Chapter Text
hey
you are a horror
hottie
“Tim!” Martin squawks, lunging for his phone. “Just because it’s not real doesn’t mean you can…mess around with it!”
Tim laughs and lets him pull the phone from his hands, almost tipping back out of his chair in the process. “It wasn’t me!” He says, hands raised innocently. “It was autocorrect! It’s not my fault you talk more about horrors than hotties. Which--” He points. “--is exactly why we’re doing this in the first place.”
Martin gives him what he hopes is a withering look, clutching his phone to his chest and trying to ignore the blush crawling up his neck. He sneaks a peek down at his phone. Can you delete messages? No. Of course not. That’s simply not how his life goes.
It’s just a dummy account anyways, or so Tim assures him. No profile picture, no information. No display name except for A, and probably only because the app doesn’t let you register without one. The perfect opportunity to practice his--
Ugh. Martin buries his face in his phone, trying to become one with it.
“Oh, come on. Why are you so embarrassed?” Tim says, shaking him bodily by the shoulders. “Sasha, tell Martin to stop being so embarrassed.”
“Some of us are working, you know,” Sasha’s voice comes from the direction of her desk, but he can tell she’s smiling. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed, Martin.”
“See?” Tim says. Martin looks up just enough to see his I-told-you-so look. “People use these apps all the time. It’s not a big deal.”
Martin grimaces. “Did you have to pick one named…Lovr?”
Tim shrugs. “It’s new. And it’s probably not going to last very long. So this will be the training wheels, and when you’re ready we can move you up to the big leagues.” He clasps his shoulder and Martin sways. “I let you use a fake name, didn’t I?”
“You did…” He says. Actually, they’d gone through several fake names--including Marty McFly, Marto Lovechild, and Mario Bario for some ungodly reason--until they’d settled on M. Which probably makes him look like just as much of a fake account as A, except at least he has a profile. Sure, the picture is of his cat and he’s claiming to live in Edinburgh, but the rest of it is more or less true.
“I just think this is all...silly,” Martin says, his cheeks burning now. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine. I don’t need a dating app.”
Now even Sasha is giving him a look. Traitor.
“Really.” He says again. Weakly.
“What you need is self-confidence,” Sasha says, finally putting down the file she was pretending to read. “Talk to a few people. Be yourself. It might actually be good for you.”
“And if you happened to get over other weird, pointless crushes while you’re at it…” Tim offers.
“Shut up.” Martin hisses, and he’s got to look like a stoplight now. “I don’t--that’s completely--”
“Martin.”
Martin jumps, his knee slamming into the underside of his desk hard enough that his eyes water. He turns to find Jon at the end of the hall, a fresh cup of coffee in his hands and an annoyed look on his face. “Yes?” He squeaks.
Jon’s frown deepens. “Have you finished that followup on the Arbuckle statement?”
Somehow no, I got distracted watching Tim download a shady dating app onto my phone doesn’t feel like an appropriate answer. “...working on it!” he says brightly instead.
“Hm.” Jon grunts and he drifts away again, back toward his office.
Martin waits until he hears the door click shut again before he drops his head onto his desk.
“Yeahhhh,” Tim says. “You’re right, Martin. You’re doing absolutely fantastic as-is.”
Martin sighs into the cheap wood surface. “Fine,” he mumbles. “Fine.”
*
“Who are you and what have you done with Jonathan Sims?”
Several disastrous things happen at once.
The Admiral darts across the living room, causing Jon to run into the coffee table shins-first, knocking over a glass of water onto his bag, which is propped open with several file folders of paper within range. It’s like the world’s most pointless Rube Goldberg machine.
“Shit,” he hisses, snatching up his bag and shaking the water out onto the rug, his shin still smarting where it met the sharp corner of the coffee table.
“Oh! Sorry!” Georgie puts her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide. “Alright, that’s not what I intended to happen, for the record.”
Jon shoots her a flat look, smacking water off the topmost file. They’re a little damp, but the folders took the worst of it. And honestly, if the Institute loses a file or two--well, literally who would know besides him? It’s not as if Gertrude tried even slightly to keep track of them all.
He should have left them at work, as Georgie has been pointedly reminding him all night. But, considering he would probably still be at work if she hadn’t guilted him into coming over (“You’re going to forget what the sun looks like if you don’t leave that dungeon once or twice.”), so it had seemed like a fair compromise. Not that she’s let him touch them since he stepped through the door anyway.
“What did you intend exactly, besides giving me a heart attack?” He says.
“Oh. Well.” A grin blooms across her face and Jon knows that he’s in trouble.
His eyes dart downward. “Is that--is that my phone?”
The grin drops into a look of perfect innocence, her eyes almost as wide as the Admiral’s when he decides it’s time for second dinner. “You left it on the table,” she says. “I was going to bring it to you…”
“Give it to me.”
“...but I couldn’t help but notice you have a notification...”
“Georgie!”
“Lovr, Jon? Really?” She laughs as he snatches it out of her hands, almost tripping over the coffee table in the opposite direction. “Seriously, did you lose a bet? Even in the universe where you used dating apps I’d hope you’d be a little less trashy about it.”
