Fanfiction: Cabin Pressure
It's here! The eighth chapter of Little Lion Man!
But I'm sorry, no, this is not the last chapter. It was supposed to be. But although I've had this planned since the beginning, it was proving very difficult to actually write. Then when I finally got going it ended up much longer than I expected and since you've all been waiting so long and so patiently, I thought I would split it into two, so you can have the first installment a little earlier. :)
So without further ado:
Douglas moves in something of a daze into the portakabin, after making Arthur promise not to breathe a word of their conversation to Martin. He hesitates at the door to the room which passes as an office for the two pilots, his hand actually trembling slightly as he reaches out to open it.
‘Douglas?’
‘Hmm?’ Douglas turns his head, hand still on the door. It appears that words have momentarily deserted him; he hovers in indecision. Should he act as though nothing has been said, or confront Martin immediately? Should he ease back into civility before bringing it up; gradually build back across the chasm between them, or jump over it straight away? He isn’t used to this kind of uncertainty and it is more than a little unnerving.
‘Are you okay?’ Arthur asks doubtfully, frowning. He looks worried, and disappointed.
‘Fine - I’m fine,’ Douglas lies. Such a flood of emotions is assaulting him that it’s a struggle to know which to tackle first; which have been simmering for weeks now, or months, and which have only just arisen.
There is disbelief, and doubt. There is no small amount of irritation, although to whom it is directed he isn’t sure. It could as easily be himself as Martin, or Arthur; even Carolyn is not immune. His heart is not thundering so much as fluttering nervously; apprehension plagues his normally rock solid resolve. Something altogether too close to fear for his liking flickers at the edge of his senses.
And then, there is - God, there is hope; such all-consuming, powerful, aching hope that he doesn’t know what to do with it, that it feels like it might burst from his chest, that he doesn’t know if hope is even the right label for it. He’s breathless and dizzy with it, while at the same time something mischievous and sneaky whispers at the back of his mind. He latches onto this; it is familiar territory, and comforting.
Straightening up and taking a deep breath, he sends Arthur away for tea and pushes open the door, determinedly not flinching when Martin’s gaze flickers up to him momentarily. For a split second he sees fury and grief displayed in equal parts across the younger man’s face, before it is carefully blanked again and turned back to the paperwork.
Martin is concentrating so hard on not looking at Douglas that the First Officer is free to study him without fear of his attention being noticed. For the first time in many weeks, Douglas actually allows himself to look properly at Martin, as he takes his seat on the other side of the tiny room.
Martin’s face is turned down. He is leaning low over his desk and writing intently, gripping his pen so hard that his fingers are white, and Douglas can see the tension in his jaw. Has he been this wound up the whole time? He must be exhausted. Douglas pushes the uncomfortable squirming of guilt away. It’s not his fault - how could he have known? He was trying to help, for goodness sake.
When Martin flicks his slightly too-long hair out of his eyes, Douglas catches sight of his face; he sees the dark smudges beneath the Captain’s eyes, the drawn greyness of his cheeks, and feels his chest tighten.
He opens his mouth to speak, but stops. Martin jerks his head up, but Douglas looks quickly away. What is he meant to say? For someone to whom words usually come as easily as breathing, it is incredibly disconcerting to lose them so suddenly.
I’m sorry; I was wrong.
That is the most obvious, of course, but Douglas doesn’t like the taste of that phrase even now, when so much rides on it.
Your brother is a prick.
Well, yes, that goes to the root of the problem rather succinctly. But is it too abrupt? Will Martin assume that the attack on his brother is a roundabout way of insulting Martin himself, and go on defence? It seems likely, given all his other insecurities.
Arthur told me -
No. Just, no; that makes it sound like he’s trying for deniability, like he’s not actually sincere; almost like an accusation. And anyway…Arthur; it’s still more than likely the steward got it wrong, isn’t it?
Douglas’s heart thuds as though in denial, and he realises just how much he hopes that is not true. Please, he finds himself thinking reluctantly, please let Arthur be right just this once.
‘Tea, Douglas!’ Arthur himself announces, bursting into the room with a wide grin on his face. He looks expectantly between the two pilots, and visibly droops when he sees no change in the tension. Douglas glares at him warningly and to his credit, Arthur remains silent as he hands the drink over, although he can’t hide the crestfallen expression on his face.
