirling thoughts spinning his tired mind, though through the irritation they always end up landing on you.
Had he always been this foolish? Stricken with loneliness and a jealousy that he dare not name? He mulls over this, fixated again on your empty seat before him, until he feels that his eyes can’t stare at it any longer. The lids droop before drifting slowly closed, tiredness and boredom taking over despite the everlasting ache in his chest, and he decides that he’ll put off his own diagnosis until another time.
If he is infected with some illness of the mind, something similar to what some people like to call love, then Martin knows he’ll have to name it after you.
Both hands rise to cover his face, eyes shutting tight, head resting heavily in his palms. He allows his tired head to sink down to his desk, and he lets one arm fall to cushion the side of his face from the hard surface of it. The papers below him will be crumpled under his weight. In this moment, he doesn’t feel he can care.
A short rest lasts much longer than Martin had intended, and before long he feels himself quickly drifting off, but not without you still dancing around every single thing on his mind.
***
A quiet tap on his door is what stirs Martin from his sleep.
Bleary eyed and barely awake, he begins to stretch his sore limbs. His arms and legs feel stiff, and his back completely aches. It takes him a moment to wake up completely, wondering through his exhaustion about who may have come here to disturb him, knocking on his door at such an ungodly hour.
An ungodly hour, he thinks - until his wrist watch tells him that it’s 9:02.
He blinks quickly. Then, scans frantically around the room. His office is still empty, still lonely, though the noise now filtering in from the rest of the lab makes it feel a little less so. The sounds tell him that the rest of the building has started their day without him. His short little rest turned into a much better night’s sleep than he had expected himself to get, even if every bone in his body now feels the full effects of sleeping slumped over his hardwood desk.
When Martin finally does fully gather his bearings, he comes to realise that the person on the other side of his office door is still softly knocking intermittently. His watch tells him now that it’s been a minute or two since he last checked it, meaning his lack of response is gradually beginning to appear even ruder. A quick pat down of his suit, a quiet cough while he clears his throat, and Martin calls out to the visitor. The door opens soon after he invites his visitor in.
“Good morning, Dr Brenner,” he swallows hard when he sees you, suddenly feeling far more alert than he had done only moments ago. He feels his heart pick up in his chest as you move closer. Another symptom to add to his never ending list. “I brought you your coffee.”
His reaction is a delayed one. Martin stares up at your face just a moment too long, mouth agape and tongue feeling dry, before his eyes dart to the mug held out in your hand. Or, as much as he wants to deny it, they’re drawn more so to the fingers wrapped around it. A quiet little thank you is all he musters up as you place it down for him, next to the untouched one from the night before.
When you sit down in your chair, ready to start the day, Martin is disappointed to find that you get straight into your work without much more chit chat. Despite this, he does find himself relieved to notice your lack of a comment towards what he assumes must be a very disheveled appearance. Without his suit fully fixed or his hair combed neatly, Martin finds that he feels far less put together than he usually does, and in your presence this feels rather inadequate.
Still, he makes an attempt to return to the work before him, to distract himself from his tired mind. This doesn’t last long at all before you decide to suddenly interrupt it.
“You worked late.”
You say it like it’s a scientific finding. Martin’s attention fixes on you, like it often does, and he finds your eyes still focused down on the paperwork in your hands. He uses this fact to his advantage to study you while he can.
Sharp eyes take in your face in one sweep. Skilled from years of studying and experimentation, they take in all of the information they need in only a second. Martin registers the navy hue just below your eyes, and the slightly paler complexion of a person seemingly exhausted. Your lips are turned down, following the curve of your slumped shoulders.
This exhaustion doesn’t seem like typical morning laziness. Something about the way you are today tells him that this doesn’t stem from any normal late night or even from overworking. Pieced together with the date you had in the evening, Martin deduced that unlike his own lonely fatigue, this exhaustion stems from a person being kept up by the company of another.
At this realisation, he feels his face turn red. The idea of you tangling limbs with someone who isn’t him makes his skin feel too hot, and his wrinkled clothes feel far too tight.
He doesn’t like to think of himself as a jealous person - but, when it comes to you, he feels it far too often to claim to not be one.
Ignoring in your previous statement, Martin decides to broach the elephant in the room, already sick of the way it weighs down on his shoulders so heavily. With his best attempt at remaining uncaring, he casts his eyes down to his crumpled paperwork, reaching for a pen to scribble some notes. The pages are folded from however long he spent unintentionally resting on them. “How was your evening?”