Jon dismisses the notifications without reading them. He’d thought he’d turned those off, but the stupid app barely works. Or maybe he’s the one that’s the problem. Since starting as Head Archivist he’s gotten tragically familiar with analog technology to the detriment of his ability to navigate the digital world.
“It’s for a statement,” he says scathingly. “I had some follow up to do and you can’t access the app without an account.”
A for Archivist was a bit of a reach, but he certainly wasn’t putting his name anywhere on there. Not the least of which because of the app’s alleged connection to the disappearance of a young woman.
“Sure,” Georgie says, still laughing at him. At least someone is having fun. “Don’t you have assistants for that kind of thing?”
“Yes, but…” He huffs, scratching the back of his neck. “I wasn’t going to ask one of them to download an app called...Lover? Lov-rrr? I don’t know how you say it.” He flaps his hands dismissively. “There are--unions and such. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
More like he’d rather die than ask them. Or say the word lovr out loud ever again, preferably. If Tim heard him, death would probably be preferable.
“Right…” Georgie squints at him, a smile still teasing at her lips. “Well, it looks like you got a bite, hot stuff. Might want to check it out.”
Jon snorts. “Georgie, if you ever catch me actually using this thing, you have my blessing to mercy kill me,” he says. “Assuming that whatever ax murderer I was talking to hasn’t done it already.”
*
He doesn’t actually want to check the message, but there’s an annoying little red bubble on the corner of the app that won’t go away until he’s viewed them. Jon frowns at the little 3 like he can wish it away, bathed in the glow of his phone screen as he lies in bed. Georgie kept him out later than he meant to be and he needs to be at work early tomorrow, but the red bubble caught his eye as he went to double check his alarm and it’s been nagging at him ever since.
Fine. He huffs and clicks the app.
The kitschy pink background fills his screen, nearly blinding him in the dark. The little notification continues to haunt him, now hovering over an envelope in the top right corner. He jabs it with a little more force than necessary.
M:
hey
you are a horror
hottie
He has to admit that’s not what he expected.
Jon frowns and clicks the user’s icon before he can think better of it. He’d expected a few messages from bots and generalized sort of perverts, the kind that would message an account with no information on it, probably because they’re looking for fresh kidneys to harvest. Not to say that M isn’t an organ trafficker, but for all appearances he also appears to be a cat that lives in Scotland and likes poetry. Unfortunate.
He hesitates, and once again his fingers move faster than his mind.
A:
...Thank you?
He bites the tip of his tongue, squinting up at his phone, and he can’t help just a little chuckle. Just a little one. It’s not even a joke, but something about it tickles him. Who says he can’t have fun?
He promptly drops his phone on his face.
*
Jon’s at work the next day when he notices a new notification.
He hesitates, his finger hovering over the screen. It’s different in the stark light of day, even if there’s not much of that to be found in the archive. He really should leave it be. Engaging with some stranger on an even stranger dating app isn’t going to help him with his research on the disappearance.
Well. It might.
M:
oh my god i’m so sorry
that was my friend just being stupid he thought you were a fake account i swear
sorry!
There’s a statement waiting for him, the tape recorder already rolling, but he’s curious now.
A:
This is a fake account.
A reply, only moments later.
M:
...sorry?
A:
It’s for work purposes.
M:
oh! i see
well, sort of
Ah...he said too much. Now he’s somehow the weird one, as if unironically using an app called lovr didn’t already set a high threshold. He sighs and moves to put his phone aside.
M:
mine’s a bit too, i suppose
my coworker made it for me, i mean
i guess that’s not really the same
Jon frowns at his phone.
A:
Your coworker?
That’s a little unprofessional.
M:
oh, it’s ok! he means well
we’re friends and all
friendly? something like that
sorry, i should leave you alone
good luck with your work!
Jon eyes the statement. Is it possible that the tape recorder actually looks a little impatient?
A:
Thank you.
He sets his phone aside, flipping it screen-side down, to prevent any further distractions. “Statement of Martha Thompson, regarding an infestation of moths in her home. Original statement taken March second, 2007.” He clears his throat. “Statement begins.”
*
Three days pass before Jon gets another notification, long enough that he’s nearly forgotten about it. Truthfully, the disappearance statement has slid to a bit of the back of his workload, and what little thought he dedicates to the lovr app went with it. In a mess of statements about serial killers and haunted dolls, a slightly stranger than average disappearance doesn’t make much of a splash.
He’s home sick that day, slouched miserably on his couch and flipping idly through the paperwork he managed to sneak with him. It’s just a little cold, barely more than a stuffy head. Elias had been inordinately pleased with his dedication to coming in to work, but he’d sent him home anyways with orders to rest.
Which would be easier, if his head didn’t ache so damn much.
His phone screen lights up with the new message, catching his eye from where it sits precariously close to the edge of the couch. He eyeballs it warily. He can tell from the notification that it’s from the lovr app.
Finally, curiosity wins out and he leans across the couch, paperwork crinkling beneath him as he snags his phone and swipes open the message.
