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arch_calzen(Cheesy title is cheesy, and the fic almost doesn't have anything to do with dancing. Not literally, anyway.)
(Also, gets a separate tag)
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Character(s), Pairing(s): Douglas, Martin, Carolyn, Arthur, various OCs. D/M
Rating: K for now, I suppose. Will go up in later chapters
Genre: mostly Romance, with a dash of some other genres
Word count: Ugh, will count when it's finished :D
Summary: Initially a fill for the CP kink meme. Prompt: "Neither Douglas or Martin have ever felt attracted to another man. But these feelings that build so slowly and surely, grown from friendship and companionship, are difficult to ignore. Before they well and truly realised what is happening, they've fallen in love with each other.
They almost can't believe it themselves."
Part 1
* * *
Douglas was maybe an hour away (and only forty minutes late for!) the airfield when his phone buzzed. He allowed himself to roll his eyes before answering it – even without looking at the screen the First Officer knew it would be Carolyn.
“Seriously, don’t tell me you are calling me just to-“ he began, when the woman interrupted him.
“Shut your face, will you. The flight is canceled.”
“Canceled?” Douglas would have looked at his phone in disbelief if he weren’t currently trying to keep it in place between his head and left shoulder and drive at the same time. “How do you mean, ‘canceled’? That chap Mr Pockmarkedface was quite keen on flying this time, didn’t he? After delaying it four times, I mean.”
“Can’t read his Pocked Face, can we,” Carolyn sighed tiredly. “And no, this time it were us who had to cancel. Luckily he agreed to reschedule, so we don’t lose too much.”
“We had to cancel?” Douglas’ reflection in the windscreen raised an eyebrow at him, and the man had to reply with a right shoulder shrug. “Why on earth?”
“Are you completely dense? Martin’s cold has worsened; one of his students called me ten minutes ago to say the idiot nearly fell down the stairs of his bloody attic, the fever made him that weak.”
Ah yes, the cold. Now Douglas remembered. Martin did indeed look somewhat unwell during their trip to Shanghai three days ago, but who would’ve suspected his tiny little cough would lead to this?
“Whatever. When does our little team assemble next time, then?”
“Next Thursday, Berlin, cargo flight. I’ll call you later.”
“As if there were any way you wouldn’t. Later,” the goodbye was lost to the CEO’s ears as she ended the call. Douglas sighed and tossed the phone to the passenger seat with an awkward movement of the left upper half of his body, glanced at the road and groaned. He’s just missed an interchange, so no chance of turning around and getting back to Fitton until twenty minutes later.
In the meantime, the man briefly wondered how bad the cold should be to withhold Martin from flying. And if the students would murder him accidentally with their care. Or lack thereof.
* * *
Martin moaned and fell back down, his head meeting the used-to-be-soft-some-day-maybe pillow with a dull thud. The temperature was frustrating, the sickness was frustrating, everything was frustrating. How stupid of him was to fall ill when Mr Marylert finally decided he had to go to Warsaw, after all. Granted, Mr Marylert was a not very pleasant man in his early sixties, with a fat and flabby face, but he was a client nonetheless, and letting clients (especially rich clients) down was not among Martin’s top priorities.
Thankfully, Carolyn didn’t seem as angry with him as she could be, if Miles’ recounting of their phone talk was anything to judge by. Martin silently hoped that Arthur wasn’t too disappointed to miss yet another flight, and that Douglas didn’t manage to get too far from Fitton before Carolyn called him. Of course, the man most possibly had intended to be late, as usually, but Martin had both overslept and been incoherent enough to almost fall down the stairs, so maybe Douglas had had time to arrive at the airfield by then.
The door in the corner opened to reveal a student’s right arm and head with dark messy hair.
“Hey there, Martin. Any better?” Miles placed a bowl with water and a cloth to his left before planting his palms on the floor and heaving himself up to the attic.
“Nah. I don’t know. I guess not,” Martin replied with a small wave of his hand as the student picked up the bowl and walked across the small place to sit down at the side of the pilot’s bed.
“At least you don’t try to fall on me anymore,” Miles laughed light-heartedly, but the other man’s face gained a deeper shade of red at the words.
“Oh God, I’ve told you a thousand times I’m sorry,” he began, but the student waved him off.
“And I’ve told you a thousand times that it’s alright,” the teenager soaked the cloth in the bowl, wringed it and placed the cool thing on Martin’s forehead carefully, eliciting a delighted moan.
“Whoa, didn’t know you can produce those sounds,” Miles snickered a bit.
“What sounds?” the other man cracked an eye open.
“Never mind. Nick is going to cook lunch later, I’ll bring you some up here, alright?”
“Aren’t you two-“ Martin stopped himself shook his head carefully, mindful of the cloth resting on his forehead. “I mean, thank you very much, I don’t want to be an inconvenience (Miles waved a dismissive hand at that; Martin denying help and the students helping him anyway was some sort of a ritual), but aren’t you two supposed to go to classes or something?”
“Oh, we skip today,” the teenager replied casually, shrugging. “Classes are rubbish on Tuesdays, you know that,” with those words, he picked the cloth to refresh it and place it back on Martin’s forehead. Standing up and placing the bowl on a stool hear the bed, he glanced at the open ventlight. “Maybe I’d close it today? It’d do you no good while you have fever.”
“Oh please, you know I’ll ask you not to,” Martin replied with an exasperated sigh. Another ritual to follow.
“Okay then,” Miles shrugged once more and headed to the door in the floor after readjusting the blanket to cover Martin more properly. “I’ll be back with lunch in about four hours, try to sleep until then? I’ll check on you from time to time.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Martin yawned tiredly and awkwardly tried to lie on his side without letting the cloth slide off his forehead. “Thank you, Miles.”
“You are welcome,” the student replied and left. As the door closed, Martin immediately started to drift off to uneasy slumber. In the haze of approaching sleep, he remembered both students from several weeks ago complaining to anyone who would listen that those tests every other Tuesday were a total bitch. He guessed this was supposed to mean something right now, but he didn’t manage to grasp it before his thoughts mixed up and he was out.
* * *
Douglas put the “Le Nozze Di Figaro” on pause and sat up on his sofa, sighing heavily. Surprisingly, several days off proved to be utterly useless and not as much fun as he thought they would be. Maybe it had something to do with his rather non-existent (again) marriage and the fact that most of his friends were unavailable for a chat in a pub during the weekdays.
Today, however, was Saturday, so maybe he could do something social, after all.
He went through the list of his friends in his mind, looking for someone he’d like to see today, but everyone in the list was either known to be busy on Saturdays, or simply not too likeable for this particular mood.
Douglas sighed again, despising the idea of spending yet another day doing nothing. He glanced at his watch. Not even noon yet. Even the lazy students would surely have gotten up at that point. Or maybe they had classes on Saturdays? He honestly had no idea.
Wait. Speaking of students, maybe he could pay Martin a visit?
The man was not reported as having regained his health (according to Carolyn), but he hasn’t heard anything from MJN since the day before yesterday, so perhaps it was only logical to drop by and check how much time the Captain was going to need to recover and if he was going to do it by next Thursday.
Having made his decision, Douglas got up and went to dress himself.
* * *
Douglas stopped his car on the other side of the street where the students’ shared house was. He got out of the car and glanced up, frowning at the open ventlight of the attic above three floors. Wasn’t someone supposed to keep windows closed when having a cold in late autumn?
The man crossed the street and pushed the doorbell button. Come think of it, he’s never been in the house before, only outside when giving Martin a lift a couple of times when his van broke. Douglas reached down in his pocket casually and fished out his mobile, using its screen as some sort of a mirror. He had had the impression that there was something foreign at the corner on his mouth – after all, he’s just had his meal – but no, everything was fine.
Douglas was still holding the phone up when the door opened, revealing a disheveled sandy-haired young man in his pajamas. Said man blinked at him sleepily, but then noticed the phone and the too-obvious I-was -looking-at-my-face-a-second-ago bend of Douglas’ arm and straightened up with some sort of interest in his eyes.
“Hi, can I help you? ‘m Nick” he asked, voice still hoarse from sleep. Douglas frowned mentally: students these days.
“Good… morning, Nick,” he said, aiming for ‘day’ at first but taking in the pajamas and changing the direction on the way. “My name is Douglas Richardson. Is this the luxurious place Martin Crieff has the privilege to inhabit?” To the student’s credit, it took him only an extra second or so to process what Douglas had just said.