Douglas sips his tea thoughtfully as Arthur backs out again, avoiding the sceptical - and reluctantly curious - glance Martin sends in his direction.
This will need some planning.
00000
A little over three hours later, they are halfway through the flight and Douglas is fidgeting. Actually fidgeting; he taps his foot without realising what he’s doing, until Martin gives it a withering look and he stops. He drums his fingers on his knee, and then clenches his hand into a fist to stop himself. He even bites his lip, until he realises how obvious it is and how ridiculous he must look.
As usual, he has countless plans for sorting this out. Of course he does; he is never without ideas. It’s just that this time…he is wary of carrying any of them out. There’s far too much risk involved; personal risk, rather than financial, or legal, or physical.
It would be easiest to just say something; smash down the wall of silence between them with a single blow and deal with the consequences when they come. But what would be the right something? What can he say to be sure of the right reaction?
Safer, then, to try and break it down slowly; but what to start with?
Should he actually just swallow his pride and apologise, straight out, no fuss, just say it for God’s sake? Should he say it, or get Arthur to pass the message on? A large part of him would much rather Arthur take on this burden; but then how will Martin believe he is serious if he does that? How will it be any different to the rest of their communication since that day?
Douglas shifts in his seat again. He has never felt so frustrated, so stuck; he has never in living memory, ever, not known how to get himself out of a tight situation. With words usually, bribes if necessary; flattery and favours as a last resort. But he treads such a fine line here. Such a dangerously fragile route; one wrong step and he could ruin everything, and Martin really will never speak to him again.
It’s only now that Douglas realises how much that prospect scares him. Up until this moment he’s always been rather assuming that it would all blow over somehow, that Martin would just get over himself and they’d go back to normal. Now, looking at Martin beside him; the coldness in his eyes, the weary slump of his shoulders…now, Douglas realises what it would be like if this went on forever. If he never speaks to Martin again; if one or both of them leave MJN; if he never sees Martin’s smile, or hears him insist indignantly that he is the Captain…
If this silence carries on forever…
‘Fictional Captains,’ Douglas announces into the silence.
00000
Martin is tired.
For the past…God, he forgets how long now. If he were to find out it’s been a decade since the argument he would not be surprised…but he has been angry. Angry and jealous and guilty and too damn proud to say a word to change anything, too scared to even try.
And now he is just tired. He’s sick of being angry and he’s sick of working so hard to ignore Douglas when really this all spiralled a long way beyond being reasonable weeks ago. He’s exhausted by the effort it takes to stay angry, and wearied by the fear of what will happen - what he might accidentally reveal - if he lets himself stop being so furious and just talk to Douglas.
He arrives later than usual at work because he slept through his alarm, but he has still already made a good start on the paperwork before Douglas arrives.
His insides twist painfully with a mixture of irritation and fondness. His eyes sting suddenly and he blinks back the rising moisture in them. How, after all this, can he still feel this way? Why can’t he just let go? If he ever had a chance in the first place it is long gone now, and clinging to some stupid fantasy like an infatuated teenage girl is not going to help matters. Douglas has made his decision; he has made his preference perfectly clear. Martin feels heavy with the weight of trying to move on.
When Douglas walks into the office, Martin tenses. It’s as if his feelings are fluid, flowing through every part of him, their burden dragging him down until he sees their object, and they solidify into ice. He grits his teeth and grips his pen unnecessarily hard, peering with unwonted intensity at the pages before him.
He can’t concentrate now. The words swim fuzzily on the paper and though he carries on writing, he barely registers what he says. He is listening.
Douglas moves across the room and sits down at his desk, only a few feet away from Martin’s. There is silence for several moments. Martin jerks his head to move his hair out of his eyes - he really should get it cut, he thinks absently - and catches sight of Douglas as he does.
He looks…different. Sort of…well…if it were anyone else, Martin would think nervous, but he knows Douglas better than that. Doesn’t he?
There’s a slight sound - Martin can’t place it - a throat clearing or the beginning of a word - and his head snaps up automatically. For a moment hope surges through him and he can’t help but imagine Douglas is about to speak. About to speak to him, not through Arthur - about to apologise or explain or even just insult him, he doesn’t care, he just wants Douglas to talk.