M:
sorry, me again
can you do me a favor and just chat with me a bit so I can pretend i’m using this correctly?
my coworker wants me to ‘show my work’ haha
it’s ok if you don’t want to
Jon types a reply before M can ramble any further. As soon as he starts, M’s typing bubble drops away.
A:
Are we not chatting right now?
M:
i mean like
you know, chatting
like you’re supposed to do on these apps
Jon pulls a face.
A:
Like sexting?
The response is immediate.
M:
NO. god no.
definitely not
A:
I wasn’t going to, for the record.
M:
ok let’s just...move on from that
it’s just, you know, getting to know one another
here, i’ll start
do you have any hobbies?
There’s a long and troubling moment where Jon can’t think of a single thing he does for fun.
A:
I work a lot.
M:
work isn’t really a hobby
A:
I’m a busy man.
M:
so you’re a man! ok interesting!
A:
Is that usually a topic covered in ‘chatting’?
M:
i mean, most people put it in their profile, but sometimes i guess
Jon tries to snort and ends up sneezing instead.
A:
I’m starting to see why I don’t do it very often.
M:
haha, don’t let me turn you off of it, i’m just not very good at it
that’s why i’m stuck here i suppose
conspiring with strangers to trick my friends into thinking I have social skills
A:
It could be worse.
You could be a man with no hobbies.
M:
haha true!
oh, that was a joke! i didn’t know you did jokes
A:
Don’t get used to it.
Is that enough ‘chatting’ for your coworker?
M:
i think i can work with that
thanks! (:
*
"Hmm." Tim tips his head thoughtfully from his position on top of Martin's desk, his legs swinging lackadaisically. Jon has been out sick for two days now and the entire archive has fallen into anarchy it seems, largely in that Tim has declared it open season on Martin's love life. "Why is this a screenshot? Why can't I see the whole conversation?" He swipes at the screen like it's going to change somehow.
"Because I don't want you dissecting all of my personal conversations?" Martin offers lightly, plucking his phone back out of Tim's hands before he gets any ideas about just opening the lovr app himself.
Tim scoffs. “Boring.” He leans back, planting his hands on all the paperwork Martin is resolutely ignoring. “Speaking of which, you have such a type. It’s appalling.”
“Oh no,” Sasha says. “Oh, Martin. Tell me it isn’t true.”
Martin huffs, flustered. “I do not--I do not have a type of any sort.”
Tim clears his throat theatrically. “‘Do you have any hobbies?’ ‘I work a lot. I’m a busy man”,” he recites in a flat, droning voice.
“I will shove you off of there,” Martin threatens, kicking Tim’s feet from where they’re messing with his filing cabinet now.
“Mar-tin,” Sasha sighs, putting her chin in her hand. “You’re supposed to be getting over Jon, not going and finding a new one.”
“Will you shh?!” Martin hisses, his face going red, not for the first time that day.
“What? He can’t hear you,” Tim says. “Unless he’s got more of those tape recorders lying around.”
They’re all quiet for a moment too long.
“Anyway,” Tim says. “You’re going to have to try a little harder, Martin. But don’t worry--Rome wasn’t built in a day, after all.”
*
Two days home sick trips right into the weekend and Georgie threatens him with bodily harm if he tries to go into work on a Saturday, especially when his nose is still dripping pathetically. He's run out of work to do and he can't think of a way to convince someone to bring him more that would actually go well.
Which leaves the Lovr Disappearance.
Which is a stupid name for it, but not every mystery gets something headline-worthy, he supposes. Personally, he'd rather never be found than be associated with the app in any way.
He's already spent more time on it than he ever would have guessed or, really, preferred. But he's not quite well yet, and every time he tries to read his attention span starts to slip until he finds himself staring at walls, wondering if he should finally get around to painting them something a little brighter. At least this feels like he's doing something, even if he's pretty sure the disappeared woman is well gone by now.
A:
Have you ever encountered anyone strange on this app?
M:
only you!
only you at all I mean! not that you're strange!
well...
A:
Oh, very funny.
I'm trying to investigate.
That's a bold way of putting it when he's laid diagonally across his bed, still in his pajamas with a crumpled tissue on his chest. But no one has to know about that part. Preferably no one will know about any of these parts.
M:
oh right! this is all a work thing
what do you do?
if you don't mind me asking
Hm. There's no point in being honest, especially if it could lead back to the institute. M might seem normal for the moment, but who knows the type that apps like these attract. He doesn't need anyone knocking on the institute's door looking for him.
A:
A detective.
Not wholly untrue, right?
M:
haha. riiiight
Jon frowns, sitting up. What's that supposed to mean?
A:
Problem?
M:
of course not
i'm an astronaut
Ah. Jon's frown turns into a scowl. He doesn't believe him. Which shouldn't bother him--what does it matter what he thinks?--but it does. Just a little bit. What's so unbelievable about him being a detective? Is there a--a vibe he’s putting off incorrectly?
A:
I think an astronaut would have a slightly better grasp on proper capitalization.
M:
hey, this is a choice i’m making!
it’s an aesthetic
A:
What?
M:
it means i’m cool! trust me
A:
I suppose I have no choice.