Chapter Text
Martin did not consider himself a lucky man, especially at this current moment in time. His thigh muscles screamed and his feet hurt, he was also more than a little lost. Logically, he knew he was in fact very lucky to get this job, but he definitely didn’t feel it. He’d thrown many bald-faced lies into his resume and whoever that had been in charge of hiring had either not checked or just not cared who was filling the job, probably just wanting a warm body to fill the roll.
He was regretting some of those lies at the moment, the job, a Firewatch at a national park, had been asking for someone athletic. Martin was not that someone, he knew that as he huffed and puffed, clumsily hoisting himself up some rocks towards what he thought was the right path; he’d been hiking before, he’d thought that this wouldn’t be too bad. He was wrong. His skin was pink with sunburn, he’d scraped up his palms when his foot had caught a root, and he’d nearly broken his glasses when they had slipped off his sweat slicked face and taken a swan dive onto the rocky ground. They had been scratched; which annoyed him; but it was just superficial damage. It would be just his luck to break something so important before even making it to the watchtower.
It was miserable, but he hadn’t put too much thought into what the job entailed, just that it was far away and that it was isolated. Exactly what he had wanted. He wanted-needed-to escape. Escape his… his guilt. He didn’t like thinking about her; his mother, he’d left her in a care home with strangers, for Christ's sake. But he just, he just couldn’t deal anymore, he tried to bury his guilt with the thought that she was with professionals; people who actually knew what they were doing, but it all felt like empty placations, even to himself.
He spots the watchtower through a gap in the trees and puts a pep in his step; jogging to the small clearing and hill the tower resides on. He slows down on the incline and stops at the food of the tower, letting out an exasperated sigh as his eyes climb up the horrendous number of stairs waiting for him. They look rickety, with peeling white paint and splintering supports. He’s hunched over, hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath; he straightens up and gingerly places one foot on the first stair, hoping they’ll hold his weight.
Martin hates stairs more than anything, he finds as he finally reaches the top. It didn’t take long to climb them, but good golly, it already took two days to hike from his car to the watchtower; the stairs were not pleasant on his sore legs. It had become less of a worry he would fall through the stairs and more of a worry he would pass out and fall down them.
He pauses for a moment to take in the outside of the tower, windows on every wall, boarded up now, the wooden walls are in slightly better condition than that of the stairs so that's reassuring. It's a rather unremarkable building, but it's getting dark out and this place is going to be his home for some time; he walks around the wrap-around porch-porch? Balcony? He’s not sure what to call it, he’s even less sure about why he’s thinking about that instead of getting inside. Inside, right. He can see nothing but darkness, excluding a little red light, as he peers through the glass panes on the door, he’s nervous but he sucks it up and pushes the door open.
He fumbles with the light switch on the doorframe. Nothing. He’s squinting in the low light, there must be some sort of power switch, oh. It's right in front of him. It has the little red light, he flips the switch, the red light goes green and the overhead light flicks on.
It’s a small room, with counters on two walls and a desk by the door, an oven by the counter with the sink, and a few boxes labeled “Supplies for Two Forks.” He’d get to those eventually; his main concern right now is climbing into the small bed in the corner and sleeping for a million years. But he has to check in with the person who's meant to be his boss.
He spots the walkie talkie on the desk and grabs it, clicking it on. A male voice emanates from in almost immediately.
“Hello, Two Forks Tower!”
After so much time spent in relative silence, the voice seems to fill the room. Martin pauses, he doesn’t quite know what to say, he’s tired and just wants to crash into bed.
He presses on the button and hopes it works, “Uh, Hello? Whoever this is?” He walks around the room, looking at the items on the counter. He walks around the map table thing? Whatever it is, and sits heavily onto the bed, it creaks loudly in protest. The walkie crackles to life again.
“This is Martin, yes?” The voice comes again, sounding almost… teasing?
“Er, yeah-yes. Yes, this is Martin, Martin Blackwood.” Why did he say that? ‘Martin, Martin Blackwood.’ Like he’s James Bond or something. Before he can mentally berate himself anymore, the voice filters through again.
“I’m Jon.” He sounds a little amused, voice a little slurred, maybe just happy to be talking to a person. Martin knows he won’t be that happy to talk to him like that soon enough; maybe even as soon as right after this sure-to-be-painfully-awkward conversation.
The name does spark some recognition in his sluggish mind. Clearly a very sluggish mind at the moment as he gapes like a fish for a second before finding the words. “Oh! The guy, that's, uh, that's what he said on the phone, but, er, you know that already because, because that's uh, your name.” He should shut up, his one saving grace is the merciful fact that the voice, Jon, can’t see Martin’s fish-face.
It's a moment before the walkie clicks on again, probably so Jon can laugh while still sparing Martin’s feelings. “So, what’s wrong with you?” Jon’s question is simple; he’s probably teasing from the sound of his voice, but the question cuts deep into his chest. A few things flash through his mind: Needy, Sensitive, Clumsy, Useless, Inadequate. But that's not really something you unload onto a stranger first thing.
“W-what?” His response is pitifully bare, but his mind can’t formulate anything better at the moment.
Jon’s voice comes much quicker this time. “People take this job to run away from their lives,” he states as if it's so obvious, it probably is, Martin’s mind just went to the worst immediately, as per usual. “So, what's wrong?” he finishes, his words are a little clumsy, running into each other.
Martin’s a little affronted and snaps back. “What’s wrong with you?” Very creative comeback; he’s getting a bit defensive. Jon’s words hit far too close to home.
“Oh, good job putting that one together, go ahead.” Jon doesn’t sound mad, sarcastic, sure, but not mad. At least Martin hasn’t ruined everything. Yet. He doesn’t really know what he means by that, maybe it makes perfect sense to a well-rested person; he’s not that person right now.
“I’m sorry, I’ve just hiked for two days, I’m tired and-and I’m not sure what you mean?” He lays back on the bed heavily, then immediately bumps his head into the wall, misjudging the size severely. He curses, sits up, and rubs at the back of his head, nearly missing Jon’s response.
“You try taking a wild guess at what you think is wrong with me.” he says this like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Ok, ok, then can I go to sleep? Forever, please?” Martin asks, kicking off his boots, not caring where they end up.
“Yes, Martin. Now, tell me.” There's a laugh laced in his voice.
Martin tries to match Jon's teasing demeanor, “You’ve been framed for a murder you did't commit and now you're stoically hiding making a martyr of yourself?” He tries to shoot for a teasing tone and hopes he hasn’t fallen short.
There's silence for a moment and Martin is scared he’s messed it all up. The walkie sparks to life again, letting Martin catch the tail end of a laugh. “Very good, Martin! Exactly right, you’ve caught me, whatever shall I do?” He sounds almost delighted at Martin’s teasing.
Martin feels almost… proud of himself, he’s been laughed at before; all his life nearly; it's nice when they’re laughing at his words instead of his person. As nice as that feels, it’ll feel even nicer to pass out into unconsciousness. “Marvelous, may I head to bed now?”
“Oh, sorry, Martin, not quite. I don’t know a thing about you, and you’ve got me figured out already, s’not fair, is it?”
Martin rolls his eyes, “Goodnight, Jon.” A smile has wormed its way onto his face though, treacherous lips.
“In most cases, people are out here because they’ve got dumped.” Martin can hear the grin in Jon’s voice. “What? No! I would never-I could never-!" He splutters. "No, no one dumped me, Jon." Martin corrects.
"Was I at least close?” Jon asks with a flippancy to his voice. Martin scoffs before replying,
“Goodnight, Jon.”