“Yeah, that’s right, that’s the place,” he smiled widely and sleepily, but then checked himself. “Oi, so you are his boyfriend, yeah? Or what do they call you… manfriend?” he added, looking at Douglas’ dumbfounded expression.
“What. I’m not! I’m his colleague. Co-pilot.”
“I see. But he talks so much about you, I thought you were toge-“
“Nick, shut up this instant!” a muffled by distance voice interrupted him, and Douglas was thrilled to realize that the harsh words were emitted by a girl – the voice was definitely feminine.
“Sorry sir he always talks bollocks for at least an hour after he wakes up and he sleeps so often that he talks bollocks almost all the time it’s something you just have to get used to anyway how can I help you?” Douglas tensed with anticipation and curiosity, waiting as the voice grew nearer, and finally a short lady with curly blonde hair came into view. He was ready to not believe that the earlier remark belonged to this angel with rectangular glasses sitting on a slightly upturned nose when she gave the guy (Nick, was it?) a clip on the back of his head and everything went back to normal.
“Yes, I-“ Douglas began and was interrupted immediately.
“He came to see Martin, Kate,” Nick replied for him, rubbing his head with an offended face. “And he would already be seeing him, but you just had to come here and say something!”
“Shush,” the girl cut him off and smiled up at Douglas. “Come on in here, then, sir.”
* * *
“…and so the temperature refused to go down for a while after that, but right now it’s almost normal, I guess,” a dark-haired boy – who introduced himself as Miles, Douglas remembered – finished debriefing the man on Martin’s state and drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully. Douglas looked at him from across the table (Kate had insisted that he sat down for a minute while she prepared lunch for Martin), taking in the concentrated look, confident posture of the student and a thick heavy book resting on the table in front of him, bookmarked ridiculously by a mug of coffee. This was definitely someone who was used to looking after the Captain when he was under the weather. Douglas felt a touch of gratitude; it was good to know Martin wasn’t struggling through the illness alone. In that case, he guessed he would like to offer his own company, though, undoubtedly, the students seemed much more capable of the task.
“Milo, sometimes I wonder why you didn’t choose to study medicine, you seem so keen on it!” Nick laughed from his sofa, where he was trying to read another thick heavy book on outstretched arms. It stubbornly refused to stay directly above his head.
“I am NOT Milo!” the man replied exasperatedly, twisting around to glare at the teenager. “For God’s sake, when will all of you just stop!” Douglas smiled slightly in sympathy as he recognized the pattern that usually happened when one didn’t like the sound of his name’s derivative. Oh how he hated that ‘Dougie’.
“Besides,” the student continued, relaxing again, “I doubt it’s as much craziness in their dorms as it is here.”
“You have no idea,” Douglas told him in conspiratorial tone of voice, and that’s when the kettle went off, and his attention moved on to Kate, who started pouring tea in four motley mugs. Miles reached out with his mug expectantly (not forgetting to place his fingers between pages, Douglas noticed), the girl sighed and walked over to refill it.
Afterwards, he watched Kate as she pulled out a tray from the cupboard, placing (his and Martin’s, Douglas assumed) two mugs and a plate of cheese sandwiches on it. Then she walked over to the fridge and rummaged in there for a few seconds, taking out a bowl of small strips of meat and half an apple and putting them on the tray, too. Douglas snapped out of his thoughts regarding the bowl (an apple he could understand, but raw meat?) as the girl took the sugar bowl (which appeared to be a mug without a handle) and turned to him with a questioning look and a spoon hovering over the sugar.
“Sugar? Sorry, looks like we’re out of milk,” he shoot Nick a glare, who appeared to be unfazed.
“No, thanks,” Douglas replied, getting up and walking over to her. Kate added a spoonful to one of the mugs and made a movement to put the sugar mug away.
“Err, no, wait, how much did you put in there?”
“A spoonful?” the girl looked at him with a puzzled expression.
“The thing is, he takes three. When he is tired. Or stressed. Or sad. I guess, illnesses are included in the list,” he froze as the girl gave him a curious look.
“And you say they aren’t-“ Kate interrupted Nick’s triumphant yell with a “Shush!” and a sharp wave of her hand, blanking her expression carefully and turning to add more sugar to Martin’s mug. “How come he didn’t tell us about it,” she muttered, and Douglas wasn’t able to discern if she was addressing the question to him or not, so he remained silent. Until he saw the bowl and remembered a question of his own.
“I was meaning to ask, what is that for?” he said with a nod at the meat. Kate gave him another curious look.
“You know about sugar, but not about this? I don’t know whether to say if you know him better than us or don’t know him at all, Douglas,” with those words (and when did she start calling him ‘Douglas’?), she moved to pick up the tray, and the pilot’s gentlemanly mind pushed the puzzled thoughts out of his head for the time being.
“Here, I think I could carry this up myself?” he suggested.
“You’ve never been here before. Taking a tray to the attic is a tricky feat, it needs knack and habit,” she replied without a spare glance at him, and he felt somewhat rejected by her slightly cooler tone of voice. “Wait here for a sec, I’ll go and check on him first,” Kate said and walked out of the kitchen with the tray balanced casually in one hand. Douglas turned around and leant back against the worktop, glancing around the room. Miles has resumed studying his book, while Nick seemed to start slumbering with his mouth opened, the book hanging down from his hands, arms bent back over the armrest.
A few minutes later, Kate came back down and nodded approvingly, gesturing in the direction she came from.
“Through the door this way, down the corridor, and up the stairs. The staircase to the attic drops out in the corridor on the upper floor, you’ll see.”
“Thank you,” Douglas answered politely and started his journey. As he was exiting the kitchen, he heard a thud of a dropped book and Nick’s surprised snore.
* * *
It took Douglas about ten minutes to ascend the stairs and find the ones that led to the attic – thankfully, Kate hadn’t folded it back up, otherwise he’d spend a lot more time wandering around the floor, gazing up at the ceiling like an idiot.
But finally, he climbed up the slightly wobbly stairs and pushed the door up, poking his head through the opening and meeting Martin’s a bit widened eyes.
“Well. Hello,” he started, suddenly feeling awkward. Why was he feeling awkward? Surely it had something to do with the fact that he was standing on half-rotten stairs, with his upper body already up here, and lower body still down there.
“Hey,” Martin replied somewhat hesitantly, and Douglas pulled himself up slowly, closed the door and walked over to the bed. Martin sat there leaning against the wall cross-legged, wearing a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, legs mostly covered by a blanket. He was a bit paler than usual, and his eyes looked slightly dull from the illness still lingering in his body. Douglas frowned.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing at the lower side of the bed, covered by an old quilt.
“Yeah, sure. I take it it’s yours?” Martin said, gesturing to the mug still sitting on the tray, which Kate had put on a stool at the bed.
“Looks like it, yes,” he said, reaching out for the mug and settling back, leaning against the wall near Martin.
“So, how are you feeling?” Martin took a moment to cough, covering his mouth with a tightly clenched fist (and Douglas didn’t like the sound of it) before answering.
“Much better, you know,” he managed before another fit hit him, and Douglas took his mug carefully, so that Martin wouldn’t spill tea all over himself.
“Yes, I gather that much,” he handed the mug back to Martin as the younger man sniffed and wiped his eyes.
“You haven’t seen me a couple of days ago, I was a mess,” he confessed and took a sip of his tea. “Hmm, this is good. Looks like they’ve guessed the right amount of sugar this time,” there was an underlying fondness to his voice, it was obvious the man liked the students. Douglas shifted a bit; that were not their services but his knowledge.
“In fact, I’ve told them,” he said before he could think about what he was doing.
“Ah, really?” Martin turned his head to look at Douglas. “Thank you?”
“Welcome,” the man replied and finally took in the room. It was really small, but somehow didn’t look crammed. The bed stood in the corner, there was a stool (substituting for a nightstand?), next to it – a narrow desk in front of the window; the opposite from the bed wall was completely enclosed by a tiny wardrobe and several bookcases, filled with volumes of different sizes; some of them were old and used, the others pretty new (mostly gifts from the students, he guessed). The fourth wall, opposite the window, was bare except of a huge world map taped to it and the door to the lower floor.
The place was obviously inhabited, but it hardly looked like someone’s home.
