Fanfiction: Cabin Pressure
And finally the very last chapter of Little Lion Man!! I actually got this chapter written a lot faster than I expected; once I got started I just couldn't stop! Thank you so much for your patience, everyone, and I hope you enjoy this last installment.
‘Fictional Captains.’
Well, that got his attention.
The trouble is; Douglas has no idea how to proceed from here. His heart is racing, and if he were prone to such things his hands would feel distinctly clammy. But he’s not, so they aren’t.
He wipes them surreptitiously on his trousers just in case.
Martin is staring at him with a look of complete astonishment on his face. His eyes are wide; somewhere between suspicion, fear, and stunned disbelief.
Should he say it now?
I’m sorry.
The words die in his throat.
Should he draw attention to it? Should he just go on as normal? The old normal, the one he is trying so hard to get back?
Say something.
His plea is silent, but he is still irritated when Martin doesn’t comply. At this point, Douglas is extremely grateful for the autopilot, as neither of them is paying all that much attention to flying anymore.
Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea.
Perhaps now isn’t the time, or the place.
Perhaps he is too late.
What if that is why Martin isn’t replying? Maybe it isn’t shock; maybe Douglas has just left this too late and things are damaged beyond all repair.
Martin’s mouth works as if to say something, but no sound comes out.
I’m sorry.
I forgive you.
Forgive me.
It’s Simon’s fault; my fault; your fault; nobody’s fault.
Did Arthur speak to you, too?
Please say something.
I’m sorry.
Douglas isn’t sure if these are his own thoughts, or thoughts he hopes Martin is having. Either way they are so loud it’s a wonder Martin can’t actually hear them.
‘Jack Sparrow,’ says Douglas, somewhat surprised to find his voice not only working, but perfectly steady and natural. He turns away from Martin, concentrating on keeping his breathing even. His composure is truly impressive; none of his inner turmoil shows on his face, though he is sure it must.
Martin still doesn’t speak, but he at least moves now, shifting his gaze finally away from Douglas and fixing it on the horizon. Douglas watches out of the corner of his eye; Martin’s breathing is almost too steady, too slow; he is trying too hard to control it. Douglas doesn’t allow himself to hope - it could be a sign of anger as much as of anything else.
‘Jack Harkness,’ Douglas suggests coolly. Then, ‘they like their Jacks don’t they? James Hook.’
Martin opens his mouth slowly, warily. Douglas can see his name forming on the Captain’s lips, but then he stops.
They both know what it will mean if Martin speaks now.
Please speak, Martin. Please say something. Say anything.
Please don’t let it be too late.
‘Pugwash,’ Douglas continues. His voice is less steady this time, and it sounds more like a question than an announcement.
Martin takes several deep breaths, trying very hard not to look at Douglas.
He wants to speak. He really does. But something is holding him back; doubt that this is real? Quite possibly.
But he knows that if he gives in now - if he joins in, it is far more than playing some random word game. It will be an admission of a thousand things he can’t even name right now; an apology; an accusation; redemption; a white flag.
‘America,’ says Douglas, more quietly. He could - perhaps he should - say something actually directly to Martin, but somehow he thinks this is a bad idea. If he plays it like this, Martin has a choice. Douglas isn’t pushing; he isn’t pointing fingers or demanding anything. He’s just waiting.
Just waiting for Martin to make the next move; everything is down to Martin now.
Please.
Martin takes a deep, shuddering breath, and pulls together every scrap of courage he possesses. He closes his eyes and seems to be preparing to flinch away at the slightest wrong move.
‘Arthur Hastings,’ he whispers.
Douglas’s breath catches in his throat, which is suddenly uncomfortably tight.
‘Martin -’ he begins, uncertain what he is actually going to say.
‘Kirk,’ Martin interrupts firmly, not looking around.
Douglas gets the message.
‘Picard,’ he replies.
00000
The game passes slowly; each of them measures every suggestion as carefully as if telling their darkest secrets. Douglas fights the grin that keeps trying to sneak onto his face, and only loses the battle once; when he sees that Martin is doing the same. They look at each other for a moment and fleetingly the argument is, though not forgotten, in the past. Their lips quirk into the briefest of smiles before settling back again, and Douglas feels almost lightheaded with relief.
Arthur walks in sometime nearing the end of the flight and instantly recognises the changed atmosphere; still tense and charged, but somehow more fragile and laced with hope. His gaze flickers between them uncertainly; his eyes glitter with delight. Neither of the pilots speaks to him, too intent on their game; on keeping it as just a game.
When Martin glances at Douglas and says ‘Barbosa’, Arthur leaves, beaming and positively quivering with glee, having completely forgotten what he came in to ask in the first place.
‘What on Earth are you grinning about?’ Carolyn demands as Arthur walks straight into her, humming distractedly.
‘They’re talking to each other!’ Arthur exclaims in a stage whisper; Carolyn looks at once disbelieving and overjoyed, and quickly schools her expression into one of scorn.
‘They’ve been using you as a messenger for the last month or so now, how is today any different?’
‘No, I mean - they’re actually talking to each other! They weren’t using me!’
Carolyn looks at the flight deck door, startled for a moment into silence, then tugs Arthur away so the pilots won’t overhear.
‘What do you mean?’ she asks, ‘what’s happened? I can’t hear -’
‘They’re playing a game,’ Arthur explains, bouncing on the balls of his feet and still grinning. ‘I heard them! They’re talking!’
