Fanfiction: Cabin Pressure
(Working) Title: Final Straw -- subject to change
Summary: For this prompt. Martin and Douglas aren't speaking - at all. Arthur must find a resolution, but when the two pilots refuse to even look at one another, that might be easier said than done...
Rating/Warnings: None. Possible bad language in future chapters, but I mention it only as a precaution.
Chapter 1/?: Prologue
To be completely honest, Douglas is actually reluctantly impressed with how well Martin’s resolve is holding up. When he had shouted - very childishly in Douglas’s opinion - that he was never going to speak to the First Officer ever again, Douglas had not for a moment thought to take him seriously. An hour at most, he thought - he remembers his daughter throwing similar threats his way (with much the same righteous petulance as Martin’s declaration) and it never lasted more than about ninety minutes, tops.
True to his word, however, Martin had not spoken a single syllable to Douglas for the rest of the day. Twenty four hours later and more than halfway into the flight to Dubai, he has still not communicated directly once.
It was beginning to get tedious when Carolyn ran through the flight briefing. It was irritating when he made no response to Douglas’s proposal of the Word Association Game. It was downright worrying when he neglected to scold Douglas for his deliberately casual approach to the pre-flight safety checks.
They have been flying in complete silence for long enough now that even Arthur’s inappropriately cheery input would be greatly appreciated.
‘Oh come on Martin, stop being so ridiculous,’ Douglas says abruptly; his voice seems unnaturally loud after so long without either of them uttering a word. Martin ignores him, his eyes fixed determinedly dead ahead; he does not so much as twitch at Douglas’s voice, and his mouth remains firmly closed, a tight, severe line ill fitting with his usual over-eager self. ‘This is juvenile - you can’t honestly think you can keep this up indefinitely.’
No reply. Douglas’s frustration grows, and his bruised ego smarts painfully. This is Martin. Martin can’t be getting the better of him - it’s against all the natural laws of the universe.
‘Look,’ he tries again irritably, ‘can’t you just -’
‘Arthur?’ Martin calls, pressing the intercom button and interrupting Douglas as though he hasn’t heard him, ‘can you come up here a moment please?’
Seconds later Arthur bounces happily up to the door, but when he peeks around it and feels the thick tension on the flight deck, even his mood is visibly dampened.
‘What is it, Skip?’ he asks nervously. Martin looks around at him, eyes sliding across the other pilot without the faintest trace of recognition.
‘Could you please inform Douglas that I am not going to change my mind, and that is final?’
Arthur nods obediently and quickly turns to Douglas, ‘Martin says -’
‘I heard him. You can’t really mean it Martin, it’s stupid, just forget it, okay? Martin?’ He pauses, ‘Captain?’
Martin continues to ignore him.
‘Err,’ says Arthur slowly, ‘umm, I think you’re supposed to say it through me,’ he advises, then brightens, his face lighting up happily, ‘is this a new game?’ he asks enthusiastically, ‘is it like Simon Says, only -’
‘No it’s not a game, it’s Martin behaving like a three year old,’ says Douglas, his tone like acid, ‘clearly he has decided to relinquish any already tenuous hold he might have had on the adult world and has descended into a sulk worthy of a spoiled toddler. Well, fine. Two can play at that game, and I’m quite certain that I have ten times the self control Sir -’ he spits the word as derisively as possible ‘- possesses. Tell him that when he’s ready to grow up and apologise, I’m ready and willing to listen. Until then, all communication channels are disabled.’
‘Me apologise?’ Exclaims Martin furiously, ‘You -’ he realises his mistake just in time and rapidly changes tack, addressing Arthur instead, ‘can tell First Officer Richardson that when he decides to apologise, I will definitely not be listening, because it’s too late for that and as of the moment we land back in Fitton I will be officially searching for a new job.’
If it is physically possible, the silence in the wake of Martin’s outburst is even heavier and more oppressing than that at the start of the flight.
