Chapter One

The Agency had committed many sins in its years of operation. Those sins were kept behind lock and key and encryption; stamped with words like Top Secret and Eyes Only. These sins and crimes were hidden even from the agents who helped create them.

There was only one sin in the organization that every agent had access to, and full knowledge of, no matter their rank or position: Sub-level three, the cafeteria. Placed above the servers (supposedly) and below the room of high-tech gadgets (rumored), it was a location that Arthur seldom visited and not just because he preferred his own cooking. On the rare occasion when an unexpected late shift forced him to pop down for a coffee and a plastic- wrapped white bread sandwich, the quality had reminded him of school lunches. Possibly a little worse.

He wasn't sure if Martin had ever been to the cafeteria, as he subsisted on apple slices prior to their meeting and now mostly ate what Arthur fed him. However, one day a year, perhaps out of patriotism, or maybe shame, the cafeteria put on an excellent Thanksgiving spread for those who either had to work or who volunteered so others could be at home with family.

He slid down the line with two plates, one for himself and one for Martin. There had been a slight widening of Martin's eyes that Arthur recognized as confusion and possibly overwhelming panic as he was confronted with the Thanksgiving buffet.

He didn't ask if Martin had ever had a Thanksgiving dinner before, knowing the answer would either be no, a long time ago, or not in this form. Instead, he'd taken two plates and sent Martin off to sit with Carol.

Martin's plate looked more like a small Thanksgiving-themed charcuterie board with bits of this and that minus certain flavors and textures he knew Martin wouldn't like. For himself, he piled up the starch, added a couple pieces of turkey, and drowned the whole thing in gravy. There were times for bringing out the restaurant presentation skills, then there was his own Thanksgiving plate.

He slid Martin's plate in front of him. Carol didn't comment, but Carol was good that way. In the months that Martin was missing on that disastrous assignment, she'd been the closest thing he had to a shoulder to cry on, giving her a better understanding of his relationship with Martin than anyone else.

She did, however, look over Arthur's plate of starch covered in meat juice. "If I ask about a vegetable, will I sound like your mother?"

"It's Thanksgiving, the only acceptable vegetables are green beans that have been cooked in Campbell's cream of mushroom soup, covered in fried onions, and baked until they lose all nutritional value."

"And here I thought you were Mister Fancy Pants ‘I was working in a restaurant when I was five.’"

"I am and I was, but there are exceptions, and this is one of them." He glanced over at Martin, who was studying his plate, his fork hovering over the cranberry sauce with some suspicion. That was the only thing Arthur was unsure of as Martin didn't seem to enjoy foods that might fall under the category of sticky. He hadn't even bothered to put mashed potatoes on the plate. "Spread a bit of it on the turkey. It balances the flavors."

He wouldn't have said anything in front of anyone but Carol. While the rest of the Agency had warmed up to Martin a little, (mostly based on rumors that his injuries had come from doing some James Bond-level shit that the other analysts could only dream of), Martin valued his privacy and was still uncomfortable with too much interaction.

Martin delicately spread a bit of the cranberry sauce on a small bit of turkey and took a bite. He chewed slowly, as he did with all new foods, before giving a small nod and taking another bite.

"How's Argentina going?" he asked Carol after watching Martin take a few more bites.

Carol shrugged. "Slowly. Chasing up rumors of farmers who found funny bone- shaped rocks a century ago. Living off of barbeque and maté."

"The exciting life of a paleontologist."

Carol lifted her glass in a mock toast.

"When she returns, I am sure the children would enjoy an update as to any discoveries," Martin commented.

"I'll pass that along. She enjoys an audience that isn't her direct competition for grant money. The new research is saying dinosaurs might have honked like giant geese. I'm sure the kids would like to hear about that."

At the Saturday reading hour, the children had loved the lecture on fluffy dinosaurs that Carol's girlfriend gave, even if Arthur ended up with a permanent mental image of a T. rex covered in yellow proto-feathers like some giant Easter chick from hell.

"Geese are evil," Martin stated bluntly, glancing up from his food.

Arthur had no doubt there was a story there, but instead of asking for more, he nodded in agreement and that was the end of the conversation for a while. Technically, they were still on the clock and didn't have that much time to shovel down the turkey. Arthur mostly watched Martin, though, and was proud to see him trying at least a bite of everything and clearing probably half his plate.

Martin's dietitian would be glad as well. Evidently, his comment at his last appointment of 'I currently weigh more than I did prior to the incident' did not paint a good picture of Martin’s long-term health management skills. Martin was sent home with an entirely new food plan that Arthur had to rework into meals that Martin could and would eat. It was an ongoing project, but Arthur was patient.

Carol checked her watch. "Well, I've got a load of reports to get back to. Gentlemen, this has been fun and way more pleasant than watching my mother and grandmother get passive aggressive over dressing."

"Dare I ask?" Arthur had strong feelings about dressing.

"Cornbread verses buttermilk biscuit."

"Cornbread."

Carol rolled her eyes. "It's starch, shoved up a turkey. It does not matter."

Arthur turned to Martin. "Cornbread," he repeated.

Martin looked back at him slightly confused but with a hint of a smile.

Arthur knocked on his supervisor's door and waited to be called in. He was sure he hadn't spoken to the man more than twice since the day he was 'promoted' to the fifth floor.

A 'Come in' came faintly through the door and he slid in quickly.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes. I have a note from HR that you haven't filled out a B-837 form and they wanted me to nag you about it so consider yourself nagged."

Arthur was confused. He prided himself on filling out necessary paperwork correctly and on time. He filed his taxes in January. "I'm sorry, which one is B-837?"

"Romantic or sexual involvement with another agency employee or contractor."

"I… um…" Arthur felt his cheeks flush and didn't know what to say. It had never crossed his mind to fill out the "Fucking Form" as it was referred to by the crasser employees. His and Martin's relationship had slid from friendship into something deeper and intertwined so smoothly that there was never a date he could point to on a calendar and say 'Yes, here is where our relationship began and I will put that into box 14A.’ And, since their calls and messages were monitored, he couldn't argue that he and Martin weren't involved because half the Agency had heard recordings of him leaving sobbing messages on Martin's phone during those months he was missing.

Agent Collins rolled his eyes, certainly misreading Arthur's discomfort. "Look, everyone knows, no one cares. I think there are agents writing romance novels based on you two. Just go fill out the form."

"Yes, sir." Arthur wondered what the Agency's aspiring novelists would say if they knew the two of them mostly cooked, read books, and occasionally went to old movies. "Has Agent Groves filled out a form?"

"How the hell should I know? I'm not his boss."

"Really?" Arthur was of the impression that Agent Collins managed everyone on that wing of the floor.

"He was in that cubicle before I got here and will probably be there when I retire. You probably know more about what he does than I do."

"We don't talk about work."

"Good, you're not supposed to. Go fill out your forms."