Carolyn looks doubtfully towards the flight deck again. After this long, she would expect raised voices at least. She would expect…she doesn’t know what she would expect. Not for them to be casually playing one of their ridiculous word games as though nothing has happened. Because if it’s just that damned easy, why didn’t they do it weeks ago? If it can happen just like that, why has it taken this long? She’s actually surprised at how angry this makes her; how can the pair of them have been so stupid as to do this to each other for all this time and then just snap back?
She narrows her eyes, not sure whether she feels exasperated or proud, as she reaches her conclusion.
‘What did you do?’ she asks Arthur.
Arthur tells her; she lets him, and feels the weight lift from her shoulders.
Not that she would ever tell them that.
00000
Martin and Douglas run through the post-landing checks with stiff formality; Arthur is not present to act as mediator, but they still don’t look at one another. Douglas reminds himself firmly not to push things.
But he can’t just leave it like this - it’s almost more awkward than before. At least then they knew where they stood; now, neither is quite sure when to speak or what to say, or whether they are allowed to make eye contact, or laugh.
Something has got to happen. Something has got to be said. But Douglas is painfully, painfully aware that anything could be wrong; anything could be too much, or not enough.
Martin is standing up to leave when he makes his decision.
‘Arthur?’ Douglas calls, pressing the button for the intercom, ‘could you come in here a moment please?’
Martin sinks back into his seat warily. He’s watching Douglas, which Douglas takes as a good sign.
Please God let this be the right choice.
It’s a kind of middle ground, Douglas thinks; a direct message, delivered indirectly. Less demanding than a full on attack, more to offer than a simple game.
Arthur edges in, looking cautiously optimistic; the expression looks entirely out of place on his features. How can Douglas only now be realising the effects of their…well, disagreement doesn’t seem to quite cover it.
Speaking to Arthur, but looking directly at Martin (who seems afraid to turn his gaze away and remains frozen in place like a startled rabbit), Douglas begins.
‘Could you please inform the Captain,’ he says, very slowly and clearly, ‘that if he ever intends to bring his -’ well, no point being coy about it now ‘- pompous arse of a brother and that hideously garish car of his to the airfield again, I would appreciate some prior warning. That way I can make sure I am nowhere in the vicinity when they arrive. Or better yet, have time to organise some appropriate method of revenge for the elder Crieff.’
Arthur repeats the message dutifully, though Douglas doubts Martin hears it the second time. He flashes a quick smile and a wink at the steward, who returns the gesture clumsily and hurries out.
‘Martin,’ says Douglas quietly. It’s not a question, and it’s not really leading to anything; he just finds that he somehow enjoys being able to say the time actually to the man. ‘Martin,’ he says again.
Martin blinks; his eyes look wet, and Douglas doesn’t think he has ever seen anyone so utterly confused.
‘You -’ says Martin hoarsely, ‘you…’ he trails away.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Douglas. It’s surprisingly easy; so simple - how can it have taken him this long? He curses his own pride and resists the sudden urge to move forward and take Martin’s hands, which are twisting nervously in his lap.
‘You -’ Martin tries again. ‘You - you think he’s a pompous arse?’
‘I’m afraid there’s only room for one person to think that much of themselves at MJN, and the spot is already taken by yours truly,’ Douglas replies, an awful lot more casually than he feels. ‘I was -’ and now this is the hard part to admit, because his default position is usually the exact opposite, ‘I was trying not to embarrass you.’
Martin frowns and parts his lips to say something, but can’t find the right words.
‘You looked, frankly, terrified,’ explains Douglas, finding that the more he talks, the easier the words become. ‘I thought I would spare you the further embarrassment of a confrontation between your First Officer and your brother in the middle of the airfield. I was wrong,’ why is that so easy to say now? ‘And I promise never to resist the urge to humiliate any member of the Crieff family again. From now on you are all at the mercy of my full and not inconsiderable wits.’ He speaks coolly, his tone matter-of-fact, and finds that in doing so, he relaxes quickly.
‘I’ve been stupid, haven’t I?’ Martin mumbles, staring down at his hands, the colour rising in his cheeks.
‘Yes,’ replies Douglas shortly. Martin snorts with something like amusement. Douglas’s heart lifts. ‘Come on, Captain,’ he offers, standing up and fighting the sudden impulse to offer Martin his hand. ‘I’ll buy you dinner.’
It is deliberately not a question; he knows Martin has not yet recovered his wits enough to refuse a direct instruction.
00000
Douglas’s restaurant choice is extremely careful. In the end he opts for something decidedly middle-of-the-range, hyper aware of the fact that anywhere too expensive will only add to the already suffocating pressure they are both under. He also doubts Martin’s pride would stand such a blatant display of the differences in their respective pay-packets - or lack thereof. And being surrounded by other patrons far more wealthy than himself is sure to make the Captain uncomfortable.
It occurs to Douglas that he is probably putting rather too much thought into this, but it is increasingly difficult to ignore the large part of his brain which seems to be assuming…well…but of course not. He’s being ridiculous.
Martin fidgets in the passenger seat of the car Douglas has hired. Conversation is stilted and awkward.
It is almost exactly like any number of first - no, no, it’s not a date, don’t be stupid, he tells himself firmly. It’s two colleagues - friends - two grown men settling their differences over a…meal. A dinner…why not a pint? Why didn’t he say drink? Far more relaxed, and surely much more appropriate…
And why, of all people, of everyone in the entire world, is Martin Crieff the only one able to make Douglas feel quite so…self-conscious? He has never had this problem before.
00000
‘I’m sorry,’ says Douglas suddenly, staring at the menu rather than facing Martin. God, this is a date, this is an actual date with Martin, what a stupid idea, how ridiculous - what on Earth possessed him to suggest a meal? Douglas is certain he would not feel half this uncomfortable if they had just gone for a drink. Or better still just swept this under the carpet and been done with it…why do they even need to talk, for God’s sake, what good will it do?