But he doesn’t, and Martin refocuses on his work as Douglas looks away, hoping that the heat he can feel rising in his cheeks isn’t too obvious.
00000
If it is even possible, the flight starts out more painful than any Martin has endured since he imposed this silence on them. Because yes, he admits to himself furiously, yes, he imposed it. He is the one who said he would never speak to Douglas again. He is the one who got angry first, who snapped at a perfectly innocuous question, who overreacted so childishly to a completely reasonable interaction between a pair of strangers. What does it matter that his anger was Douglas’s fault? That his jealousy was because of Simon? He’s the one who did this.
He just wishes he had the courage to undo it.
Douglas is restless, it seems, and Martin wonders wildly if something has happened that he doesn’t know about.
Maybe, thinks a part of him in a flash of blinding hope, maybe Arthur was right!
Another, more realistic part, thinks with an equally strong surge of fear that perhaps Douglas has actually resigned and is leaving MJN; perhaps Carolyn has for some reason insisted he be the one to tell Martin?
Perhaps he is going to tell Martin that he has to leave. After all, Douglas has been here longer - he’s the better pilot -
Or maybe he’s just bored and doesn’t want to be stuck in this stupid plane (Martin instantly feels guilty and sends out a silent apology to GERTI) with him anymore.
He should ask him. Martin should just open his mouth and ask Douglas what’s wrong.
No; he should remain silent. He should act like nothing has changed.
Except everything has changed, hasn’t it? That’s the problem.
He should call Arthur, and get Arthur to ask.
No, that would be cruel.
He should ask Carolyn -
No, that would be stupid.
The flight is halfway over, and Martin patience is fast approaching breaking point, when he hears Douglas say something.
He doesn’t hear what it is. He just hears that voice, and it isn’t angry; it isn’t cold; it isn’t derisive; it isn’t taking a detour through Arthur to get to him.
It’s just Douglas’s voice.
Speaking to him.
Douglas is speaking to him.
He spins around in his seat, moving so fast he cricks his neck, and stares.
But I'm sorry, no, this is not the last chapter. It was supposed to be. But although I've had this planned since the beginning, it was proving very difficult to actually write. Then when I finally got going it ended up much longer than I expected and since you've all been waiting so long and so patiently, I thought I would split it into two, so you can have the first installment a little earlier. :)
So without further ado:
Douglas moves in something of a daze into the portakabin, after making Arthur promise not to breathe a word of their conversation to Martin. He hesitates at the door to the room which passes as an office for the two pilots, his hand actually trembling slightly as he reaches out to open it.
‘Douglas?’
‘Hmm?’ Douglas turns his head, hand still on the door. It appears that words have momentarily deserted him; he hovers in indecision. Should he act as though nothing has been said, or confront Martin immediately? Should he ease back into civility before bringing it up; gradually build back across the chasm between them, or jump over it straight away? He isn’t used to this kind of uncertainty and it is more than a little unnerving.
‘Are you okay?’ Arthur asks doubtfully, frowning. He looks worried, and disappointed.
‘Fine - I’m fine,’ Douglas lies. Such a flood of emotions is assaulting him that it’s a struggle to know which to tackle first; which have been simmering for weeks now, or months, and which have only just arisen.
There is disbelief, and doubt. There is no small amount of irritation, although to whom it is directed he isn’t sure. It could as easily be himself as Martin, or Arthur; even Carolyn is not immune. His heart is not thundering so much as fluttering nervously; apprehension plagues his normally rock solid resolve. Something altogether too close to fear for his liking flickers at the edge of his senses.
And then, there is - God, there is hope; such all-consuming, powerful, aching hope that he doesn’t know what to do with it, that it feels like it might burst from his chest, that he doesn’t know if hope is even the right label for it. He’s breathless and dizzy with it, while at the same time something mischievous and sneaky whispers at the back of his mind. He latches onto this; it is familiar territory, and comforting.
Straightening up and taking a deep breath, he sends Arthur away for tea and pushes open the door, determinedly not flinching when Martin’s gaze flickers up to him momentarily. For a split second he sees fury and grief displayed in equal parts across the younger man’s face, before it is carefully blanked again and turned back to the paperwork.