Douglas’ musings were interrupted by a loud bang, and he jerked up his head in surprise as a black bird (he was not an expert, but this one was definitely a jackdaw) pushed itself through the open ventlight and hopped down on the table.
“What! What is that?” he exclaimed, and Martin snickered quietly, reaching out to the table. The bird folded its wings and hopped to Martin’s hand obediently.
“There you are,” the man cooed and leant forward to a straight position, putting his mug on the tray and placing the bowl in his lap. He picked up a slice of meat and the jackdaw snatched it immediately, hungrily devouring it. Douglas watched the pair in astonishment. He would never imagine Martin keeping a bird. Maybe a cat (shared with the students, obviously) or a goldfish (which wouldn’t need much space), but a bird?
“This explains the bowl, then,” he nodded, and Martin grinned, picking up another slice. “And the ventlight,” Douglas added.
“Ah, yeah, speaking of which, could you please close it now?” the younger man asked, and Douglas found himself standing up and walking over to the window even before the sentence was finished. He completed the task and sat back down.
“Don’t you get cold during the winter with a ventlight opened?” he asked in wonder.
“A bit,” Martin agreed easily with a shrug. “But Nancy needs to go flying every now and then, and I must keep the ventlight opened until Nancy returns.”
“’Nancy’? So it’s a she, I take it?”
“Honestly, I have no idea,” Martin looked at him with a shy smile. “I just assumed it was a she. Given my luck, though, it’s obviously a male. Until I decide that it is a male, that is,” he paused. “So we just call the bird Nan, end of story.”
“I see,” Douglas replied, watching as the bird hopped down to Martin’s lap and started feeding itself, seemingly frustrated that Martin had halted the process during his little speech. Douglas wondered if birds could feel frustration.
* * *
They talked for a while after that, discussing the students and upcoming flights, and Martin giggled adorably at Carolyn’s ‘Poker Face’ reference, though he coughed a lot, much to Douglas’ disapprove, even as he remembered Miles’ words that this was of a recovery type, whatever he meant by ‘recovery type of cough’, and wait, ‘adorably’?
Some time during his stay, Kate poked her head through the door, accessing the situation. After taking in their laughing expressions, she nodded to herself and grabbed their mugs, returning them in a minute with more tea (“Three spoonfuls,” Martin whispered and winked as he sipped from his mug, and Douglas felt another tug of gratitude toward the students) (“You know they took us for a couple?” “Really? No, no, I didn’t.” “Yeah. Said you talked a lot.” “Well, the only people I talk to are MJN and the students. So it’s only logical that I talk to them about you?” “But not vice versa, though. I don’t remember you telling hilarious stories about Miles being high on coffee or Nick doing… whatever he does, so that you are always out of milk.” “It’s those ridiculous word games of yours, I never have time to talk about them!” “Ah so? Wait till Berlin, then”).
But later, Martin started yawning widely, and every time a yawn seemed to take him by surprise, so after the fourth one Douglas decided it was time to let the man sleep and depart from the attic.
“Alright, I guess I shall take my leave now,” he said, getting up from the bed. “It’s… quite nice in here, you know.”
“Yeah…” the pause in Douglas’ words was obvious to Martin, and he glanced around the room with the look of someone who saw the same things for the millionth time. It was… uncomfortable, and Douglas hesitated before finally starting to walk to the door.
“Anyway, it was nice to see you. Hope you get well till Thursday, unless you want Carolyn to come here and bite your head off,” he said as he opened the door.
“I doubt she’ll make it up the stairs,” Martin laughed.
“In fact, I doubt she’ll even get past your security, especially if Kate answers the door,” Douglas joined him in his laughter.
“Yeah, they are just like my security, aren’t they?” Martin said, suddenly thoughtful, a smile still lingering on his lips.
“Except of Miles, he’s your doc,” the man replied. “And I don’t even know who else inhabits those three charming floors you have here.”
“Well, perhaps you’ll have a chance to get to know them,” Martin tilted up a corner of his mouth, suddenly hesitant.
“Maybe,” Douglas agreed, and somehow it seemed that the subtext of the words was much more significant than the words themselves. “Get well soon. I’m serious. I’m too lazy to fly alone.”
Martin giggled. “Okay, I’ll try to. Thanks for dropping by, Douglas.”
Douglas stopped descending and reached out for the door, meeting Martin’s already half-asleep gaze. He wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure of what exactly. That’s when Nancy chirped suddenly in her (his?) sleep from his (her?) snug nest on the wardrobe; they shared a grin, and Douglas left.
* * *
He passed through the kitchen on his way out. Kate and Miles were sitting at the table; Miles still reading the same book, an empty plate by his side, Kate going through her notes, obviously searching for something.
Nick was snoring softly on the sofa.
The two students jerked their heads up as Douglas entered. “Ah, there you are. All right?” Miles asked.
“Yes, completely. He’s going to sleep now, I assume.”
“Well, he needs the rest,” the boy nodded and turned a page over.
“Are we to expect you again soon?” Kate picked up the conversation where Miles dropped it.
“Umm,” Douglas shifted. “I honestly don’t know. I rather hope he recovers soon, and we can resume the flying.”
“Okay,” the girl nodded. “Shall we show you the way..?”
“Ah no, thanks, I don’t think I’ve forgotten it,” Douglas lifted a corner of his mouth. “Good day, Kate, Miles,” he turned to the sofa, “Ni- does he always sleep?” he couldn’t keep the amazement from his voice.
The two students giggled. “Nah, during weekends only. Makes up for the sleepless nights,” Miles explained.
Douglas smiled (students these days) and made his exit.
* * *
The man glanced out of the car’s window at the closed ventlight. Maybe he indeed would pay another visit before Thursday, who knew.
* * *
Part 2
* * *
“…and that’s when Evelyn enters, and everyone just sort of freezes with those glittering juice cartons still worn like helmets! And Steve goes all red and twitchy, which is even more hilarious considering he’s the one with paper ears taped to the carton, imagine that!”
Arthur burst out laughing, attempting to stay upright and failing miserably, sliding down the wall – if the sound of fabric pressed against plastic and a final thud indicated anything. A picture described by Martin passed through Douglas’ mind quite vividly and he let out a chuckle, eyes never leaving the endless carpet of clouds below Gerti.
He didn’t manage to come visit Martin again, but the man was fully recovered by the time their flight to Berlin was scheduled, so it didn’t really matter. True, Douglas called once, maybe two or three days after the visit, just to inquire about his state of well-being, but Nancy seemed quite persistent on trying to steal Martin’s phone, so there wasn’t awfully much room to talk; Douglas had spent the majority of the call’s duration wincing when the phone clattered down on firm surfaces (speakers on, somehow) to be dragged away by the insufferable bird or listening to Martin’s laughter as the man seemingly chased the jackdaw or his breathless spluttering of ‘God, Douglas, I’m sorry, just give me another moment’ whenever the younger man was getting close to try and wrestle the device from the bird.
Not that he complained. Martin’s laughter wasn’t entirely unpleasant to listen to.
Again, not that he was going to let this thought linger.
A week after Berlin, they were on their way from Minsk to Barcelona (‘Barcelo-o-o-na-a-a-a!!’, as Arthur had cheerfully informed them in an almost unrecognizable Queen-imitation), and ever since Captain returned to work, he kept showering the crew with random, often bizarre, and all in all amusing stories involving his housemates. The stream seemed never-ending, always ready to erupt again as soon as word games and betting were about to get boring. Douglas wondered just why Martin hadn’t told them any of these before – some of the stories, judging by timeline hints and people involved, have happened long before Martin joined MJN.
Douglas felt a dull tug of headache and suppressed a wince. He definitely was not going to spend – lots, lots, lots of – precious energy on making Arthur be quiet (or making him go be elsewhere). Or on telling Martin to cut it for now.
And it didn’t even have anything to do with him becoming softer (because he was not becoming softer, that much would be obvious to even the most dim-witted… dim-wits), but solely because this particular kind of ache was something Douglas became used to over the years, and if he was allowed to get some quiet in the nearest several hours – preferably before they start landing – he’d be just fine. Still, he indulged himself a bit and rubbed a hand over his forehead and nosebridge; a simple gesture that always seemed to cut off the edge and make the pain much more bearable.
Over his musings, Douglas failed to notice as the laughter gradually died down, and only snapped back to reality as Arthur tapped the carpet softly to get Martin’s attention (which wasn’t needed, Douglas silently judged. But that was Arthur, anyway).