‘So you’ve said,’ replies Martin. Though he sounds nervous, he, by contrast, seems to be gaining confidence from their surroundings, and Douglas even sees a small smile creeping onto his face. It dawns slowly that the reason for this might very well be Douglas’s own clear uncertainty. Well, one of them has to be in control of the situation, don’t they? Douglas momentarily flashes back to the landing in St Petersburg; for all his usual indecision and nervousness, Martin is more than capable of doing what needs to be done in an emergency. A swell of something like pride and affection, mingled with no small amount of surprise, rises in Douglas’s chest.
‘I’m hoping eventually it might illicit a response,’ Douglas prompts.
Martin puts down his menu and Douglas finally looks up at him. There is a faint pink tinge on his cheeks and he’s twisting the corner of the menu nervously between his fingers, but his voice is oddly level.
‘What are you sorry for?’ he asks, sounding genuinely curious.
Douglas waves away the waiter who comes to take their order.
‘Do I really need to spell it out?’
‘No - I mean -’ the pink has darkened to red, and the menu tears but he doesn’t seem to notice. Automatically, Douglas reaches out and places a hand over Martin’s. Both of them freeze, then Douglas coughs and starts to pull away. Martin puts his other hand on top of Douglas’s to stop him, looking shocked at his own daring. ‘I mean it was my fault,’ he whispers, avoiding Douglas’s eyes again.
Douglas laughs, relaxing somewhat. ‘Typical,’ he says. Martin looks hurt and tugs his hand back, but Douglas tightens his grip. Now that their roles appear to be gradually returning to normal, he feels a lot more comfortable and shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Am I going to have to fight to take the blame now?’ he asks, raising his eyebrows, ‘I thought this was all because you blamed me.’
‘It - it was,’ Martin mutters, ‘at - well, at first. I thought - but you - well -’
‘Full sentences please, Captain. I’m afraid I have no Babel fish to hand so translation might be a problem.’
Martin lets out an involuntary laugh, but then his face falls and he pulls his hand away properly. Douglas lets him go, watching the way Martin’s eyes are darting around the restaurant fearfully, as though expecting “April Fool” to be shouted at any moment.
‘I’m -’ Martin reaches out for his glass and takes a sip to delay having to answer. His hand is shaking so much, however, and he is so nervous that when he goes to put it back down the edge catches on the pepper pot, sending it veering sideways and it spills across the table. ‘Oh no - oh, I didn’t - I’m sorry, I -’ he leaps back, suddenly close to tears, grabbing his napkin and attempting to mop it up but knocking down Douglas’s drink as well in the process. The salt shaker falls and smashes on the floor, and then he can’t stop the tears, and he feels so stupid, and why did he ever dare hope this could end well? Why did he ever let Douglas bring him out, just to be humiliated, just so he could make a fool of himself in front of everyone, in front of Douglas, all over again? ‘I’m sorry - I’m - I - no, let me - I didn’t -’
‘Martin,’ Douglas’s steady voice breaks into his panicked apologies, and he feels a warm hand pulling at his elbow. He realises vaguely that he has sunk to the floor and is trying to pick up the pieces of the broken salt shaker, but his hands are trembling and his vision is blurry. For the first time it hits him properly how very tired he is. ‘Come on,’ says Douglas, ‘let’s go.’
‘No, I -’
‘Martin, seriously, just leave it. It’s fine.’ He throws a couple of notes onto the table, not really bothering to work out how much it ought to be, and gently lifts Martin to his feet. ‘This was a stupid idea, I’m sorry. Let’s just go back to the hotel, okay?’
‘I’m sorry - I’m - I’ve ruined everything, I didn’t mean - I’m sorry -’
‘Do be quiet, Captain,’ Douglas instructs wearily, and Martin distantly registers that he is being bundled back into the safety of Douglas’s hired car. ‘Go to sleep,’ he says.
Martin does.
Douglas watches him as much as the road on the way back to the hotel. It seems that the stress of the last few weeks have just caught up with him all in one go; he barely stirs for the entire journey, completely sound asleep and looking, for the first time in a long while, utterly relaxed. He leans to the side in his seat, and once Douglas has to push him upright again so that he doesn’t get in the way, or wake up with too much of a stiff neck. His breathing is slow and even; the dark shadows under his eyes are more obvious than ever.
‘If I ever meet your brother again…’ Douglas mutters furiously, having shifted the blame now entirely to Simon and off either himself or Martin. ‘God, have you been sleeping at all?’
Martin has still not woken by the time they reach the hotel, and Douglas is reluctant to disturb him; he looks as though he really needs this rest. In the end, he scoops the younger man (with slightly worrying ease) out of the car, and carries him up to Douglas’s own room, depositing him gently on the bed. He stands for a moment, looking at Martin’s face. After denying himself the indulgence more vehemently than ever since their argument, he finds that he has an awful lot of looking to catch up on.
Arthur’s words echo tantalisingly in his ears. He likes you…it’s such an ambiguous statement; it could mean anything. It doesn’t have to mean - but given Martin’s reaction to apparently assuming that Douglas might feel something for Simon (honestly, Simon, of all people…well, he argues reasonably; Martin of all people…). Given his almost-hand-holding at the restaurant…it all fits certainly, but…
‘Douglas…’ Martin breathes. Douglas freezes, quickly averting his gaze and rummaging in his overnight bag for want of anything else to do, before he realises that Martin is still asleep. Frowning, but with an amused smirk on his face, he straightens up and moves over to the bed. He reaches out, calculating the move and the chances of waking Martin carefully, and brushes a lock of hair from over Martin’s eye. Martin smiles slightly in his sleep, turning into the touch, and Douglas pulls away; his slightly puzzled expression has melted away to leave something much more familiar in its place. Something self-satisfied and predatory.