Martin is concentrating so hard on not looking at Douglas that the First Officer is free to study him without fear of his attention being noticed. For the first time in many weeks, Douglas actually allows himself to look properly at Martin, as he takes his seat on the other side of the tiny room.
Martin’s face is turned down. He is leaning low over his desk and writing intently, gripping his pen so hard that his fingers are white, and Douglas can see the tension in his jaw. Has he been this wound up the whole time? He must be exhausted. Douglas pushes the uncomfortable squirming of guilt away. It’s not his fault - how could he have known? He was trying to help, for goodness sake.
When Martin flicks his slightly too-long hair out of his eyes, Douglas catches sight of his face; he sees the dark smudges beneath the Captain’s eyes, the drawn greyness of his cheeks, and feels his chest tighten.
He opens his mouth to speak, but stops. Martin jerks his head up, but Douglas looks quickly away. What is he meant to say? For someone to whom words usually come as easily as breathing, it is incredibly disconcerting to lose them so suddenly.
I’m sorry; I was wrong.
That is the most obvious, of course, but Douglas doesn’t like the taste of that phrase even now, when so much rides on it.
Your brother is a prick.
Well, yes, that goes to the root of the problem rather succinctly. But is it too abrupt? Will Martin assume that the attack on his brother is a roundabout way of insulting Martin himself, and go on defence? It seems likely, given all his other insecurities.
Arthur told me -
No. Just, no; that makes it sound like he’s trying for deniability, like he’s not actually sincere; almost like an accusation. And anyway…Arthur; it’s still more than likely the steward got it wrong, isn’t it?
Douglas’s heart thuds as though in denial, and he realises just how much he hopes that is not true. Please, he finds himself thinking reluctantly, please let Arthur be right just this once.
‘Tea, Douglas!’ Arthur himself announces, bursting into the room with a wide grin on his face. He looks expectantly between the two pilots, and visibly droops when he sees no change in the tension. Douglas glares at him warningly and to his credit, Arthur remains silent as he hands the drink over, although he can’t hide the crestfallen expression on his face.
Douglas sips his tea thoughtfully as Arthur backs out again, avoiding the sceptical - and reluctantly curious - glance Martin sends in his direction.
This will need some planning.
00000
A little over three hours later, they are halfway through the flight and Douglas is fidgeting. Actually fidgeting; he taps his foot without realising what he’s doing, until Martin gives it a withering look and he stops. He drums his fingers on his knee, and then clenches his hand into a fist to stop himself. He even bites his lip, until he realises how obvious it is and how ridiculous he must look.
As usual, he has countless plans for sorting this out. Of course he does; he is never without ideas. It’s just that this time…he is wary of carrying any of them out. There’s far too much risk involved; personal risk, rather than financial, or legal, or physical.
It would be easiest to just say something; smash down the wall of silence between them with a single blow and deal with the consequences when they come. But what would be the right something? What can he say to be sure of the right reaction?
Safer, then, to try and break it down slowly; but what to start with?
Should he actually just swallow his pride and apologise, straight out, no fuss, just say it for God’s sake? Should he say it, or get Arthur to pass the message on? A large part of him would much rather Arthur take on this burden; but then how will Martin believe he is serious if he does that? How will it be any different to the rest of their communication since that day?
Douglas shifts in his seat again. He has never felt so frustrated, so stuck; he has never in living memory, ever, not known how to get himself out of a tight situation. With words usually, bribes if necessary; flattery and favours as a last resort. But he treads such a fine line here. Such a dangerously fragile route; one wrong step and he could ruin everything, and Martin really will never speak to him again.
It’s only now that Douglas realises how much that prospect scares him. Up until this moment he’s always been rather assuming that it would all blow over somehow, that Martin would just get over himself and they’d go back to normal. Now, looking at Martin beside him; the coldness in his eyes, the weary slump of his shoulders…now, Douglas realises what it would be like if this went on forever. If he never speaks to Martin again; if one or both of them leave MJN; if he never sees Martin’s smile, or hears him insist indignantly that he is the Captain…
If this silence carries on forever…
‘Fictional Captains,’ Douglas announces into the silence.