“Skip, Skip, now tell us about what happened after that time when Sam made the oven explode!” he called. Ah yes, that was a good one, Douglas had to agree. It wasn’t like students carried out various experiments in the common kitchen every day, and Carolyn had interrupted them about something unimportant (certainly less important than Samuel Winsberg and his ability to make anything explode; even water, it seemed), and then it somehow slipped from their minds that the story had been left unfinished.
Douglas was even willing to pay attention when a particularly vicious and unexpected jolt of pain stabbed him right between the eyes. He squeezed them shut for a moment in surprise.
“Ah, sorry, Arthur, I think I’d better save that one for another time, hmm? First, I should tell you the prequel, that of Sam and Lilith’s shampoo and it would take up half a flight home from Barcelona.”
Douglas glanced to his right to find Martin turned around in his seat, smiling openly down at Arthur, who scrambled up clumsily a few seconds later, chattering about how he would be prepared for that flight with an obscene amount of Toblerones he was so going to buy in Duty Free.
“Do you even know what ‘obscene’ is, Arthur?” Douglas found himself prodding with just the right amount of jibe in his voice.
“Errrmm, something… Like, off a scene? So big it wouldn’t… fit… there. I s’pose. I dunno, I just liked the word! Can’t the amount of Toblerones be obscene?”
A minute (and several more pretty much harmless jibes) later, Arthur finally deserted the flight deck, and Douglas ran a hand over his face yet another time, attempting to soothe the ache. When he let his hand fall back down to the panel where it was before, in a corner of his eye he caught Martin giving him a small satisfied smile.
The flight went on in companionable – and blessed – silence.
* * *
Part 3
* * *
Martin exhaled in relief as he finally reached their floor.
It was late in the evening already, and they were going to leave for Fitton next afternoon, so he had his mind set on getting as much sleep as he could, even if that amount was about to border on fifteen hours straight. Martin was never the one to forgo a chance to restore his strength via sleep – mainly because he often simply couldn’t know when the next opportunity would present itself.
Carolyn had stormed off almost as soon as Gerti’s undercarriage touched the ground; Martin was highly suspecting the reason for it to be that Arthur seemed to disappear from the plane even before it neared the airfield, so excited he was (“Did you chaps know that Catalonia has four separate police forces? Isn’t that brilliant! I mean, and what if one man from the first force commits a crime? Do people from the other three come to get him? Or one only? And which one? And don’t they, like, have races of some sort when they chase after a criminal, to see which force gets him first?”)
Martin did remember Carolyn passing a hand over her face and saying something like, “Now I have to go supervise and pray to old Spanish gods that Arthur will not do something stupid just for the sake of finding out if there could be a Police Derby”, but the fact remained: the two have been swallowed by the city and still haven’t returned to the hotel; at least, not until Martin stopped nursing his Coke and decided to leave the common area.
As for Douglas, the FO has gone to their room (of course, Carolyn just HAD to give them one room exactly when the man seemed to have developed a tremendous – and obvious, did he really think Martin wouldn’t notice? – headache over the flight) and refused to emerge throughout the whole evening, so Martin decided to let him be for now.
All in all, it turned out to be horrendously boring to be in a foreign city without the crew (hence the fact that Martin mostly stayed in the hotel bar instead of going out). Which sounded pathetic, to be honest, but he couldn’t care less.
And maybe he wasn’t as angry at Carolyn as he thought he was, given the fact she roomed him in with Douglas when the FO was closer to some mysterious and possibly dangerous headach-y beast than his human form. Because it was kind of easier to keep an eye on him that way. And Martin absolutely, resolutely hated not being able to keep an eye on the older man if something was wrong. Just in case. Anything could happen, literally.
In the end, Martin was so bored that he decided to ignore the lift and bravely tamed the stairs, just for the sake of doing something and spending minutes instead of seconds.
And now he glanced defiantly at the lift’s doors and huffed as he restored his breathing. Finally, the man turned around and walked softly to the end of the corridor, where their room was. The walls were thin, almost as if made of paper, and he unintendedly eavesdropped as he passed the rooms. The room closest to the lift had loud pop-music – Martin pondered on legality of it at 11 p.m.; the next two had TV blaring harshly - Martin pondered on legality of that, too: it was pretty loud as well; then three empty rooms (after all, it wasn’t tourist season now, so no wonder); one room with two or three children, possibly running around it and jumping on beds for the sake of it; another empty room; a quarreling family couple; two more empty rooms and, finally, theirs.
Martin stopped in front of it, pulling his key out of the pocket and listening intently to try and predict what he would see when he walked in.
At first, he couldn’t hear anything at all, but that was mainly because the other rooms were so loud and so grating on the ears, the contrast of the inhabited – and quiet – room was deafening.
Martin started as a wave of noise went down for a second and he distinguished Douglas’ easily recognizable voice from behind the door.
Douglas was singing.
Martin quickly assumed himself to be mad and hallucinating. Or maybe he should blame the Spanish Coke.
Yes, of course, Douglas could sing, everyone knew that. He had a deep and rich voice that was pleasant to listen to; and Martin was exceptionally proud that sometimes he could try and contribute to whatever Douglas was singing and not mar the man’s performance.
Of course, Douglas could sing. The reason for Martin to think he would be rapidly approaching the nearest asylum’s gates in the foreseeable future was that Douglas didn’t do songs like that one. He could sing a love song dripping with sarcasm or something ridiculous like ‘Those Magnificent Men’; he meant, all of the man’s performances were for the sake of mockery – in one way or another – or humour of varying harmlessness degree.
But Martin has never heard the other man sound so… sincere.
The additional background noise of the hotel died down as he strained his hearing to single out Douglas’ voice only, and the man closed his eyes in comprehension as he recognized the words.
It was an old ballad, a story told by a knight as he was dying in the forest after his nemesis wounded him in a duel; Martin knew that one because Caitlin had once performed it in secondary school. He remembered his surprise at how long a man could be dying for – and singing, it seemed endless. Of course, that was a much shorter version, edited for children, but it was easy to match it with the one Douglas was singing.
Martin never knew why Caitlin decided to choose this particular poem – it seemed so un-girly – but, frankly, the last thing he wanted to think of right now was why his sister had picked something for a school performance almost thirty years ago.
The story was grim somewhat, the knight telling about his final adventure, at the end of which he encountered his sworn enemy and lost the duel humiliatingly; about how the enemy decided to not give him the mercy of quick death and departed, leaving the bleeding knight on their battlefield; how he mounted his steed and moved on in shame and wound-induced fever; how he finally collapsed somewhere in the depths of the forest. That was where he laid while he was singing his story, complaining sadly that his horse, his hounds and his falcons abandoned him, and how only three ravens were keeping ominous watch over him; and as the night was falling, he watched the last sunrays dancing on the leaves on treetops, sensing the approaching death. Remembering his past days.
That was how he recalled the poem; Douglas seemed to be well past the middle of it by now, so he must have been singing for quite a while.
When Caitlin performed the ballad, it seemed superficial somewhat; it was obvious the child’s soft voice was only retelling the story, impersonating the knight. And it made it easier to cope with the poem’s desperate sadness.
When Douglas was singing, however, Martin could literally feel the chill of the rocky ground and hear the rustle of the leaves, as the knight was addressing himself to his – friend, lover? it was never specified – unknown recipient, as if writing them a final letter they would never know about, a final reaching out, to ask them to keep his story and to remember him.
Martin let out a silent exhale as he realized he was feeling exactly as if he were the recipient. As if Douglas – or the knight? – was addressing his story to him, confiding himself to the younger man.
The ballad did not contain a single word regarding love, but it was the most romantic and gentle thing Martin has ever heard.
The singing stopped after an epilogue describing the knight’s last breath, the forest around him and three immobile ravens above the man as the sunlight finally died and let the night reign.
It took Martin several minutes to comprehend this fact, and when he finally opened his eyes and rubbed his face before resting elbows on bent knees (must have sat down by the door sometime during the ballad) and leaning back against the wall.
Behind the thin door, Douglas was silent; most likely unmoving, as if in trance of the song’s afterglow; Martin knew that state of mind all too well.
And he knew he’d want to be alone for some more time, if he were Douglas, so he treated his unspoken wish with due respect. Martin got up slowly, careful to not make a sound, and moved down the now silent corridor, back to the stairs. Looked like the sleep would have to wait, but Martin didn’t mind at all.