Arthur gapes, mouth open and eyes wide, looking uncertainly between the two pilots, not quite able to process the threat.
Martin grits his teeth to stop himself taking the words back. He regrets them as soon as he has spoken but he’ll be damned if he’s admitting that to Douglas - instead he resumes his steadfast refusal to acknowledge Douglas’s presence, and avoids Arthur’s questioning eyes guiltily.
Douglas reels. Martin can’t mean that. He can’t really...he’s just being typically melodramatic, that’s all. And the knot in Douglas’s stomach - the feeling of being winded, as though he has been punched - is frustration. It’s anger, not concern. Certainly not fear. Of course not.
Even so, for the first time in a very, very long time, he has to work to keep his voice steady when he speaks.
‘Very well,’ he says at last, without a trace of the undeniable, though momentary, horror that flashed through him at Martin’s announcement. Then, even though he knows it is the absolute worst thing he could possibly say, the very worst decision he could make, he continues. ‘Although you should tell Sir that he might want to strike the word new from that sentence, since it implies that his position at MJN is something approaching a real job. I would wish Sir good luck, but I am afraid I haven’t the heart to want to inflict his insufferable presence on whichever hapless, desperate airline he somehow manages to plead an offer from.’
Douglas, coming to his senses, claps his mouth shut.
Martin’s knuckles have gone white and a muscle jumps in his jaw.
Arthur looks positively terrified. ‘I, err...’ he begins hesitantly, deep concern written all over his face as he watches Martin carefully, at a complete loss for what to do.
‘I heard,’ Martin says stiffly, to spare both Arthur from the trouble of repeating it and himself having to hear it again. He swallows hard and concentrates on the screen in front of him.
‘Umm...Skip?’ Arthur tries quietly, ‘are you...are you okay? I mean it’s just that your voice has gone all high and you’re blinking quite a lot...and you’re all pale...’
‘I’m fine,’ Martin insists in a quivering voice,
‘But -’
‘I’m fine, Arthur. Thank you. You can go now.’
With a last, frightened look between them, Arthur backs out of the door, leaving them once more in complete silence.
Martin swallows again and focuses on stopping his hands from shaking. He takes deliberately even breaths and tries to force himself to stop blinking so much. God knows he is well aware of how merciless Douglas’s teasing can be - they’ve been flying together so long now that most of the lighter insults just roll off, but his tone then...Martin has never heard Douglas actually actively out to hurt before. And it has worked.
Why does everything Douglas attempts have to be so successful? Why does Martin even still care after yesterday? Why is it that even though this whole thing is very much Douglas’s fault, he desperately wants to turn around and just say sorry so it can be over?
But his pride, and the words from their previous argument that still echo in his head, stop him making any move towards reparation.
0000
The hotel Carolyn has booked them into is not the worst they have ever stayed in, but neither is it the best.
Martin is relieved to have his own room at least, and sinks dejectedly onto the too-thin mattress as soon as the door is closed. He checks his phone absently and sees three missed calls from Simon. More than in the last six months, he muses ruefully, throwing the handset aside with no intention of returning his brother’s attempts at contact.
Simon has always been more successful than him - he’s used to it. There is nothing new about the smug, superior way his brother addresses him, or the lingering resentment over the fact that Simon is invariably excellent at whatever he happens to try his hand in.
He’s a little like Douglas in the respect, Martin thinks, only not nearly as -
He stops himself short of thinking charming, flushing red even though there is no one here to see.
Damn Douglas. Really, what right does he have to be so - so - oh, why can’t Martin just hate him?
The part of his mind that answers does so in the kind of teasing, sing-song voice Simon used to use when they were children. Martin responds by huffing loudly and grabbing his phone again, taking great pleasure in deleting his call history and seeing Simon’s name vanish from the screen.