He grabs his wash bag and heads for the bathroom; hopefully by the time he has showered Martin will have woken, and Douglas finally has a definite idea of what he plans to do.
00000
The room Martin wakes up in is unfamiliar. This is nothing unusual; he’s used to spending half his time in cheap hotels and it’s nothing very disconcerting to find himself in yet another. What is slightly unnerving is that he can’t quite remember how he got here.
He thinks back, pushing himself up and rubbing his eyes. It’s dark, and the bed is unusually comfortable. He blinks slowly, reluctant to get up just yet.
Then he remembers.
Oh, God. Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn.
A wave of nausea overtakes him momentarily, more out of fear and embarrassment than anything, and he leans back, hitting his head painfully on the wall and closing his eyes.
And just when they were so close to…to something…to at least being back on speaking terms…and he had briefly, very briefly, dared to hope something more…
Why does he have to ruin everything? Why does he always have to be so awkward and clumsy and stupid? He had a chance, a real chance, of putting things right and now - and now -
He presses his palms to his forehead and groans.
He had dared to hope that Arthur was right, had dared to believe that this could be over.
He can’t stay at MJN after this, he knows. It’s a dull, painful blow which causes a lump to rise in his throat. It’s been bad enough already, but now, after having tried and failed to fix things - how can he do this to himself? He doesn’t think he’d be able to stand the daily reminder of what could have been, if only he’d been slightly less of his usual incompetent self. He doesn’t blame Douglas; Douglas was trying to help. It’s all his fault really; Martin’s.
He’ll finish this trip, get back home, and write his resignation. He should have done it long ago.
Maybe he’ll find a paying airline now.
Fat chance.
Maybe he’ll become a full time man-with-a-van.
Oh, God.
‘Ah, you’re awake. At last,’ Douglas’s voice breaks into Martin’s thoughts; there’s a rustle of bags, a whiff of take-away chips, and the click of a switch before Martin has to close his eyes against the glare of the light.
‘What are you -?’ he manages weakly, squinting and hurrying to stand up,
‘Food,’ Douglas holds up the bags, ‘the restaurant idea didn’t go down too well, I’m starving, and I wouldn’t touch the room service in this place for all the sushi in Japan.’
‘But - I mean -’ Martin’s eyes widen, ‘this is - did I fall asleep in your room?’ he exclaims desperately, ‘I’m sorry, I -’
‘Alright, from now on, we are both banned from using that word,’ Douglas declares, ‘I’m thoroughly sick of hearing it, to be honest, and you have nothing to apologise for. You fell asleep in the car, after I told you to, and I brought you here because frankly you looked too tired to stand up and I figured you’d be easier to transport unconscious as, knowing you, you would have objected to being carried if you were awake.’
‘But…’ Martin responds automatically, then finds he has nothing to say. ‘I’m - I mean, what happened, I didn’t mean to - I’m sorry I - sorry, I mean -’ Douglas raises an eyebrow and throws one of the bags he is holding to Martin.
‘Eat,’ he instructs. ‘I think I’d better do the talking for now, don’t you agree?’ Martin nods meekly, unwrapping his chips and picking at them gingerly. Douglas rolls his eyes. ‘Just eat them, Martin. Stop feeling guilty, you can pay me back later if you really want to.’ He settles into the chair beside the window, stretching out his long legs and perching them on the edge of the bed, mere inches from where Martin is now sitting.
‘So, from the top; and correct me if I get anything wrong,’ Douglas begins smoothly, ‘about…six weeks ago now? Your van broke down. Your brother was in the area, for whatever reason. He offered you a lift or you asked for one - I’m going to assume the former given how uncomfortable you looked about the whole thing - and on arriving you immediately ran into me. I proceeded to compliment your brother and his car. You assumed that meant I liked him, which by the way was the whole idea, though not as you took it, and you got jealous. I had no idea what I was supposed to have done wrong - and still maintain that at this point I hadn’t done anything wrong - you snapped, I responded in kind, and it all rather snowballed from there. Correct?’
Martin nods sheepishly.
‘Tell me, did Arthur give you a talking to as well?’
Martin looks startled then nods again. He’s pushing his food around now, looking guilty and ashamed, and not eating any of it. Douglas puts his own to the side, though he is still hungry, wanting to focus his attention solely on Martin now.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said - well - look, I’m just repeating what he told me okay? I’m not saying it’s true or anything, I just -’
‘Understood,’ Douglas interrupts, leaning back in his chair and waiting.
‘He said,’ Martin continues in a small voice, ‘that…that you wanted to talk to me, and that you liked me. He said - well - that you didn’t have to be nice to me, because we’re friends…but that you had to be…polite to Simon because…you don’t know him. He sort suggested that…well…never mind.’
Douglas considers pressing the point, but decides against it; he can work out what Arthur might have suggested from his own conversation with the steward, and the purpose of this is not to make Martin any more uncomfortable than he already is.
‘Is that it?’ Douglas asks lightly; not challenging or expecting, just checking. Martin nods.
‘But this is just what he said!’ he exclaims, desperate to make this fact abundantly clear, ‘I’m not saying I believed him!’
‘Would you like to know what he said to me?’
Martin hesitates, then, ‘I…yes.’ He looks hopeful suddenly; Douglas smiles.