“My- oh, my evening. It was good.” With an innocent stare, you give Martin a polite smile joined by a small nod.
This answer doesn’t satisfy him in the slightest. His eyes burn even hotter into the page in front of him.
“Did you do anything… special?”
Shifting slightly, your eyes trail down to follow his sketchy handwriting. His own flick for only a moment up to you before nervously dropping back down to the page that he’s trying so hard to keep his attention on. “Are you referring to my date?”
A temptation sparks in Martin’s mind, an impulse to ask what the hell else he could possibly be referring to, but he shoots this down very quickly.
“Mhmm. How did that go?”
He forces himself to look at you properly now. Holding his own breath, he sees a moment of hesitation in you before a warm hue dusts your cheeks. Martin doesn’t miss the small twitch that tugs at the corners of your lips, or the way your expression is a fond one while you gather the memories of your night.
“It was, well… good.” His eyes drop down to the way your hands play in your lap. Nerves or excitement? He’s not quite sure. “We had a lovely dinner, and… yes, it was nice.”
Martin nods slowly, and thinks over the dinner he had - or, the lack of any actual proper one - and it bothers him to think that he could have been the one enjoying a meal with you instead. Did the boy who took you out even take you somewhere decent? Someone fancy, expensive, low lit and romantic? Martin would have taken you to the finest place in town. Would your manchild’s budget have even stretched past a cheap little diner?
It would have been a shame to take someone so lovely out to anywhere less than what they deserved. There’s no doubt in his mind that you would have styled yourself well, as you always do here in the lab - for him, he likes to think, with just how much time you both spend together. Some silly hope that helps him to believe some tiny chance he may have.
Despite not knowing the first thing about the person you went out with, Martin has already settled on a dislike for him.
“Where did you go for this… date?” The word gets hissed out more harshly than intended. He already pictures you being subjected to cheap burgers and soda in the nearest dingy diner.
An awkward shift in your seat shows that you pick up on his judgemental tone, though you don’t bother to address it. Tired eyes don’t meet his when you respond.
“Sorrento’s.” A moment of stunned silence in which Martin does not answer, as yours has dissatisfied him greatly. The place is far more upmarket than where he had expected your date to take you. Admittedly, it’s likely a place that Martin would have proudly brought you himself. It would be with great shame that he would ever admit the way he had previously envisioned himself bringing you there one day. “You know, the one on-“
“I know it.”
Another snappy response, while Martin finds himself now much more irritated than he already was, and far too annoyed to try to hide it any longer. You take this as a sign to go back to working once again.
After this you continue in silence, checking through papers while he does a terrible job of focusing on his. Martin is much more concerned with not so subtly keeping a close eye on you.
At one point, you sit back slightly, and a shift of your shoulders moves your shirt collar just an inch. This fact should not be significant in the slightest, and Martin wouldn’t take much notice of it, if it wasn’t for the way it now allows his curious eyes to find yet another clue towards how you spent your evening.
It shakes Martin terribly to see his new finding - just above the crook of your neck, where your collar would normally cover, sits the dusting of a bruise on your skin. The blooming deep shade is difficult to miss, the perfect small match to your lover’s hungry mouth, and his eyes are drawn straight to it like a bull to a matador’s flag.
And, just like the bull, the sight of this colour drives a fury through his blood.
Already tense fingers tighten harshly around his pen. Martin can’t bring himself to look away from it. Did the boy have the decency to only leave you with one, to stop his primal urges there, or did he selfishly litter the rest of your skin too? Such a disgusting and immature act, to reduce your lovely presence to something ultimately so much more carnal.
Disgusting and immature, but only because Martin wasn’t the one engaging in it with you.
“Can I… ask you something, Dr Brenner?” Hearing your voice catches his raging mind off guard. Pushing past the feeling of his blood now boiling in his veins, Martin forces himself to answer your question with a simple curt nod. If you had caught him eyeing up the new bruise you are sporting then he’s not sure he even cares. The way your eyes don’t quite meet his sparks some concern at the topic of what you may be looking to investigate. “When I stood outside the door this morning, I could hear you quietly call my name. I thought you were calling for me, but you didn’t answer when I responded… why?”
At this, the anger once coursing through him is very quickly replaced with intense mortification. An embarrassment too strong to hide tears through his body as he tries to figure out what you may be referring to, finding himself unable to come up with an answer himself before attempting to offer you one.