It’s all Simon’s fault, after all, he concedes, thumping the delete all button on the texts as well. Rich, handsome, funny bloody Simon...that jealousy is not new either, but he hasn’t felt it this strongly in a long while. He remembers too many times to count the disappointment of a crush who preferred one of the other of his siblings. They can’t really help it he supposes - they are hardly to blame that he is quite so hopeless - but they don’t have to rub it in the way Simon always has.
And why can’t he be angry with them? What’s stopping him? It feels good to have some sort of outlet. And don’t they deserve it? Doesn’t he deserve it? Just this, if he can have nothing else, the freedom to be as furious as he bloody well likes with the pair of them and their perfect lives and their perfect partners and everything else they have that he doesn’t?
0000
Douglas finds Martin in the hotel bar. He isn’t looks for him, and since he no longer drinks himself his presence here is otherwise redundant, but there is something about the atmosphere he supposes. Something familiar that draws in all the people who have nowhere else to go than a blank grey walled hotel room with a broken TV.
He could of course work his not inconsiderable charms to find his way into the bedroom of his choice for the night, as he has so often advised of Martin - he’s a happily divorced man, after all - but the prospect doesn’t appeal to him as much as it should and he instead finds himself making his solitary way up to the bar, where an already decidedly drunk MJN Captain is seated.
As Douglas approaches him - or rather, the stool several feet to his left whilst pointedly not looking at the younger man - Martin turns around, swaying where he sits, his eyes nevertheless settling on Douglas with absolute clarity for a moment before shifting distantly to a point somewhere over his shoulder.
‘No avoiding some people,’ he announces to the room at large, his words slurred as he turns back to the bar.
‘Especially not in a crowded public area,’ Douglas replies equally ambiguously as he takes the seat he was originally aiming for and shrugs carelessly.
The barman, taking an order further along, eyes them warily, evidently weighing up the potential row he senses brewing against the money two extra customers will make him. He decides to stay out of things, for now.
Douglas watches Martin closely out of the corner of his eye, refusing to acknowledge the guilt that threatens to surface at the sight of him.
‘All Simon’s fault,’ Martin mumbles after a long silence; for a split second something like hope rises in Douglas’s chest at the prospect of reconciliation, but it is quickly banished as he takes in the fact that Martin still refuses to look him in the eye. Irritation drowns any remorse that might have otherwise developed.
‘No...no, not Simon’s fault,’ Martin continues, sounding confused at his own contradiction, ‘not Simon’s fault.’ He lapses into silence once more, then, doing a rather poor job of suppressing a burp, ‘Douglas’ss fault - no, shh...don’t say his name,’ he whispers dramatically, addressing his half drained glass, ‘He Who Mus’ Not bee Named...Voldmort, he’s Vol - de - mort,’ he enunciates with extreme care, then giggles.
That giggle is not remotely endearing, Douglas reminds himself sternly, determined to remain angry.
‘I imagine this ‘Douglas’,’ Douglas says to the barman, who is still making an obvious effort to avoid the pair of them, ‘probably did very little at all. Sounds like an adolescent overreaction to me.’
Martin shakes his head slowly.
‘I’m successful,’ he continues, speaking into his drink, ‘I’m more successful than him anyway, I’m Captain!’ He concentrates hard on forming the words, but they come out slurred anyway. The room is beginning to look pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, and he has to grip the side of the bar to stop sliding off his stool. ‘He p’fers Simon’s so brill - brilli - good.’
‘You see,’ Douglas says loudly, ‘it's pure jealousy -’
‘Jealous!’ Martin exclaims, holding up an unsteady finger, ‘good word’s that...he’s jealous. P’tended to his wife he was Captin ‘cause he’s jealous...’
Douglas rises from his seat abruptly, anger flaring hotly in his chest. Martin automatically follows suit, a little too quickly, and stumbles immediately.
‘Dizzy,’ he announces, his voice suddenly almost clear. He stands still for a moment before swaying and slumping forwards, collapsing miserably to the floor.
Douglas surveys him coldly, and walks away without a word.
Summary: For this prompt. Martin and Douglas aren't speaking - at all. Arthur must find a resolution, but when the two pilots refuse to even look at one another, that might be easier said than done...
Rating/Warnings: None. Possible bad language in future chapters, but I mention it only as a precaution.
Chapter 1/?: Prologue
To be completely honest, Douglas is actually reluctantly impressed with how well Martin’s resolve is holding up. When he had shouted - very childishly in Douglas’s opinion - that he was never going to speak to the First Officer ever again, Douglas had not for a moment thought to take him seriously. An hour at most, he thought - he remembers his daughter throwing similar threats his way (with much the same righteous petulance as Martin’s declaration) and it never lasted more than about ninety minutes, tops.
True to his word, however, Martin had not spoken a single syllable to Douglas for the rest of the day. Twenty four hours later and more than halfway into the flight to Dubai, he has still not communicated directly once.
It was beginning to get tedious when Carolyn ran through the flight briefing. It was irritating when he made no response to Douglas’s proposal of the Word Association Game. It was downright worrying when he neglected to scold Douglas for his deliberately casual approach to the pre-flight safety checks.
They have been flying in complete silence for long enough now that even Arthur’s inappropriately cheery input would be greatly appreciated.
‘Oh come on Martin, stop being so ridiculous,’ Douglas says abruptly; his voice seems unnaturally loud after so long without either of them uttering a word. Martin ignores him, his eyes fixed determinedly dead ahead; he does not so much as twitch at Douglas’s voice, and his mouth remains firmly closed, a tight, severe line ill fitting with his usual over-eager self. ‘This is juvenile - you can’t honestly think you can keep this up indefinitely.’
No reply. Douglas’s frustration grows, and his bruised ego smarts painfully. This is Martin. Martin can’t be getting the better of him - it’s against all the natural laws of the universe.
‘Look,’ he tries again irritably, ‘can’t you just -’
‘Arthur?’ Martin calls, pressing the intercom button and interrupting Douglas as though he hasn’t heard him, ‘can you come up here a moment please?’
Seconds later Arthur bounces happily up to the door, but when he peeks around it and feels the thick tension on the flight deck, even his mood is visibly dampened.
‘What is it, Skip?’ he asks nervously. Martin looks around at him, eyes sliding across the other pilot without the faintest trace of recognition.
‘Could you please inform Douglas that I am not going to change my mind, and that is final?’
Arthur nods obediently and quickly turns to Douglas, ‘Martin says -’
‘I heard him. You can’t really mean it Martin, it’s stupid, just forget it, okay? Martin?’ He pauses, ‘Captain?’
Martin continues to ignore him.
‘Err,’ says Arthur slowly, ‘umm, I think you’re supposed to say it through me,’ he advises, then brightens, his face lighting up happily, ‘is this a new game?’ he asks enthusiastically, ‘is it like Simon Says, only -’
‘No it’s not a game, it’s Martin behaving like a three year old,’ says Douglas, his tone like acid, ‘clearly he has decided to relinquish any already tenuous hold he might have had on the adult world and has descended into a sulk worthy of a spoiled toddler. Well, fine. Two can play at that game, and I’m quite certain that I have ten times the self control Sir -’ he spits the word as derisively as possible ‘- possesses. Tell him that when he’s ready to grow up and apologise, I’m ready and willing to listen. Until then, all communication channels are disabled.’
‘Me apologise?’ Exclaims Martin furiously, ‘You -’ he realises his mistake just in time and rapidly changes tack, addressing Arthur instead, ‘can tell First Officer Richardson that when he decides to apologise, I will definitely not be listening, because it’s too late for that and as of the moment we land back in Fitton I will be officially searching for a new job.’
If it is physically possible, the silence in the wake of Martin’s outburst is even heavier and more oppressing than that at the start of the flight.
Arthur gapes, mouth open and eyes wide, looking uncertainly between the two pilots, not quite able to process the threat.
Martin grits his teeth to stop himself taking the words back. He regrets them as soon as he has spoken but he’ll be damned if he’s admitting that to Douglas - instead he resumes his steadfast refusal to acknowledge Douglas’s presence, and avoids Arthur’s questioning eyes guiltily.
Douglas reels. Martin can’t mean that. He can’t really...he’s just being typically melodramatic, that’s all. And the knot in Douglas’s stomach - the feeling of being winded, as though he has been punched - is frustration. It’s anger, not concern. Certainly not fear. Of course not.
Even so, for the first time in a very, very long time, he has to work to keep his voice steady when he speaks.
‘Very well,’ he says at last, without a trace of the undeniable, though momentary, horror that flashed through him at Martin’s announcement. Then, even though he knows it is the absolute worst thing he could possibly say, the very worst decision he could make, he continues. ‘Although you should tell Sir that he might want to strike the word new from that sentence, since it implies that his position at MJN is something approaching a real job. I would wish Sir good luck, but I am afraid I haven’t the heart to want to inflict his insufferable presence on whichever hapless, desperate airline he somehow manages to plead an offer from.’
Douglas, coming to his senses, claps his mouth shut.
Martin’s knuckles have gone white and a muscle jumps in his jaw.
Arthur looks positively terrified. ‘I, err...’ he begins hesitantly, deep concern written all over his face as he watches Martin carefully, at a complete loss for what to do.
‘I heard,’ Martin says stiffly, to spare both Arthur from the trouble of repeating it and himself having to hear it again. He swallows hard and concentrates on the screen in front of him.
‘Umm...Skip?’ Arthur tries quietly, ‘are you...are you okay? I mean it’s just that your voice has gone all high and you’re blinking quite a lot...and you’re all pale...’
‘I’m fine,’ Martin insists in a quivering voice,
‘But -’
‘I’m fine, Arthur. Thank you. You can go now.’
With a last, frightened look between them, Arthur backs out of the door, leaving them once more in complete silence.
Martin swallows again and focuses on stopping his hands from shaking. He takes deliberately even breaths and tries to force himself to stop blinking so much. God knows he is well aware of how merciless Douglas’s teasing can be - they’ve been flying together so long now that most of the lighter insults just roll off, but his tone then...Martin has never heard Douglas actually actively out to hurt before. And it has worked.
Why does everything Douglas attempts have to be so successful? Why does Martin even still care after yesterday? Why is it that even though this whole thing is very much Douglas’s fault, he desperately wants to turn around and just say sorry so it can be over?
But his pride, and the words from their previous argument that still echo in his head, stop him making any move towards reparation.
0000
The hotel Carolyn has booked them into is not the worst they have ever stayed in, but neither is it the best.
Martin is relieved to have his own room at least, and sinks dejectedly onto the too-thin mattress as soon as the door is closed. He checks his phone absently and sees three missed calls from Simon. More than in the last six months, he muses ruefully, throwing the handset aside with no intention of returning his brother’s attempts at contact.
Simon has always been more successful than him - he’s used to it. There is nothing new about the smug, superior way his brother addresses him, or the lingering resentment over the fact that Simon is invariably excellent at whatever he happens to try his hand in.
He’s a little like Douglas in the respect, Martin thinks, only not nearly as -
He stops himself short of thinking charming, flushing red even though there is no one here to see.
Damn Douglas. Really, what right does he have to be so - so - oh, why can’t Martin just hate him?
The part of his mind that answers does so in the kind of teasing, sing-song voice Simon used to use when they were children. Martin responds by huffing loudly and grabbing his phone again, taking great pleasure in deleting his call history and seeing Simon’s name vanish from the screen.