* * *
The first part also has an art addendum:
(Also, gets a separate tag)
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Character(s), Pairing(s): Douglas, Martin, Carolyn, Arthur, various OCs. D/M
Rating: K for now, I suppose. Will go up in later chapters
Genre: mostly Romance, with a dash of some other genres
Word count: Ugh, will count when it's finished :D
Summary: Initially a fill for the CP kink meme. Prompt: "Neither Douglas or Martin have ever felt attracted to another man. But these feelings that build so slowly and surely, grown from friendship and companionship, are difficult to ignore. Before they well and truly realised what is happening, they've fallen in love with each other.
They almost can't believe it themselves."
Part 1
* * *
Douglas was maybe an hour away (and only forty minutes late for!) the airfield when his phone buzzed. He allowed himself to roll his eyes before answering it – even without looking at the screen the First Officer knew it would be Carolyn.
“Seriously, don’t tell me you are calling me just to-“ he began, when the woman interrupted him.
“Shut your face, will you. The flight is canceled.”
“Canceled?” Douglas would have looked at his phone in disbelief if he weren’t currently trying to keep it in place between his head and left shoulder and drive at the same time. “How do you mean, ‘canceled’? That chap Mr Pockmarkedface was quite keen on flying this time, didn’t he? After delaying it four times, I mean.”
“Can’t read his Pocked Face, can we,” Carolyn sighed tiredly. “And no, this time it were us who had to cancel. Luckily he agreed to reschedule, so we don’t lose too much.”
“We had to cancel?” Douglas’ reflection in the windscreen raised an eyebrow at him, and the man had to reply with a right shoulder shrug. “Why on earth?”
“Are you completely dense? Martin’s cold has worsened; one of his students called me ten minutes ago to say the idiot nearly fell down the stairs of his bloody attic, the fever made him that weak.”
Ah yes, the cold. Now Douglas remembered. Martin did indeed look somewhat unwell during their trip to Shanghai three days ago, but who would’ve suspected his tiny little cough would lead to this?
“Whatever. When does our little team assemble next time, then?”
“Next Thursday, Berlin, cargo flight. I’ll call you later.”
“As if there were any way you wouldn’t. Later,” the goodbye was lost to the CEO’s ears as she ended the call. Douglas sighed and tossed the phone to the passenger seat with an awkward movement of the left upper half of his body, glanced at the road and groaned. He’s just missed an interchange, so no chance of turning around and getting back to Fitton until twenty minutes later.
In the meantime, the man briefly wondered how bad the cold should be to withhold Martin from flying. And if the students would murder him accidentally with their care. Or lack thereof.
* * *
Martin moaned and fell back down, his head meeting the used-to-be-soft-some-day-maybe pillow with a dull thud. The temperature was frustrating, the sickness was frustrating, everything was frustrating. How stupid of him was to fall ill when Mr Marylert finally decided he had to go to Warsaw, after all. Granted, Mr Marylert was a not very pleasant man in his early sixties, with a fat and flabby face, but he was a client nonetheless, and letting clients (especially rich clients) down was not among Martin’s top priorities.
Thankfully, Carolyn didn’t seem as angry with him as she could be, if Miles’ recounting of their phone talk was anything to judge by. Martin silently hoped that Arthur wasn’t too disappointed to miss yet another flight, and that Douglas didn’t manage to get too far from Fitton before Carolyn called him. Of course, the man most possibly had intended to be late, as usually, but Martin had both overslept and been incoherent enough to almost fall down the stairs, so maybe Douglas had had time to arrive at the airfield by then.
The door in the corner opened to reveal a student’s right arm and head with dark messy hair.
“Hey there, Martin. Any better?” Miles placed a bowl with water and a cloth to his left before planting his palms on the floor and heaving himself up to the attic.
“Nah. I don’t know. I guess not,” Martin replied with a small wave of his hand as the student picked up the bowl and walked across the small place to sit down at the side of the pilot’s bed.
“At least you don’t try to fall on me anymore,” Miles laughed light-heartedly, but the other man’s face gained a deeper shade of red at the words.
“Oh God, I’ve told you a thousand times I’m sorry,” he began, but the student waved him off.
“And I’ve told you a thousand times that it’s alright,” the teenager soaked the cloth in the bowl, wringed it and placed the cool thing on Martin’s forehead carefully, eliciting a delighted moan.
“Whoa, didn’t know you can produce those sounds,” Miles snickered a bit.
“What sounds?” the other man cracked an eye open.
“Never mind. Nick is going to cook lunch later, I’ll bring you some up here, alright?”
“Aren’t you two-“ Martin stopped himself shook his head carefully, mindful of the cloth resting on his forehead. “I mean, thank you very much, I don’t want to be an inconvenience (Miles waved a dismissive hand at that; Martin denying help and the students helping him anyway was some sort of a ritual), but aren’t you two supposed to go to classes or something?”
“Oh, we skip today,” the teenager replied casually, shrugging. “Classes are rubbish on Tuesdays, you know that,” with those words, he picked the cloth to refresh it and place it back on Martin’s forehead. Standing up and placing the bowl on a stool hear the bed, he glanced at the open ventlight. “Maybe I’d close it today? It’d do you no good while you have fever.”
“Oh please, you know I’ll ask you not to,” Martin replied with an exasperated sigh. Another ritual to follow.
“Okay then,” Miles shrugged once more and headed to the door in the floor after readjusting the blanket to cover Martin more properly. “I’ll be back with lunch in about four hours, try to sleep until then? I’ll check on you from time to time.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Martin yawned tiredly and awkwardly tried to lie on his side without letting the cloth slide off his forehead. “Thank you, Miles.”
“You are welcome,” the student replied and left. As the door closed, Martin immediately started to drift off to uneasy slumber. In the haze of approaching sleep, he remembered both students from several weeks ago complaining to anyone who would listen that those tests every other Tuesday were a total bitch. He guessed this was supposed to mean something right now, but he didn’t manage to grasp it before his thoughts mixed up and he was out.
* * *
Douglas put the “Le Nozze Di Figaro” on pause and sat up on his sofa, sighing heavily. Surprisingly, several days off proved to be utterly useless and not as much fun as he thought they would be. Maybe it had something to do with his rather non-existent (again) marriage and the fact that most of his friends were unavailable for a chat in a pub during the weekdays.
Today, however, was Saturday, so maybe he could do something social, after all.
He went through the list of his friends in his mind, looking for someone he’d like to see today, but everyone in the list was either known to be busy on Saturdays, or simply not too likeable for this particular mood.
Douglas sighed again, despising the idea of spending yet another day doing nothing. He glanced at his watch. Not even noon yet. Even the lazy students would surely have gotten up at that point. Or maybe they had classes on Saturdays? He honestly had no idea.
Wait. Speaking of students, maybe he could pay Martin a visit?
The man was not reported as having regained his health (according to Carolyn), but he hasn’t heard anything from MJN since the day before yesterday, so perhaps it was only logical to drop by and check how much time the Captain was going to need to recover and if he was going to do it by next Thursday.
Having made his decision, Douglas got up and went to dress himself.
* * *
Douglas stopped his car on the other side of the street where the students’ shared house was. He got out of the car and glanced up, frowning at the open ventlight of the attic above three floors. Wasn’t someone supposed to keep windows closed when having a cold in late autumn?
The man crossed the street and pushed the doorbell button. Come think of it, he’s never been in the house before, only outside when giving Martin a lift a couple of times when his van broke. Douglas reached down in his pocket casually and fished out his mobile, using its screen as some sort of a mirror. He had had the impression that there was something foreign at the corner on his mouth – after all, he’s just had his meal – but no, everything was fine.
Douglas was still holding the phone up when the door opened, revealing a disheveled sandy-haired young man in his pajamas. Said man blinked at him sleepily, but then noticed the phone and the too-obvious I-was -looking-at-my-face-a-second-ago bend of Douglas’ arm and straightened up with some sort of interest in his eyes.
“Hi, can I help you? ‘m Nick” he asked, voice still hoarse from sleep. Douglas frowned mentally: students these days.
“Good… morning, Nick,” he said, aiming for ‘day’ at first but taking in the pajamas and changing the direction on the way. “My name is Douglas Richardson. Is this the luxurious place Martin Crieff has the privilege to inhabit?” To the student’s credit, it took him only an extra second or so to process what Douglas had just said.