Then, after a few moments of very stunned silence, Martin remembers that you had already been standing outside his door before he had woken up.
He shuts his eyes for a moment before attempting to stutter out a response. Martin knows his feelings for you are much more than a normal workplace relation, but your name falling from his lips in his sleep is a brand new symptom on his ever growing list of them. One hand rises to fidget with his tie, but this only serves to remind him that it’s still loose, making him feel even less presentable than he already does in his flustered state.
“I- well, I, um…” he swallows hard. It’s not often that he finds himself at a very genuine loss for words. The room feels like a sauna with your curious eyes stuck on him. Not quite meeting his, but moving along to scan his red face, making him feel as though he is under the same sort of investigation that he normally trains on you. For as long as he stretches out this very awkward silence, Martin still can’t find any viable excuse other than the very shameful truth. “I’m not sure.”
“Oh. Well, I just was unsure if-“
“I suppose I may have been thinking of you.” Martin blurts it out long before he even fully registers the words leaving his mouth. A stupid truth thrown out on impulse. It feels like far more of a confession than he is currently ready for. Far more of a confession than the romantically stunted doctor thinks he would have ever been ready for.
For the first time in a long time, Martin feels very truly stupid.
Stupid for confessing so easily. Stupid for allowing himself to be so flustered in your presence. Stupid for even wanting you so terribly in the first place.
The doctor had long thought himself to be above such human desires as this, but you have managed to prove his theories wrong in every way possible.
A knowing look sparks up in your eyes as you process his silly answer. It’s your turn to blush, a pink hue dusting your soft cheeks, a one that only makes Martin even more flustered. You bite your lip softly and the action makes him feel the slightest bit dizzy.
Martin doesn’t like the way you look at him now - as though his words have just confirmed a suspicion you had held all along. The idea of anyone reading beyond his guarded ways so easily leaves him feeling exposed and unsettled. Normally, Martin prefers to be the one bringing up these feelings inside others.
And yet again, unlike his usual ways, he feels himself genuinely worried about what impression his confession may have left on you.
“I may have told a lie.” This response initially ignites an alarm inside him, until the rest of your statement leaves him with some much needed relief. “My date didn’t go that well. I mean, it was going fine, until… Well, I just definitely won’t be seeing him again.”
This perks Martin up, storming mind subsiding only slightly. Maybe he was right to assume the terrible things he had thought about the person you went out with.
Though his mind does drift back to the very obvious little bruise decorating the side of your neck, he decides to push past the jealousy it still sparks in him, and opts instead to make an attempt to show some sense of genuine interest in your evening.
“Why not?”
“Just not the right person I suppose.” It’s a fair answer, and one that makes him feel a little better. It also makes him wonder what your idea of the right person would be. Martin resists the urge to ask whether he would fit into that mould in any form.
“That’s a shame.” Martin knows his lie is not a very convincing one even before he says it.
A small nod in response shows that you don’t intend to take this topic any further, and you waste no time in changing it. “Will you be working overtime tonight?”
This swift change of topic catches him by surprise, but only slightly. A glance down at his watch tells Martin that he’s gotten far less work done than he should have by this point of the day.
“I’m not sure I would like to, but it seems I’ll have no choice.”
A beat passes while you consider his words. Again, he finds himself studying the small furrow of your brow while you think, and the way you chew gently on your lip right before opening your mouth to speak.
“I’ll stay late with you.”
A tilt of his aching head. It's very unlike you to offer up your time to him so freely. If anything, his requests for you to do so are normally met with much reluctance. “You don’t mind?”
“Not at all.” Your kind smile warms his cheeks, and he feels that he much prefers to have them reddened by your sweetness rather than his own anger. “Two heads are better than one after all. This work shouldn’t keep us here too late if I stay here too.”
With a quickening heartbeat and a still racing mind, Martin can’t help but return your smile warmly. His previous frustration begins to leave his body, the still present ache in his chest now finally slowly fading.
Offering to give up your free time to work with him of your own accord is the closest Martin feels he may get to having you fully ask him out. To him, it may as well be the very same thing.
“Thank you. It’s-“ Martin resists the urge to call it a date. “It’s settled then.”
When he finally does return to his work reluctantly, Martin feels far more relaxed than he had expected based on his previous frustration, and he wonders if you may be both the cause and the cure to his persistent emotional illness. Either way he decides that more time spent with you would surely do him no real harm.
Maybe later, he’ll muster up the courage to take you out for dinner after work in return for your help.