It’s all Simon’s fault, after all, he concedes, thumping the delete all button on the texts as well. Rich, handsome, funny bloody Simon...that jealousy is not new either, but he hasn’t felt it this strongly in a long while. He remembers too many times to count the disappointment of a crush who preferred one of the other of his siblings. They can’t really help it he supposes - they are hardly to blame that he is quite so hopeless - but they don’t have to rub it in the way Simon always has.
And why can’t he be angry with them? What’s stopping him? It feels good to have some sort of outlet. And don’t they deserve it? Doesn’t he deserve it? Just this, if he can have nothing else, the freedom to be as furious as he bloody well likes with the pair of them and their perfect lives and their perfect partners and everything else they have that he doesn’t?
0000
Douglas finds Martin in the hotel bar. He isn’t looks for him, and since he no longer drinks himself his presence here is otherwise redundant, but there is something about the atmosphere he supposes. Something familiar that draws in all the people who have nowhere else to go than a blank grey walled hotel room with a broken TV.
He could of course work his not inconsiderable charms to find his way into the bedroom of his choice for the night, as he has so often advised of Martin - he’s a happily divorced man, after all - but the prospect doesn’t appeal to him as much as it should and he instead finds himself making his solitary way up to the bar, where an already decidedly drunk MJN Captain is seated.
As Douglas approaches him - or rather, the stool several feet to his left whilst pointedly not looking at the younger man - Martin turns around, swaying where he sits, his eyes nevertheless settling on Douglas with absolute clarity for a moment before shifting distantly to a point somewhere over his shoulder.
‘No avoiding some people,’ he announces to the room at large, his words slurred as he turns back to the bar.
‘Especially not in a crowded public area,’ Douglas replies equally ambiguously as he takes the seat he was originally aiming for and shrugs carelessly.
The barman, taking an order further along, eyes them warily, evidently weighing up the potential row he senses brewing against the money two extra customers will make him. He decides to stay out of things, for now.
Douglas watches Martin closely out of the corner of his eye, refusing to acknowledge the guilt that threatens to surface at the sight of him.
‘All Simon’s fault,’ Martin mumbles after a long silence; for a split second something like hope rises in Douglas’s chest at the prospect of reconciliation, but it is quickly banished as he takes in the fact that Martin still refuses to look him in the eye. Irritation drowns any remorse that might have otherwise developed.
‘No...no, not Simon’s fault,’ Martin continues, sounding confused at his own contradiction, ‘not Simon’s fault.’ He lapses into silence once more, then, doing a rather poor job of suppressing a burp, ‘Douglas’ss fault - no, shh...don’t say his name,’ he whispers dramatically, addressing his half drained glass, ‘He Who Mus’ Not bee Named...Voldmort, he’s Vol - de - mort,’ he enunciates with extreme care, then giggles.
That giggle is not remotely endearing, Douglas reminds himself sternly, determined to remain angry.
‘I imagine this ‘Douglas’,’ Douglas says to the barman, who is still making an obvious effort to avoid the pair of them, ‘probably did very little at all. Sounds like an adolescent overreaction to me.’
Martin shakes his head slowly.
‘I’m successful,’ he continues, speaking into his drink, ‘I’m more successful than him anyway, I’m Captain!’ He concentrates hard on forming the words, but they come out slurred anyway. The room is beginning to look pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, and he has to grip the side of the bar to stop sliding off his stool. ‘He p’fers Simon’s so brill - brilli - good.’
‘You see,’ Douglas says loudly, ‘it's pure jealousy -’
‘Jealous!’ Martin exclaims, holding up an unsteady finger, ‘good word’s that...he’s jealous. P’tended to his wife he was Captin ‘cause he’s jealous...’
Douglas rises from his seat abruptly, anger flaring hotly in his chest. Martin automatically follows suit, a little too quickly, and stumbles immediately.
‘Dizzy,’ he announces, his voice suddenly almost clear. He stands still for a moment before swaying and slumping forwards, collapsing miserably to the floor.
Douglas surveys him coldly, and walks away without a word.