“Yeah, that’s right, that’s the place,” he smiled widely and sleepily, but then checked himself. “Oi, so you are his boyfriend, yeah? Or what do they call you… manfriend?” he added, looking at Douglas’ dumbfounded expression.
“What. I’m not! I’m his colleague. Co-pilot.”
“I see. But he talks so much about you, I thought you were toge-“
“Nick, shut up this instant!” a muffled by distance voice interrupted him, and Douglas was thrilled to realize that the harsh words were emitted by a girl – the voice was definitely feminine.
“Sorry sir he always talks bollocks for at least an hour after he wakes up and he sleeps so often that he talks bollocks almost all the time it’s something you just have to get used to anyway how can I help you?” Douglas tensed with anticipation and curiosity, waiting as the voice grew nearer, and finally a short lady with curly blonde hair came into view. He was ready to not believe that the earlier remark belonged to this angel with rectangular glasses sitting on a slightly upturned nose when she gave the guy (Nick, was it?) a clip on the back of his head and everything went back to normal.
“Yes, I-“ Douglas began and was interrupted immediately.
“He came to see Martin, Kate,” Nick replied for him, rubbing his head with an offended face. “And he would already be seeing him, but you just had to come here and say something!”
“Shush,” the girl cut him off and smiled up at Douglas. “Come on in here, then, sir.”
* * *
“…and so the temperature refused to go down for a while after that, but right now it’s almost normal, I guess,” a dark-haired boy – who introduced himself as Miles, Douglas remembered – finished debriefing the man on Martin’s state and drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully. Douglas looked at him from across the table (Kate had insisted that he sat down for a minute while she prepared lunch for Martin), taking in the concentrated look, confident posture of the student and a thick heavy book resting on the table in front of him, bookmarked ridiculously by a mug of coffee. This was definitely someone who was used to looking after the Captain when he was under the weather. Douglas felt a touch of gratitude; it was good to know Martin wasn’t struggling through the illness alone. In that case, he guessed he would like to offer his own company, though, undoubtedly, the students seemed much more capable of the task.
“Milo, sometimes I wonder why you didn’t choose to study medicine, you seem so keen on it!” Nick laughed from his sofa, where he was trying to read another thick heavy book on outstretched arms. It stubbornly refused to stay directly above his head.
“I am NOT Milo!” the man replied exasperatedly, twisting around to glare at the teenager. “For God’s sake, when will all of you just stop!” Douglas smiled slightly in sympathy as he recognized the pattern that usually happened when one didn’t like the sound of his name’s derivative. Oh how he hated that ‘Dougie’.
“Besides,” the student continued, relaxing again, “I doubt it’s as much craziness in their dorms as it is here.”
“You have no idea,” Douglas told him in conspiratorial tone of voice, and that’s when the kettle went off, and his attention moved on to Kate, who started pouring tea in four motley mugs. Miles reached out with his mug expectantly (not forgetting to place his fingers between pages, Douglas noticed), the girl sighed and walked over to refill it.
Afterwards, he watched Kate as she pulled out a tray from the cupboard, placing (his and Martin’s, Douglas assumed) two mugs and a plate of cheese sandwiches on it. Then she walked over to the fridge and rummaged in there for a few seconds, taking out a bowl of small strips of meat and half an apple and putting them on the tray, too. Douglas snapped out of his thoughts regarding the bowl (an apple he could understand, but raw meat?) as the girl took the sugar bowl (which appeared to be a mug without a handle) and turned to him with a questioning look and a spoon hovering over the sugar.
“Sugar? Sorry, looks like we’re out of milk,” he shoot Nick a glare, who appeared to be unfazed.
“No, thanks,” Douglas replied, getting up and walking over to her. Kate added a spoonful to one of the mugs and made a movement to put the sugar mug away.
“Err, no, wait, how much did you put in there?”
“A spoonful?” the girl looked at him with a puzzled expression.
“The thing is, he takes three. When he is tired. Or stressed. Or sad. I guess, illnesses are included in the list,” he froze as the girl gave him a curious look.
“And you say they aren’t-“ Kate interrupted Nick’s triumphant yell with a “Shush!” and a sharp wave of her hand, blanking her expression carefully and turning to add more sugar to Martin’s mug. “How come he didn’t tell us about it,” she muttered, and Douglas wasn’t able to discern if she was addressing the question to him or not, so he remained silent. Until he saw the bowl and remembered a question of his own.
“I was meaning to ask, what is that for?” he said with a nod at the meat. Kate gave him another curious look.
“You know about sugar, but not about this? I don’t know whether to say if you know him better than us or don’t know him at all, Douglas,” with those words (and when did she start calling him ‘Douglas’?), she moved to pick up the tray, and the pilot’s gentlemanly mind pushed the puzzled thoughts out of his head for the time being.
“Here, I think I could carry this up myself?” he suggested.
“You’ve never been here before. Taking a tray to the attic is a tricky feat, it needs knack and habit,” she replied without a spare glance at him, and he felt somewhat rejected by her slightly cooler tone of voice. “Wait here for a sec, I’ll go and check on him first,” Kate said and walked out of the kitchen with the tray balanced casually in one hand. Douglas turned around and leant back against the worktop, glancing around the room. Miles has resumed studying his book, while Nick seemed to start slumbering with his mouth opened, the book hanging down from his hands, arms bent back over the armrest.
A few minutes later, Kate came back down and nodded approvingly, gesturing in the direction she came from.
“Through the door this way, down the corridor, and up the stairs. The staircase to the attic drops out in the corridor on the upper floor, you’ll see.”
“Thank you,” Douglas answered politely and started his journey. As he was exiting the kitchen, he heard a thud of a dropped book and Nick’s surprised snore.
* * *
It took Douglas about ten minutes to ascend the stairs and find the ones that led to the attic – thankfully, Kate hadn’t folded it back up, otherwise he’d spend a lot more time wandering around the floor, gazing up at the ceiling like an idiot.
But finally, he climbed up the slightly wobbly stairs and pushed the door up, poking his head through the opening and meeting Martin’s a bit widened eyes.
“Well. Hello,” he started, suddenly feeling awkward. Why was he feeling awkward? Surely it had something to do with the fact that he was standing on half-rotten stairs, with his upper body already up here, and lower body still down there.
“Hey,” Martin replied somewhat hesitantly, and Douglas pulled himself up slowly, closed the door and walked over to the bed. Martin sat there leaning against the wall cross-legged, wearing a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, legs mostly covered by a blanket. He was a bit paler than usual, and his eyes looked slightly dull from the illness still lingering in his body. Douglas frowned.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing at the lower side of the bed, covered by an old quilt.
“Yeah, sure. I take it it’s yours?” Martin said, gesturing to the mug still sitting on the tray, which Kate had put on a stool at the bed.
“Looks like it, yes,” he said, reaching out for the mug and settling back, leaning against the wall near Martin.
“So, how are you feeling?” Martin took a moment to cough, covering his mouth with a tightly clenched fist (and Douglas didn’t like the sound of it) before answering.
“Much better, you know,” he managed before another fit hit him, and Douglas took his mug carefully, so that Martin wouldn’t spill tea all over himself.
“Yes, I gather that much,” he handed the mug back to Martin as the younger man sniffed and wiped his eyes.
“You haven’t seen me a couple of days ago, I was a mess,” he confessed and took a sip of his tea. “Hmm, this is good. Looks like they’ve guessed the right amount of sugar this time,” there was an underlying fondness to his voice, it was obvious the man liked the students. Douglas shifted a bit; that were not their services but his knowledge.
“In fact, I’ve told them,” he said before he could think about what he was doing.
“Ah, really?” Martin turned his head to look at Douglas. “Thank you?”
“Welcome,” the man replied and finally took in the room. It was really small, but somehow didn’t look crammed. The bed stood in the corner, there was a stool (substituting for a nightstand?), next to it – a narrow desk in front of the window; the opposite from the bed wall was completely enclosed by a tiny wardrobe and several bookcases, filled with volumes of different sizes; some of them were old and used, the others pretty new (mostly gifts from the students, he guessed). The fourth wall, opposite the window, was bare except of a huge world map taped to it and the door to the lower floor.
The place was obviously inhabited, but it hardly looked like someone’s home.
Douglas’ musings were interrupted by a loud bang, and he jerked up his head in surprise as a black bird (he was not an expert, but this one was definitely a jackdaw) pushed itself through the open ventlight and hopped down on the table.