‘He told me that you were jealous of your brother, which I informed him was painfully obvious. Which it was. He stressed the point, repeatedly, and said you thought I liked - emphasis entirely intentional - Simon, more than I liked you.’
Martin is beetroot red by this point, and Douglas’s smile grows wider.
‘He seemed quite convinced - without actually being explicit about it of course, this is Arthur - that you…I believe the term is “fancy” me,’ he finishes triumphantly. Martin actually buries his head in his hands at this point, and Douglas’s smile becomes a grin. ‘Do you know what I deduce from this, Martin?’
Martin looks up at Douglas through his fingers, fighting tears of humiliation and wincing as he shakes his head silently. Douglas stands up smoothly and cross the small space between them, kneeling down so that he isn’t towering over Martin. He reaches forward, hands steady even though his heart is racing, and brushes his fingertips ever so lightly across Martin’s wrist, which makes him jump and move his hands away. Douglas immediately cups his palm to Martin’s jaw and leans closer; Martin’s eyes are wide with fear and hope in equal measure. He is sitting absolutely still, as though afraid this is some sort of hallucination that he might accidently banish with even the smallest movement.
‘Arthur Shappey is a genius, and we are both absolute clots,’ Douglas whispers at last, and closes the gap between them.
The kiss is brief and chaste; Douglas doesn’t push for anything more, just presses his lips against Martin’s and moves away again. Martin’s expression has not changed; he seems to have frozen in shock. Douglas laughs and kisses him again, and again - only gently, not expecting anything, not trying to force it any further - just connecting softly before pulling away, watching Martin carefully and waiting for him to react.
‘You know,’ he whispers after the fifth time, ‘you are allowed to kiss back.’
Far from kissing back, however, Martin pulls away. Douglas is not worried; there is no sign of rejection in Martin’s expression, only stunned disbelief.
‘Is this -?’
‘Please don’t as if this is real, Martin; I assure you, your imagination is not capable of summoning up an accurate representation of me, no matter how many otters it can picture. My charms are something else entirely.’
‘So I’m not -?’
‘No.’
‘And you’re -?’
‘Yes.’
‘And we’re actually -?’
‘Yes. Or we would be, if you would be quiet and get on with it.’
This time, Martin responds. Enthusiastically. And then both of them are grinning, and they stand up, pressed together, and Martin’s hands are clutching the back of Douglas’s shirt, and Douglas decides Martin’s hair isn’t too long at all, but just the right length for running his fingers through. And oh once Martin gets started he’s actually not a bad kisser and Douglas actually has to fight for dominance but he doesn’t mind, because he wouldn’t have it any other way and he chuckles and Martin even giggles a little nervously and then Douglas’s fingers are on Martin’s shirt buttons and -
Martin pulls away, breathing hard.
‘What’s wrong?’ Douglas asks, a little breathlessly.
‘I was trying to make you jealous,’ says Martin, with the voice of someone getting an unpleasant admission out of the way as fast as possible. He tries to turn away so that Douglas can’t see his face, but Douglas catches his arm and pulls his around.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘At the bar. After we - when I got drunk. The day after…it.’
‘I remember,’ says Douglas. ‘But why are you telling me this now?’ he gestures with frustration at Martin’s open top button and dishevelled hair, eyes drawn automatically to his kiss-swollen lips.
‘I - it seemed…important,’ Martin replies a little helplessly. ‘I don’t know, it just - I thought you should - you should know…while we’re…it seemed…I wanted to be…honest.’
‘Martin, whatever you did or didn’t do that night is absolutely no business of mine. I’m much, much more interested in what you’re going to do tonight,’ he says pointedly. Martin blushes; Douglas is tempted to continue - he really rather likes that expression on Martin’s face - but resists.
‘I just thought…we’re…we’re even, aren’t we? So…’
‘Well no, because I wasn’t trying to make you jealous, was I?’ Martin’s face crumples at this, and Douglas realises too late that this was very much the wrong thing to say. ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he clarifies. There’s a pause, and he raises an eyebrow pointedly, ‘well? While you’re in a confessing mood, did you succeed?’
‘No,’ Martin mumbles, looking defiant and embarrassed at the same time. ‘I’m…me. What do you expect?’
Douglas rolls his eyes, ‘I was right before; that uniform really is wasted on you, Captain.’
Martin doesn’t have a chance to look offended, because by the time his words have registered, Douglas is kissing him again, and he forgets what it is he’s supposed to be annoyed about.
‘Fictional Captains.’
Well, that got his attention.
The trouble is; Douglas has no idea how to proceed from here. His heart is racing, and if he were prone to such things his hands would feel distinctly clammy. But he’s not, so they aren’t.
He wipes them surreptitiously on his trousers just in case.
Martin is staring at him with a look of complete astonishment on his face. His eyes are wide; somewhere between suspicion, fear, and stunned disbelief.
Should he say it now?
I’m sorry.
The words die in his throat.
Should he draw attention to it? Should he just go on as normal? The old normal, the one he is trying so hard to get back?
Say something.
His plea is silent, but he is still irritated when Martin doesn’t comply. At this point, Douglas is extremely grateful for the autopilot, as neither of them is paying all that much attention to flying anymore.
Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea.
Perhaps now isn’t the time, or the place.
Perhaps he is too late.
What if that is why Martin isn’t replying? Maybe it isn’t shock; maybe Douglas has just left this too late and things are damaged beyond all repair.
Martin’s mouth works as if to say something, but no sound comes out.
I’m sorry.
I forgive you.
Forgive me.