00000
Martin is tired.
For the past…God, he forgets how long now. If he were to find out it’s been a decade since the argument he would not be surprised…but he has been angry. Angry and jealous and guilty and too damn proud to say a word to change anything, too scared to even try.
And now he is just tired. He’s sick of being angry and he’s sick of working so hard to ignore Douglas when really this all spiralled a long way beyond being reasonable weeks ago. He’s exhausted by the effort it takes to stay angry, and wearied by the fear of what will happen - what he might accidentally reveal - if he lets himself stop being so furious and just talk to Douglas.
He arrives later than usual at work because he slept through his alarm, but he has still already made a good start on the paperwork before Douglas arrives.
His insides twist painfully with a mixture of irritation and fondness. His eyes sting suddenly and he blinks back the rising moisture in them. How, after all this, can he still feel this way? Why can’t he just let go? If he ever had a chance in the first place it is long gone now, and clinging to some stupid fantasy like an infatuated teenage girl is not going to help matters. Douglas has made his decision; he has made his preference perfectly clear. Martin feels heavy with the weight of trying to move on.
When Douglas walks into the office, Martin tenses. It’s as if his feelings are fluid, flowing through every part of him, their burden dragging him down until he sees their object, and they solidify into ice. He grits his teeth and grips his pen unnecessarily hard, peering with unwonted intensity at the pages before him.
He can’t concentrate now. The words swim fuzzily on the paper and though he carries on writing, he barely registers what he says. He is listening.
Douglas moves across the room and sits down at his desk, only a few feet away from Martin’s. There is silence for several moments. Martin jerks his head to move his hair out of his eyes - he really should get it cut, he thinks absently - and catches sight of Douglas as he does.
He looks…different. Sort of…well…if it were anyone else, Martin would think nervous, but he knows Douglas better than that. Doesn’t he?
There’s a slight sound - Martin can’t place it - a throat clearing or the beginning of a word - and his head snaps up automatically. For a moment hope surges through him and he can’t help but imagine Douglas is about to speak. About to speak to him, not through Arthur - about to apologise or explain or even just insult him, he doesn’t care, he just wants Douglas to talk.
But he doesn’t, and Martin refocuses on his work as Douglas looks away, hoping that the heat he can feel rising in his cheeks isn’t too obvious.
00000
If it is even possible, the flight starts out more painful than any Martin has endured since he imposed this silence on them. Because yes, he admits to himself furiously, yes, he imposed it. He is the one who said he would never speak to Douglas again. He is the one who got angry first, who snapped at a perfectly innocuous question, who overreacted so childishly to a completely reasonable interaction between a pair of strangers. What does it matter that his anger was Douglas’s fault? That his jealousy was because of Simon? He’s the one who did this.
He just wishes he had the courage to undo it.
Douglas is restless, it seems, and Martin wonders wildly if something has happened that he doesn’t know about.
Maybe, thinks a part of him in a flash of blinding hope, maybe Arthur was right!
Another, more realistic part, thinks with an equally strong surge of fear that perhaps Douglas has actually resigned and is leaving MJN; perhaps Carolyn has for some reason insisted he be the one to tell Martin?
Perhaps he is going to tell Martin that he has to leave. After all, Douglas has been here longer - he’s the better pilot -
Or maybe he’s just bored and doesn’t want to be stuck in this stupid plane (Martin instantly feels guilty and sends out a silent apology to GERTI) with him anymore.
He should ask him. Martin should just open his mouth and ask Douglas what’s wrong.
No; he should remain silent. He should act like nothing has changed.
Except everything has changed, hasn’t it? That’s the problem.
He should call Arthur, and get Arthur to ask.
No, that would be cruel.
He should ask Carolyn -
No, that would be stupid.
The flight is halfway over, and Martin patience is fast approaching breaking point, when he hears Douglas say something.
He doesn’t hear what it is. He just hears that voice, and it isn’t angry; it isn’t cold; it isn’t derisive; it isn’t taking a detour through Arthur to get to him.
It’s just Douglas’s voice.
Speaking to him.
Douglas is speaking to him.
He spins around in his seat, moving so fast he cricks his neck, and stares.