“What! What is that?” he exclaimed, and Martin snickered quietly, reaching out to the table. The bird folded its wings and hopped to Martin’s hand obediently.
“There you are,” the man cooed and leant forward to a straight position, putting his mug on the tray and placing the bowl in his lap. He picked up a slice of meat and the jackdaw snatched it immediately, hungrily devouring it. Douglas watched the pair in astonishment. He would never imagine Martin keeping a bird. Maybe a cat (shared with the students, obviously) or a goldfish (which wouldn’t need much space), but a bird?
“This explains the bowl, then,” he nodded, and Martin grinned, picking up another slice. “And the ventlight,” Douglas added.
“Ah, yeah, speaking of which, could you please close it now?” the younger man asked, and Douglas found himself standing up and walking over to the window even before the sentence was finished. He completed the task and sat back down.
“Don’t you get cold during the winter with a ventlight opened?” he asked in wonder.
“A bit,” Martin agreed easily with a shrug. “But Nancy needs to go flying every now and then, and I must keep the ventlight opened until Nancy returns.”
“’Nancy’? So it’s a she, I take it?”
“Honestly, I have no idea,” Martin looked at him with a shy smile. “I just assumed it was a she. Given my luck, though, it’s obviously a male. Until I decide that it is a male, that is,” he paused. “So we just call the bird Nan, end of story.”
“I see,” Douglas replied, watching as the bird hopped down to Martin’s lap and started feeding itself, seemingly frustrated that Martin had halted the process during his little speech. Douglas wondered if birds could feel frustration.
* * *
They talked for a while after that, discussing the students and upcoming flights, and Martin giggled adorably at Carolyn’s ‘Poker Face’ reference, though he coughed a lot, much to Douglas’ disapprove, even as he remembered Miles’ words that this was of a recovery type, whatever he meant by ‘recovery type of cough’, and wait, ‘adorably’?
Some time during his stay, Kate poked her head through the door, accessing the situation. After taking in their laughing expressions, she nodded to herself and grabbed their mugs, returning them in a minute with more tea (“Three spoonfuls,” Martin whispered and winked as he sipped from his mug, and Douglas felt another tug of gratitude toward the students) (“You know they took us for a couple?” “Really? No, no, I didn’t.” “Yeah. Said you talked a lot.” “Well, the only people I talk to are MJN and the students. So it’s only logical that I talk to them about you?” “But not vice versa, though. I don’t remember you telling hilarious stories about Miles being high on coffee or Nick doing… whatever he does, so that you are always out of milk.” “It’s those ridiculous word games of yours, I never have time to talk about them!” “Ah so? Wait till Berlin, then”).
But later, Martin started yawning widely, and every time a yawn seemed to take him by surprise, so after the fourth one Douglas decided it was time to let the man sleep and depart from the attic.
“Alright, I guess I shall take my leave now,” he said, getting up from the bed. “It’s… quite nice in here, you know.”
“Yeah…” the pause in Douglas’ words was obvious to Martin, and he glanced around the room with the look of someone who saw the same things for the millionth time. It was… uncomfortable, and Douglas hesitated before finally starting to walk to the door.
“Anyway, it was nice to see you. Hope you get well till Thursday, unless you want Carolyn to come here and bite your head off,” he said as he opened the door.
“I doubt she’ll make it up the stairs,” Martin laughed.
“In fact, I doubt she’ll even get past your security, especially if Kate answers the door,” Douglas joined him in his laughter.
“Yeah, they are just like my security, aren’t they?” Martin said, suddenly thoughtful, a smile still lingering on his lips.
“Except of Miles, he’s your doc,” the man replied. “And I don’t even know who else inhabits those three charming floors you have here.”
“Well, perhaps you’ll have a chance to get to know them,” Martin tilted up a corner of his mouth, suddenly hesitant.
“Maybe,” Douglas agreed, and somehow it seemed that the subtext of the words was much more significant than the words themselves. “Get well soon. I’m serious. I’m too lazy to fly alone.”
Martin giggled. “Okay, I’ll try to. Thanks for dropping by, Douglas.”
Douglas stopped descending and reached out for the door, meeting Martin’s already half-asleep gaze. He wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure of what exactly. That’s when Nancy chirped suddenly in her (his?) sleep from his (her?) snug nest on the wardrobe; they shared a grin, and Douglas left.
* * *
He passed through the kitchen on his way out. Kate and Miles were sitting at the table; Miles still reading the same book, an empty plate by his side, Kate going through her notes, obviously searching for something.
Nick was snoring softly on the sofa.
The two students jerked their heads up as Douglas entered. “Ah, there you are. All right?” Miles asked.
“Yes, completely. He’s going to sleep now, I assume.”
“Well, he needs the rest,” the boy nodded and turned a page over.
“Are we to expect you again soon?” Kate picked up the conversation where Miles dropped it.
“Umm,” Douglas shifted. “I honestly don’t know. I rather hope he recovers soon, and we can resume the flying.”
“Okay,” the girl nodded. “Shall we show you the way..?”
“Ah no, thanks, I don’t think I’ve forgotten it,” Douglas lifted a corner of his mouth. “Good day, Kate, Miles,” he turned to the sofa, “Ni- does he always sleep?” he couldn’t keep the amazement from his voice.
The two students giggled. “Nah, during weekends only. Makes up for the sleepless nights,” Miles explained.
Douglas smiled (students these days) and made his exit.
* * *
The man glanced out of the car’s window at the closed ventlight. Maybe he indeed would pay another visit before Thursday, who knew.
* * *
Part 2
* * *
“…and that’s when Evelyn enters, and everyone just sort of freezes with those glittering juice cartons still worn like helmets! And Steve goes all red and twitchy, which is even more hilarious considering he’s the one with paper ears taped to the carton, imagine that!”
Arthur burst out laughing, attempting to stay upright and failing miserably, sliding down the wall – if the sound of fabric pressed against plastic and a final thud indicated anything. A picture described by Martin passed through Douglas’ mind quite vividly and he let out a chuckle, eyes never leaving the endless carpet of clouds below Gerti.
He didn’t manage to come visit Martin again, but the man was fully recovered by the time their flight to Berlin was scheduled, so it didn’t really matter. True, Douglas called once, maybe two or three days after the visit, just to inquire about his state of well-being, but Nancy seemed quite persistent on trying to steal Martin’s phone, so there wasn’t awfully much room to talk; Douglas had spent the majority of the call’s duration wincing when the phone clattered down on firm surfaces (speakers on, somehow) to be dragged away by the insufferable bird or listening to Martin’s laughter as the man seemingly chased the jackdaw or his breathless spluttering of ‘God, Douglas, I’m sorry, just give me another moment’ whenever the younger man was getting close to try and wrestle the device from the bird.
Not that he complained. Martin’s laughter wasn’t entirely unpleasant to listen to.
Again, not that he was going to let this thought linger.
A week after Berlin, they were on their way from Minsk to Barcelona (‘Barcelo-o-o-na-a-a-a!!’, as Arthur had cheerfully informed them in an almost unrecognizable Queen-imitation), and ever since Captain returned to work, he kept showering the crew with random, often bizarre, and all in all amusing stories involving his housemates. The stream seemed never-ending, always ready to erupt again as soon as word games and betting were about to get boring. Douglas wondered just why Martin hadn’t told them any of these before – some of the stories, judging by timeline hints and people involved, have happened long before Martin joined MJN.
Douglas felt a dull tug of headache and suppressed a wince. He definitely was not going to spend – lots, lots, lots of – precious energy on making Arthur be quiet (or making him go be elsewhere). Or on telling Martin to cut it for now.
And it didn’t even have anything to do with him becoming softer (because he was not becoming softer, that much would be obvious to even the most dim-witted… dim-wits), but solely because this particular kind of ache was something Douglas became used to over the years, and if he was allowed to get some quiet in the nearest several hours – preferably before they start landing – he’d be just fine. Still, he indulged himself a bit and rubbed a hand over his forehead and nosebridge; a simple gesture that always seemed to cut off the edge and make the pain much more bearable.
Over his musings, Douglas failed to notice as the laughter gradually died down, and only snapped back to reality as Arthur tapped the carpet softly to get Martin’s attention (which wasn’t needed, Douglas silently judged. But that was Arthur, anyway).