It’s Simon’s fault; my fault; your fault; nobody’s fault.
Did Arthur speak to you, too?
Please say something.
I’m sorry.
Douglas isn’t sure if these are his own thoughts, or thoughts he hopes Martin is having. Either way they are so loud it’s a wonder Martin can’t actually hear them.
‘Jack Sparrow,’ says Douglas, somewhat surprised to find his voice not only working, but perfectly steady and natural. He turns away from Martin, concentrating on keeping his breathing even. His composure is truly impressive; none of his inner turmoil shows on his face, though he is sure it must.
Martin still doesn’t speak, but he at least moves now, shifting his gaze finally away from Douglas and fixing it on the horizon. Douglas watches out of the corner of his eye; Martin’s breathing is almost too steady, too slow; he is trying too hard to control it. Douglas doesn’t allow himself to hope - it could be a sign of anger as much as of anything else.
‘Jack Harkness,’ Douglas suggests coolly. Then, ‘they like their Jacks don’t they? James Hook.’
Martin opens his mouth slowly, warily. Douglas can see his name forming on the Captain’s lips, but then he stops.
They both know what it will mean if Martin speaks now.
Please speak, Martin. Please say something. Say anything.
Please don’t let it be too late.
‘Pugwash,’ Douglas continues. His voice is less steady this time, and it sounds more like a question than an announcement.
Martin takes several deep breaths, trying very hard not to look at Douglas.
He wants to speak. He really does. But something is holding him back; doubt that this is real? Quite possibly.
But he knows that if he gives in now - if he joins in, it is far more than playing some random word game. It will be an admission of a thousand things he can’t even name right now; an apology; an accusation; redemption; a white flag.
‘America,’ says Douglas, more quietly. He could - perhaps he should - say something actually directly to Martin, but somehow he thinks this is a bad idea. If he plays it like this, Martin has a choice. Douglas isn’t pushing; he isn’t pointing fingers or demanding anything. He’s just waiting.
Just waiting for Martin to make the next move; everything is down to Martin now.
Please.
Martin takes a deep, shuddering breath, and pulls together every scrap of courage he possesses. He closes his eyes and seems to be preparing to flinch away at the slightest wrong move.
‘Arthur Hastings,’ he whispers.
Douglas’s breath catches in his throat, which is suddenly uncomfortably tight.
‘Martin -’ he begins, uncertain what he is actually going to say.
‘Kirk,’ Martin interrupts firmly, not looking around.
Douglas gets the message.
‘Picard,’ he replies.
00000
The game passes slowly; each of them measures every suggestion as carefully as if telling their darkest secrets. Douglas fights the grin that keeps trying to sneak onto his face, and only loses the battle once; when he sees that Martin is doing the same. They look at each other for a moment and fleetingly the argument is, though not forgotten, in the past. Their lips quirk into the briefest of smiles before settling back again, and Douglas feels almost lightheaded with relief.
Arthur walks in sometime nearing the end of the flight and instantly recognises the changed atmosphere; still tense and charged, but somehow more fragile and laced with hope. His gaze flickers between them uncertainly; his eyes glitter with delight. Neither of the pilots speaks to him, too intent on their game; on keeping it as just a game.
When Martin glances at Douglas and says ‘Barbosa’, Arthur leaves, beaming and positively quivering with glee, having completely forgotten what he came in to ask in the first place.
‘What on Earth are you grinning about?’ Carolyn demands as Arthur walks straight into her, humming distractedly.
‘They’re talking to each other!’ Arthur exclaims in a stage whisper; Carolyn looks at once disbelieving and overjoyed, and quickly schools her expression into one of scorn.
‘They’ve been using you as a messenger for the last month or so now, how is today any different?’
‘No, I mean - they’re actually talking to each other! They weren’t using me!’
Carolyn looks at the flight deck door, startled for a moment into silence, then tugs Arthur away so the pilots won’t overhear.
‘What do you mean?’ she asks, ‘what’s happened? I can’t hear -’
‘They’re playing a game,’ Arthur explains, bouncing on the balls of his feet and still grinning. ‘I heard them! They’re talking!’
Carolyn looks doubtfully towards the flight deck again. After this long, she would expect raised voices at least. She would expect…she doesn’t know what she would expect. Not for them to be casually playing one of their ridiculous word games as though nothing has happened. Because if it’s just that damned easy, why didn’t they do it weeks ago? If it can happen just like that, why has it taken this long? She’s actually surprised at how angry this makes her; how can the pair of them have been so stupid as to do this to each other for all this time and then just snap back?
She narrows her eyes, not sure whether she feels exasperated or proud, as she reaches her conclusion.
‘What did you do?’ she asks Arthur.
Arthur tells her; she lets him, and feels the weight lift from her shoulders.
Not that she would ever tell them that.
00000
Martin and Douglas run through the post-landing checks with stiff formality; Arthur is not present to act as mediator, but they still don’t look at one another. Douglas reminds himself firmly not to push things.
But he can’t just leave it like this - it’s almost more awkward than before. At least then they knew where they stood; now, neither is quite sure when to speak or what to say, or whether they are allowed to make eye contact, or laugh.
Something has got to happen. Something has got to be said. But Douglas is painfully, painfully aware that anything could be wrong; anything could be too much, or not enough.
Martin is standing up to leave when he makes his decision.
‘Arthur?’ Douglas calls, pressing the button for the intercom, ‘could you come in here a moment please?’
Martin sinks back into his seat warily. He’s watching Douglas, which Douglas takes as a good sign.
Please God let this be the right choice.
