Fanfiction: Cabin Pressure
Martin wakes the following morning with a pounding headache and the distinct impression even before he opens his eyes (which, on doing, he concludes is a very bad idea and hastily closes them again) of the room spinning nauseatingly around him.
Sitting up, too, makes the world swim and lurch in a way he would very much rather avoid, so he abandons this plan as well and lays back on the bed to try and take stock of his surroundings with those senses that don’t make him feel like his head is being cleaved in two with a very large axe.
First things first; he’s in a bed. Not a particularly comfortable bed, admittedly, and one that currently seems to be doing a good impression of being at sea, with all this swaying, but a bed nonetheless.
Secondly, he informs himself firmly, he is not actually swaying; the ground is perfectly level and still. It’s in his head, which he instructs to stop playing stupid games this instant so he can try and think. It ignores him. He does his best to ignore it in return, and organise his thoughts into a semi-coherent manner.
Back to the bed situation. One thing at a time. How did he get into a bed? He supposes - hopes - it is his bed, or at least the hotel one he was designated for the night in any case. He doesn’t actually remember getting into it though, so he can’t tell for certain.
The last thing he does remember is being in the bar. This explains the headache and the lack of other memories, but isn’t comforting in the least. He groans and brings a hand up to his head, running his fingers through his tangled hair and digging his nails into his scalp as though to anchor himself. He pretends it’s working, and slowly the spinning dies down.
So. In the bar. He knows that much.
Douglas...Douglas was there. Yes - that seems to fit. But why does it make him angry? The images are a little blurred, but clear enough...the sound is coming and going like a badly tuned radio, difficult to make out.
He hears his own voice distantly blaming Simon for something, but the thought bounces around his head without anything to connect to yet. Well - there are a great number of things he could be annoyed with Simon for, it’s just that none of the reasons that present themselves appear to be particularly recent, and why is Douglas involved?
Okay. He takes a deep breath, the light filtering through his eyelids marginally less painful now than when he first tried opening them, but he doesn’t attempt to do so again.
Rewind.
In bed. That much he has gathered. Beforehand - in a bar. Fuzzy in between. Arthur’s face hovers in his mind’s eye for a moment. Did he get so drunk Arthur had to bring him to his room? Cringing at the thought and making a mental note to apologise, he moves on. Or - well, back.
What was before the bar?
Simon trying to call him. Why would Simon try and call him? Anger flares again, but he can’t identify the source.
Before?
On the plane. Which game had they been playing this time - and by how much had he been losing? It takes a moment to register that this is not another lapse in his memory - they hadn’t been playing one. They hadn’t even been talking - again Arthur’s face comes to him, looking frightened and uncertain, and he feels another prickling of guilt.
Rewind again, faster this time, further, and Arthur’s face is replaced by Simon’s car.
Oh.
The uncertainty and underlying frustration are swamped suddenly by a rush of resentment, anger, and - strongest of all - envy.
Why - why - did he tell Simon about the van? Or not so much tell him, Martin supposes, he just let it slip. He regretted it as soon as the words were out of his mouth - bad enough that his only form of transport is a van closer to falling apart than Gertie, next to Simon’s shiny new company car, but that his brother should find out that said van in fact has gone and broken down on him? And worse still that Simon should be in town at the time - oh, I’m around anyway, and I’d love to meet them all...you never stop going on about them...
If he had to suffer the humiliation of Simon knowing about the van, did he really have to go and agree to a lift as well? He sighs loudly at the memory, more irritated with himself than anything. With his own stupidity. The very last thing he’d wanted was for Simon to meet Carolyn, or Arthur, and least of all -
You must be Douglas.
Martin’s ears had burned just at that, and his face flushes red now remembering, partly from embarrassment and partly from anger. Of course Douglas had to choose that day to arrive on time - early even. Of course he had to walk straight into Simon. Of course he had to compliment Simon’s damn car and of bloody course they just had to hit it off straight away.
Simon, who is rich, at least compared to Martin, and confident, and has effortlessly pulled very single friend Martins has ever introduced to him.
It was immediately obvious that Douglas much preferred Simon’s company to Martin’s - he was even polite, and he never once made any of his usual sarcastic remarks to the elder Crieff, who had laughed smugly and made a point of making sure Martin felt about an inch tall. God, if his brother can charm even Douglas, what hope is there?
They chatted and swapped stories and generally made themselves merry while Martin looked on with an ever growing serpent twisting in his chest at the sight - he’d known this would happen all along. Why would anyone, especially Douglas, look at him with Simon present?