“Skip, Skip, now tell us about what happened after that time when Sam made the oven explode!” he called. Ah yes, that was a good one, Douglas had to agree. It wasn’t like students carried out various experiments in the common kitchen every day, and Carolyn had interrupted them about something unimportant (certainly less important than Samuel Winsberg and his ability to make anything explode; even water, it seemed), and then it somehow slipped from their minds that the story had been left unfinished.
Douglas was even willing to pay attention when a particularly vicious and unexpected jolt of pain stabbed him right between the eyes. He squeezed them shut for a moment in surprise.
“Ah, sorry, Arthur, I think I’d better save that one for another time, hmm? First, I should tell you the prequel, that of Sam and Lilith’s shampoo and it would take up half a flight home from Barcelona.”
Douglas glanced to his right to find Martin turned around in his seat, smiling openly down at Arthur, who scrambled up clumsily a few seconds later, chattering about how he would be prepared for that flight with an obscene amount of Toblerones he was so going to buy in Duty Free.
“Do you even know what ‘obscene’ is, Arthur?” Douglas found himself prodding with just the right amount of jibe in his voice.
“Errrmm, something… Like, off a scene? So big it wouldn’t… fit… there. I s’pose. I dunno, I just liked the word! Can’t the amount of Toblerones be obscene?”
A minute (and several more pretty much harmless jibes) later, Arthur finally deserted the flight deck, and Douglas ran a hand over his face yet another time, attempting to soothe the ache. When he let his hand fall back down to the panel where it was before, in a corner of his eye he caught Martin giving him a small satisfied smile.
The flight went on in companionable – and blessed – silence.
* * *
Part 3
* * *
Martin exhaled in relief as he finally reached their floor.
It was late in the evening already, and they were going to leave for Fitton next afternoon, so he had his mind set on getting as much sleep as he could, even if that amount was about to border on fifteen hours straight. Martin was never the one to forgo a chance to restore his strength via sleep – mainly because he often simply couldn’t know when the next opportunity would present itself.
Carolyn had stormed off almost as soon as Gerti’s undercarriage touched the ground; Martin was highly suspecting the reason for it to be that Arthur seemed to disappear from the plane even before it neared the airfield, so excited he was (“Did you chaps know that Catalonia has four separate police forces? Isn’t that brilliant! I mean, and what if one man from the first force commits a crime? Do people from the other three come to get him? Or one only? And which one? And don’t they, like, have races of some sort when they chase after a criminal, to see which force gets him first?”)
Martin did remember Carolyn passing a hand over her face and saying something like, “Now I have to go supervise and pray to old Spanish gods that Arthur will not do something stupid just for the sake of finding out if there could be a Police Derby”, but the fact remained: the two have been swallowed by the city and still haven’t returned to the hotel; at least, not until Martin stopped nursing his Coke and decided to leave the common area.
As for Douglas, the FO has gone to their room (of course, Carolyn just HAD to give them one room exactly when the man seemed to have developed a tremendous – and obvious, did he really think Martin wouldn’t notice? – headache over the flight) and refused to emerge throughout the whole evening, so Martin decided to let him be for now.
All in all, it turned out to be horrendously boring to be in a foreign city without the crew (hence the fact that Martin mostly stayed in the hotel bar instead of going out). Which sounded pathetic, to be honest, but he couldn’t care less.
And maybe he wasn’t as angry at Carolyn as he thought he was, given the fact she roomed him in with Douglas when the FO was closer to some mysterious and possibly dangerous headach-y beast than his human form. Because it was kind of easier to keep an eye on him that way. And Martin absolutely, resolutely hated not being able to keep an eye on the older man if something was wrong. Just in case. Anything could happen, literally.
In the end, Martin was so bored that he decided to ignore the lift and bravely tamed the stairs, just for the sake of doing something and spending minutes instead of seconds.
And now he glanced defiantly at the lift’s doors and huffed as he restored his breathing. Finally, the man turned around and walked softly to the end of the corridor, where their room was. The walls were thin, almost as if made of paper, and he unintendedly eavesdropped as he passed the rooms. The room closest to the lift had loud pop-music – Martin pondered on legality of it at 11 p.m.; the next two had TV blaring harshly - Martin pondered on legality of that, too: it was pretty loud as well; then three empty rooms (after all, it wasn’t tourist season now, so no wonder); one room with two or three children, possibly running around it and jumping on beds for the sake of it; another empty room; a quarreling family couple; two more empty rooms and, finally, theirs.
Martin stopped in front of it, pulling his key out of the pocket and listening intently to try and predict what he would see when he walked in.
At first, he couldn’t hear anything at all, but that was mainly because the other rooms were so loud and so grating on the ears, the contrast of the inhabited – and quiet – room was deafening.
Martin started as a wave of noise went down for a second and he distinguished Douglas’ easily recognizable voice from behind the door.
Douglas was singing.
Martin quickly assumed himself to be mad and hallucinating. Or maybe he should blame the Spanish Coke.
Yes, of course, Douglas could sing, everyone knew that. He had a deep and rich voice that was pleasant to listen to; and Martin was exceptionally proud that sometimes he could try and contribute to whatever Douglas was singing and not mar the man’s performance.
Of course, Douglas could sing. The reason for Martin to think he would be rapidly approaching the nearest asylum’s gates in the foreseeable future was that Douglas didn’t do songs like that one. He could sing a love song dripping with sarcasm or something ridiculous like ‘Those Magnificent Men’; he meant, all of the man’s performances were for the sake of mockery – in one way or another – or humour of varying harmlessness degree.
But Martin has never heard the other man sound so… sincere.
The additional background noise of the hotel died down as he strained his hearing to single out Douglas’ voice only, and the man closed his eyes in comprehension as he recognized the words.
It was an old ballad, a story told by a knight as he was dying in the forest after his nemesis wounded him in a duel; Martin knew that one because Caitlin had once performed it in secondary school. He remembered his surprise at how long a man could be dying for – and singing, it seemed endless. Of course, that was a much shorter version, edited for children, but it was easy to match it with the one Douglas was singing.
Martin never knew why Caitlin decided to choose this particular poem – it seemed so un-girly – but, frankly, the last thing he wanted to think of right now was why his sister had picked something for a school performance almost thirty years ago.
The story was grim somewhat, the knight telling about his final adventure, at the end of which he encountered his sworn enemy and lost the duel humiliatingly; about how the enemy decided to not give him the mercy of quick death and departed, leaving the bleeding knight on their battlefield; how he mounted his steed and moved on in shame and wound-induced fever; how he finally collapsed somewhere in the depths of the forest. That was where he laid while he was singing his story, complaining sadly that his horse, his hounds and his falcons abandoned him, and how only three ravens were keeping ominous watch over him; and as the night was falling, he watched the last sunrays dancing on the leaves on treetops, sensing the approaching death. Remembering his past days.
That was how he recalled the poem; Douglas seemed to be well past the middle of it by now, so he must have been singing for quite a while.
When Caitlin performed the ballad, it seemed superficial somewhat; it was obvious the child’s soft voice was only retelling the story, impersonating the knight. And it made it easier to cope with the poem’s desperate sadness.
When Douglas was singing, however, Martin could literally feel the chill of the rocky ground and hear the rustle of the leaves, as the knight was addressing himself to his – friend, lover? it was never specified – unknown recipient, as if writing them a final letter they would never know about, a final reaching out, to ask them to keep his story and to remember him.
Martin let out a silent exhale as he realized he was feeling exactly as if he were the recipient. As if Douglas – or the knight? – was addressing his story to him, confiding himself to the younger man.
The ballad did not contain a single word regarding love, but it was the most romantic and gentle thing Martin has ever heard.
The singing stopped after an epilogue describing the knight’s last breath, the forest around him and three immobile ravens above the man as the sunlight finally died and let the night reign.
It took Martin several minutes to comprehend this fact, and when he finally opened his eyes and rubbed his face before resting elbows on bent knees (must have sat down by the door sometime during the ballad) and leaning back against the wall.
Behind the thin door, Douglas was silent; most likely unmoving, as if in trance of the song’s afterglow; Martin knew that state of mind all too well.
And he knew he’d want to be alone for some more time, if he were Douglas, so he treated his unspoken wish with due respect. Martin got up slowly, careful to not make a sound, and moved down the now silent corridor, back to the stairs. Looked like the sleep would have to wait, but Martin didn’t mind at all.
* * *
The first part also has an art addendum:
