searchingfordistraction

The man who decided Icarus Removals was the kind of name that would inspire confidence in potential customers rings the bell within ten minutes of when he said he would.

He doesn't look much like the sort of man who would make his living moving wardrobes and pianos across Britain. He's a bit... exactly not what you'd picture when hiring a man with a van, actually.

The name he was given wasn't one he recognises — Moran — so he has no reason to think that he recently failed at chatting up the person whose flat this is.

At the sound of the bell, Jim fucks off to a back room so he can make one of his appropriately dramatic entrances, while Moran goes to answer the door.

"Hi," he says, friendly enough. He's not exactly of Jim's caliber when it comes to acting, but he can seem unassuming when occasion calls for it. And it's not Martin Crieff he's annoyed with, anyway, no need to take his mood out on the poor bastard.

"Uh, hi," Martin says once the door is answered. "I'm Martin Crieff. With Icarus Removals?"

He's not the most confident fish in the pond, this one. He sounds almost like he thinks he might be a bit lost.

Things Jim did not bother to mention: the fact that Crieff is a gingery little Sherlock Holmes. Christ.

And he can't even fucking blame Milliways for this one.

It only throws him for half a second, though, before professionalism kicks in and carries him through.

"- Right, hi!" he says, more brightly this time. "Yeah, come in. Sorry, we've got a bit behind on the packing, turns out my friend is" - and here he raises his voice, glancing back in a manner that indicates this message is clearly not meant for Crieff - "a massive twat who couldn't pack a box properly if his life depended on it."

It's good-natured. More or less.

"Oh. Uhm. Well. I can help. Or I can get what's already packed in the van while you and your, er, friend work on the rest?"

They already discussed the payment arrangement over the phone — hourly, plus petrol, so Martin wouldn't be surprised if Seb wants to get this done as quickly as possible. Most people do.

Before Moran can answer, Rich emerges from the back room, carrying a box just a little too big to hold comfortably, saying,

"Well, not all of us have jobs where we break the laws of physics for a living - oh!"

He stops short as he catches sight of Martin.

"Rich!"

Martin is just as surprised to find him here as Rich seems about Martin.

"Uh. Hi. I mean... I didn't know—"

Stop being so awkward. Stop it stop it stop it.

(His reaction serves as clear confirmation that they are from the same reality rather than merely similar ones, which technically concludes Jim's experiment, but if that were all he wanted out of the day, he could have picked a less elaborate way to get it.)

"Hi. Hi! Uh, neither did I, I mean I would have given him the name of your company but I never got it so -"

So he didn't. He maybe allowed himself to imagine a little that it might somehow be Martin's company anyway, but what were the odds of that? And it's not like he dwelled on it or anything. Just, you know, it crossed his mind. Once or twice.

"I didn't think this sort of thing, I mean, you know."

He catches himself just before saying something very difficult to explain. And then remembers what he's being paid to do and takes the box off Richard's hands.

Despite his seemingly wimpy appearance, he handles it quite well. Better than Rich was, for sure. He definitely makes his living hefting heavy items around.

"Thanks."

He watches for a second. Or twelve.

Just to make sure Martin's got it all right and doesn't need any help or anything. It's only polite.

Then his brain catches up with the actual conversation.

"Oh! Um, that's all right, he knows about Milliways. It's fine."

"Oh, is that what's going on here?"

It takes a tremendous effort, but he manages to keep the sarcasm down to a faint hint of dryness that he's fairly sure only someone who knows him would catch.

Not that Crieff'd likely notice anything short of a punch to the jaw at this moment in time.

"I'll just, uhm. I'll take this one down," Martin decides. Because what else can he do?

Whether or not Rich follows after would be entirely up to him.

He has a hand-trolley in the van outside, but he can manage this one without it. He has the air of someone who may otherwise be rather uncoordinated, but he's been doing this for a few years now, and has become quite used to it.

"I'll. I'll get another one," he says, to no one in particular.

Maybe a smaller one.

("You could have warned me I was going to be stuck watching the Awkward Not-Flirting Olympics all day," Seb complains once Martin is safely out of earshot.

Jim ignores him, grabbing another box to take it outside.)

Martin doesn't hear a word of it. It's probably for the best, because if he did, things would surely only get worse.

He takes the box down to the van (the value of which, it must he said, he has no idea) and slides it into the back before grabbing the hand-trolley out.

"Here, let me," he says, once Rich appears with the other box. He takes that one off him as well and situates it next to the first.

"Right, of course," he says.

. . . he is not actually sure, he realizes, of the etiquette here. Is it appropriate to lend a hand, or should he be sitting back and letting Martin do his job?

Well. Either way, he's out here now.

Martin is so confused right now. It's not the etiquette that's bothering him, it's Rich. He cannot tell if he's just awkward, or trying to flirt, or being awkward about flirting, or just completely straight and trying not to flirt, or...

"Uhm. I guess I'll... get the rest?"

Smooth. Real smooth.

~~Once he's worked it out, he'll let Martin know~~ There is nothing to do with flirting going on here.

There is, however, awkwardness to spare.

"Yeah," he says, "uh, it's not really as bad as Seb says, he's just a bit fussy."

"No, no. That's—that's fine. Really," Martin assures. "Really, it's...fine."

How many ways can he repeat himself? He decides not to try, and instead just takes off his jacket and exchanges it for the hand-trolley. Unlike some people he had no idea who he'd be running into today, so an old T-shirt and jeans can be honestly said to be his typical outfit for this sort of work.

"I've had clients that were less ready to go. It's fine."

Rich's own attire is similar. Not much point dressing up to help a friend move, after all.

And if the t-shirt isn't that old, and fits a touch more flatteringly than the Storyteller shirt had done, well, it's not like that's difficult. The clothes for the show are designed to make him look benign and approachable, not to show off his physique. Which he does happen to put a great deal of work into, as any actor does.

Anyway.

"Oh, good," he says, looking relieved.

Yeah, this just isn't fair. Martin knows he's not exactly subtle, which means Rich is either completely oblivious or the straightest guy there ever was.

Martin's luck, it's the second one. OH WELL. He's been paid to do a job, and since it's clear that Rich isn't going to reciprocate, Martin resigns himself to being friend-zoned and gets back inside.

"Right. Well. Tell me what's ready to go, and I guess I'll work on that while the rest gets packed."

Rich . . . definitely does not pause to watch him go back in.

Moran is scrawling something across one of the boxes when Crieff comes in.

(It's you fucking owe me in Russian, which he feels confident in assuming Crieff won't be able to read.)

"Yeah, he really is like that," he says, looking up. "Sorry, mate."

No, he doesn't. What's more, he doesn't even ask what it says. Not his business, and all that.

He is a professional, after all.

"Like what, sorry?" asks Martin.

He doesn't even wait to be told which boxes need to go. It's pretty clear that the ones that are full of stuff and taped shut are the ones that are ready. He loads a few of those onto the hand-trolley.

"I'd say so far back in the closet he can't see the door," he says, "but the problem there is that is you have to admit the closet exists before you can get into it."

This may not be entirely on script. Moran doesn't care. He's bored and annoyed and he can't decide whether to feel sorry for Crieff or just be annoyed with him, too.

Jim probably knew somehow exactly what he was going to say anyway, the bastard.

Martin just rolls his eyes as if to say, 'well, that figures,' and tilts the trolley onto his wheels.

"It happens," he says with a light sigh. He doesn't even sound annoyed. In fact, he sounds almost like he expected something like that. Maybe right after 'married with three kids.'

This seems as good a time as any to take the boxes back to the van. At any rate, this news does seem to have put him at tremendous ease.

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