He had finally - finally - seen Simon off and Douglas had turned to him and said he seems nice in a way Martin still can’t decide whether it was genuine or sarcastic. He can’t even remember what he said in response, only that he took a savage pleasure in how taken aback Douglas looked when he did. Serves him right.
His resentment simmered for the rest of the day, giving no sign of dissipating and making him tetchy and irritable to the point that when Douglas asked about - something...the walk around? The hold temperature? The weather? What does it matter? He had replied with why don’t you ask Simon?
Douglas - for possibly the first time since Martin met him - looked thoroughly at a loss.
What on Earth are you talking about?
Martin hadn’t been thinking. The only thing he could see was the victorious, superior look on Simon’s face, and the pang in his chest turned into a full blown explosion.
You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.
Douglas’s reply was automatic - very rarely. That comment was just - just Douglas, just dry and amused and normal, but it had hurt, and from there they descended into increasingly bitter jibes and insults - many of which still sting - until Martin shouted that he was never speaking to Douglas again.
Oh God, why did he say that? Why can’t he just - but it’s Douglas’s fault, and if he likes Simon so much more then why should Martin go out of his way to do anything for him?
That flight was the worst he’s ever been on, though. The silence...self imposed but...it hurt not to be talking to Douglas for the whole eight hours. It’s physically painful to consider what seems like the very real possibility of never speaking to Douglas again - of working anywhere other than MJN - but some of Douglas’s choicest words from their argument still ring in his ears.
Everything has gone so wrong, and he can’t decide who he is more angry with - Simon, Douglas, or himself.
0000
Douglas’s sleep is brought to an abrupt end by the shrill beeping of his alarm clock. He tries to reach out to turn it off, gets his arm tangled in the sheets, and succeeds only in knocking it to the floor. The batteries fall out, and he leaves them there, blaming this uncharacteristic clumsiness solely on Martin.
Douglas Richardson is very much a morning person. And, for that matter, an afternoon person. And evening. In fact, he is pretty much a whatever-time-it-pleases-him person, so this groggy, bleary-eyed, reluctant awakening can only be Martin’s doing. It’s Martin’s fault he didn’t get any real sleep last night after all - Martin’s face, tearful and lost, haunted him every time he closed his eyes. He’d phoned Arthur to escort the Captain back to his room as soon as he’d returned to his own, the guilt (for which he also blames Martin) already eating at him by the time he reached the door of the bar.
He really doesn’t understand Martin’s problem, which is the most frustrating part of it all. He has done nothing wrong - good Lord he tried hard enough to be on his very best behaviour (and he can think of no one but Martin he would do this for, not that he will ever admit to that) during the encounter with Simon Crieff the other day didn’t he? And yet that’s where he seems able to trace Martin’s anger from.
He’d made a point of being as pleasant as possible despite his instant dislike of both Simon and his ridiculously garish car. Martin had looked so terrified at the sight of him - like a rabbit caught in headlights, pale and wide eyed then instantly crimson when Simon stepped forward to shake Douglas’s hand.
The man had been...smarmy. Silky and sickening and as different to Martin as it’s possible to be; the patronising way he addressed Martin had raised Douglas’s hackles even before they had started speaking, and inexplicably protective urge coming over him and making him narrow his eyes with dislike. Oh, he knows that the expression on Simon’s face probably appears on his several times an hour, but that’s different. It’s...well, it just is. And the first thing Douglas wanted to do was take Simon Crieff down a peg or two, as he knows he is more than capable of doing, but Martin’s face had been the picture of dread, clearly petrified Douglas would do something to show him up in front of his brother.
So he’d bottled the automatic acerbic comments threatening to burst forth and pretended to put up with the man. For that Martin is refusing to speak to him.
He gets heavily out of bed and dumps the alarm clock back on the table, slamming the batteries down next to it.
The worst part, he decides moodily, is not, after all, not knowing what he has done wrong, but that Martin’s hurt expression from yesterday refuses to leave him along, and despite being unaware of any actual crime, it still makes his insides squirm with an unfamiliar guilt.
0000
Arthur has never been on a quieter flight. He has not even been called up to pass messages between the pilots this time, and when he went to serve their food the atmosphere crackled with all the furious words that neither of them were saying.
Martin is bad tempered and hung over; Douglas is just bad tempered.
Arthur is scared. Given Martin’s threat to leave MJN for a new airline the moment they land, half formed plans keep chasing themselves around his head to somehow delay the flight, or force a diversion, but most of them are so ridiculous even he dismisses them out of hand without any further thought.
What if Martin is serious? What if he really does leave MJN? Is he angry enough for that? Arthur thinks back to guiding Martin, blind drunk, to his room. He hadn’t seemed angry. He’s just seemed very, very sad.
This thought doesn’t make Arthur feel any better.
The problem is, he doesn’t even know what they’re fighting about, and nothing he remembers from the course in Ipswich seems like it could be any help. He would say that Douglas must have done something wrong to hurt Martin this badly - but Douglas seems equally upset but the whole thing.
He’s at a loss. Even the apple juggling isn’t helping now; he hates it when Martin and Douglas argue, and this is the worst he’s ever known it.
‘Mum?’ He says eventually, ‘do you think Martin’s really going to leave?’
‘What? No, of course not,’ Carolyn replies dismissively. She glances up and catches sight of Arthur’s face. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she assures him, ‘they’ll be back to normal by tomorrow, which frankly can’t come soon enough. You being the second most mature person on this plane is more than I can handle.’
She doesn’t look entirely convinced, though, and is unusually patient with Arthur for the remainder of the flight.
It is a mark of Arthur’s distraction that he doesn’t thank her for what he would normally perceive as a compliment.
0000
Several times during their journey back to the UK, Martin opens his mouth to say something but thinks better of it before any sound comes out. If Douglas notices his predicament he doesn’t acknowledge it, which Martin can’t decide whether to be irritated by or grateful for - they both present problems.
If he is irritated then that means he wants Douglas to speak to him, and hasn’t he already concluded that the whole point of this is that he’d really rather not listen to what Douglas has to say?
On the other hand, he is determined not to be grateful to Douglas for anything - or amused, or even mildly interested, ever again. If Douglas finds his company so completely undesirable that he would rather be with Simon, why should Martin make any effort?
Again he finds himself running through justifications for his silence, but each time he does he finds his own excuses more feeble than on the previous attempt.
But he hasn’t done anything wrong, it’s Douglas who - it’s Douglas - oh, he doesn’t even know any more. The fact is he knows he’s overreacting, really...but even though he would like nothing more than to swallow his pride and just go back to how things were, it hurts more than it should to think of laughing with Douglas and all the while being aware that he is the second choice. Well - he knows he’s probably much further down than second, ultimately, he’s not stupid, but next to Simon. Behind Simon. Again. It’s too much.
After his fifth glance to the side in as many minutes, he sighs deeply and tries to concentrate on running through the Emergency Procedures in his head to take his mind off things - but he only gets as far as Captain dons cap before he hears Douglas in his head so clear he actually has to look around to make sure the First Officer hasn’t spoken, gasping with laughter at the very idea and suggesting a lipstick inscription as well.
When he gets back to his flat, he immediately tosses his hat aside carelessly, scowling as though it has personally offended him - as though the entire thing is its fault.
It lands - quite by accident - in the bin, but Martin doesn’t make any move to retrieve it.
0000
Arthur spends his entire evening on the internet, scrolling through pages and pages of websites until his eyes itch and the intervals between his suppressed yawns become shorter and shorter.
He has already had quite enough of Martin and Douglas fighting - it unsettles him something terrible, and he is determined to do something about it but has very little idea where to start. So he has resorted to searching through an endless list of mostly useless information which he nevertheless places an enormous amount of faith in. Under ordinary circumstances, if he were confused about something (which in fairness he concedes happens quite often) his first port of call would be Carolyn - but she is still maintaining that the whole thing will blow over in no time (though Arthur isn’t so sure) and his second stop would be the pilots themselves, which he doesn’t think would be very helpful right now.
He takes off his glasses (he doesn’t need them - he just thinks they make him look more intelligent) to rub his eyes and read through the responses to his post on ask.com. The vast majority are unhelpful at best, one or two make him turn faintly pink and several of seem to contain links to websites that are nothing to do with the matter at hand, along with exclamations about various money-making schemes he finds himself tempted to try, but thinks Carolyn probably wouldn’t allow.
He ignores the suggestion of locking them in a room together until they sort themselves out, reasoning that it is not all that different to being on the place, which isn’t doing any good so far. The next post contains no attempt at advice but calls him several names he’s sure his mother would not like him to repeat.
Three more after that are in much the same tone, the fourth is spam (he wonders briefly why it’s called that, then dismisses the thought) and the fifth tells him he ought to mind his own business and leave them to it. The sixth and seventh have merit, though. He considers them, then prints both off for perusal later, tucking the sheets inside Body Language For Dummies - again, it doesn’t really help, it being open beside him just adds to the atmosphere of serious research.
In the end, he falls asleep on top of all his hard work and when Carolyn wakes him in the morning he’s still exhausted, but he doesn’t regret it.
He will sort this out.