It’s a kind of middle ground, Douglas thinks; a direct message, delivered indirectly. Less demanding than a full on attack, more to offer than a simple game.
Arthur edges in, looking cautiously optimistic; the expression looks entirely out of place on his features. How can Douglas only now be realising the effects of their…well, disagreement doesn’t seem to quite cover it.
Speaking to Arthur, but looking directly at Martin (who seems afraid to turn his gaze away and remains frozen in place like a startled rabbit), Douglas begins.
‘Could you please inform the Captain,’ he says, very slowly and clearly, ‘that if he ever intends to bring his -’ well, no point being coy about it now ‘- pompous arse of a brother and that hideously garish car of his to the airfield again, I would appreciate some prior warning. That way I can make sure I am nowhere in the vicinity when they arrive. Or better yet, have time to organise some appropriate method of revenge for the elder Crieff.’
Arthur repeats the message dutifully, though Douglas doubts Martin hears it the second time. He flashes a quick smile and a wink at the steward, who returns the gesture clumsily and hurries out.
‘Martin,’ says Douglas quietly. It’s not a question, and it’s not really leading to anything; he just finds that he somehow enjoys being able to say the time actually to the man. ‘Martin,’ he says again.
Martin blinks; his eyes look wet, and Douglas doesn’t think he has ever seen anyone so utterly confused.
‘You -’ says Martin hoarsely, ‘you…’ he trails away.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Douglas. It’s surprisingly easy; so simple - how can it have taken him this long? He curses his own pride and resists the sudden urge to move forward and take Martin’s hands, which are twisting nervously in his lap.
‘You -’ Martin tries again. ‘You - you think he’s a pompous arse?’
‘I’m afraid there’s only room for one person to think that much of themselves at MJN, and the spot is already taken by yours truly,’ Douglas replies, an awful lot more casually than he feels. ‘I was -’ and now this is the hard part to admit, because his default position is usually the exact opposite, ‘I was trying not to embarrass you.’
Martin frowns and parts his lips to say something, but can’t find the right words.
‘You looked, frankly, terrified,’ explains Douglas, finding that the more he talks, the easier the words become. ‘I thought I would spare you the further embarrassment of a confrontation between your First Officer and your brother in the middle of the airfield. I was wrong,’ why is that so easy to say now? ‘And I promise never to resist the urge to humiliate any member of the Crieff family again. From now on you are all at the mercy of my full and not inconsiderable wits.’ He speaks coolly, his tone matter-of-fact, and finds that in doing so, he relaxes quickly.
‘I’ve been stupid, haven’t I?’ Martin mumbles, staring down at his hands, the colour rising in his cheeks.
‘Yes,’ replies Douglas shortly. Martin snorts with something like amusement. Douglas’s heart lifts. ‘Come on, Captain,’ he offers, standing up and fighting the sudden impulse to offer Martin his hand. ‘I’ll buy you dinner.’
It is deliberately not a question; he knows Martin has not yet recovered his wits enough to refuse a direct instruction.
00000
Douglas’s restaurant choice is extremely careful. In the end he opts for something decidedly middle-of-the-range, hyper aware of the fact that anywhere too expensive will only add to the already suffocating pressure they are both under. He also doubts Martin’s pride would stand such a blatant display of the differences in their respective pay-packets - or lack thereof. And being surrounded by other patrons far more wealthy than himself is sure to make the Captain uncomfortable.
It occurs to Douglas that he is probably putting rather too much thought into this, but it is increasingly difficult to ignore the large part of his brain which seems to be assuming…well…but of course not. He’s being ridiculous.
Martin fidgets in the passenger seat of the car Douglas has hired. Conversation is stilted and awkward.
It is almost exactly like any number of first - no, no, it’s not a date, don’t be stupid, he tells himself firmly. It’s two colleagues - friends - two grown men settling their differences over a…meal. A dinner…why not a pint? Why didn’t he say drink? Far more relaxed, and surely much more appropriate…
And why, of all people, of everyone in the entire world, is Martin Crieff the only one able to make Douglas feel quite so…self-conscious? He has never had this problem before.
00000
‘I’m sorry,’ says Douglas suddenly, staring at the menu rather than facing Martin. God, this is a date, this is an actual date with Martin, what a stupid idea, how ridiculous - what on Earth possessed him to suggest a meal? Douglas is certain he would not feel half this uncomfortable if they had just gone for a drink. Or better still just swept this under the carpet and been done with it…why do they even need to talk, for God’s sake, what good will it do?
‘So you’ve said,’ replies Martin. Though he sounds nervous, he, by contrast, seems to be gaining confidence from their surroundings, and Douglas even sees a small smile creeping onto his face. It dawns slowly that the reason for this might very well be Douglas’s own clear uncertainty. Well, one of them has to be in control of the situation, don’t they? Douglas momentarily flashes back to the landing in St Petersburg; for all his usual indecision and nervousness, Martin is more than capable of doing what needs to be done in an emergency. A swell of something like pride and affection, mingled with no small amount of surprise, rises in Douglas’s chest.
‘I’m hoping eventually it might illicit a response,’ Douglas prompts.
Martin puts down his menu and Douglas finally looks up at him. There is a faint pink tinge on his cheeks and he’s twisting the corner of the menu nervously between his fingers, but his voice is oddly level.
‘What are you sorry for?’ he asks, sounding genuinely curious.
Douglas waves away the waiter who comes to take their order.
‘Do I really need to spell it out?’
‘No - I mean -’ the pink has darkened to red, and the menu tears but he doesn’t seem to notice. Automatically, Douglas reaches out and places a hand over Martin’s. Both of them freeze, then Douglas coughs and starts to pull away. Martin puts his other hand on top of Douglas’s to stop him, looking shocked at his own daring. ‘I mean it was my fault,’ he whispers, avoiding Douglas’s eyes again.
Douglas laughs, relaxing somewhat. ‘Typical,’ he says. Martin looks hurt and tugs his hand back, but Douglas tightens his grip. Now that their roles appear to be gradually returning to normal, he feels a lot more comfortable and shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Am I going to have to fight to take the blame now?’ he asks, raising his eyebrows, ‘I thought this was all because you blamed me.’
‘It - it was,’ Martin mutters, ‘at - well, at first. I thought - but you - well -’
‘Full sentences please, Captain. I’m afraid I have no Babel fish to hand so translation might be a problem.’
Martin lets out an involuntary laugh, but then his face falls and he pulls his hand away properly. Douglas lets him go, watching the way Martin’s eyes are darting around the restaurant fearfully, as though expecting “April Fool” to be shouted at any moment.
‘I’m -’ Martin reaches out for his glass and takes a sip to delay having to answer. His hand is shaking so much, however, and he is so nervous that when he goes to put it back down the edge catches on the pepper pot, sending it veering sideways and it spills across the table. ‘Oh no - oh, I didn’t - I’m sorry, I -’ he leaps back, suddenly close to tears, grabbing his napkin and attempting to mop it up but knocking down Douglas’s drink as well in the process. The salt shaker falls and smashes on the floor, and then he can’t stop the tears, and he feels so stupid, and why did he ever dare hope this could end well? Why did he ever let Douglas bring him out, just to be humiliated, just so he could make a fool of himself in front of everyone, in front of Douglas, all over again? ‘I’m sorry - I’m - I - no, let me - I didn’t -’
‘Martin,’ Douglas’s steady voice breaks into his panicked apologies, and he feels a warm hand pulling at his elbow. He realises vaguely that he has sunk to the floor and is trying to pick up the pieces of the broken salt shaker, but his hands are trembling and his vision is blurry. For the first time it hits him properly how very tired he is. ‘Come on,’ says Douglas, ‘let’s go.’
‘No, I -’
‘Martin, seriously, just leave it. It’s fine.’ He throws a couple of notes onto the table, not really bothering to work out how much it ought to be, and gently lifts Martin to his feet. ‘This was a stupid idea, I’m sorry. Let’s just go back to the hotel, okay?’
‘I’m sorry - I’m - I’ve ruined everything, I didn’t mean - I’m sorry -’
‘Do be quiet, Captain,’ Douglas instructs wearily, and Martin distantly registers that he is being bundled back into the safety of Douglas’s hired car. ‘Go to sleep,’ he says.
Martin does.
Douglas watches him as much as the road on the way back to the hotel. It seems that the stress of the last few weeks have just caught up with him all in one go; he barely stirs for the entire journey, completely sound asleep and looking, for the first time in a long while, utterly relaxed. He leans to the side in his seat, and once Douglas has to push him upright again so that he doesn’t get in the way, or wake up with too much of a stiff neck. His breathing is slow and even; the dark shadows under his eyes are more obvious than ever.
‘If I ever meet your brother again…’ Douglas mutters furiously, having shifted the blame now entirely to Simon and off either himself or Martin. ‘God, have you been sleeping at all?’
Martin has still not woken by the time they reach the hotel, and Douglas is reluctant to disturb him; he looks as though he really needs this rest. In the end, he scoops the younger man (with slightly worrying ease) out of the car, and carries him up to Douglas’s own room, depositing him gently on the bed. He stands for a moment, looking at Martin’s face. After denying himself the indulgence more vehemently than ever since their argument, he finds that he has an awful lot of looking to catch up on.
Arthur’s words echo tantalisingly in his ears. He likes you…it’s such an ambiguous statement; it could mean anything. It doesn’t have to mean - but given Martin’s reaction to apparently assuming that Douglas might feel something for Simon (honestly, Simon, of all people…well, he argues reasonably; Martin of all people…). Given his almost-hand-holding at the restaurant…it all fits certainly, but…
‘Douglas…’ Martin breathes. Douglas freezes, quickly averting his gaze and rummaging in his overnight bag for want of anything else to do, before he realises that Martin is still asleep. Frowning, but with an amused smirk on his face, he straightens up and moves over to the bed. He reaches out, calculating the move and the chances of waking Martin carefully, and brushes a lock of hair from over Martin’s eye. Martin smiles slightly in his sleep, turning into the touch, and Douglas pulls away; his slightly puzzled expression has melted away to leave something much more familiar in its place. Something self-satisfied and predatory.
He grabs his wash bag and heads for the bathroom; hopefully by the time he has showered Martin will have woken, and Douglas finally has a definite idea of what he plans to do.
00000
The room Martin wakes up in is unfamiliar. This is nothing unusual; he’s used to spending half his time in cheap hotels and it’s nothing very disconcerting to find himself in yet another. What is slightly unnerving is that he can’t quite remember how he got here.
He thinks back, pushing himself up and rubbing his eyes. It’s dark, and the bed is unusually comfortable. He blinks slowly, reluctant to get up just yet.
Then he remembers.
Oh, God. Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn.
A wave of nausea overtakes him momentarily, more out of fear and embarrassment than anything, and he leans back, hitting his head painfully on the wall and closing his eyes.
And just when they were so close to…to something…to at least being back on speaking terms…and he had briefly, very briefly, dared to hope something more…
Why does he have to ruin everything? Why does he always have to be so awkward and clumsy and stupid? He had a chance, a real chance, of putting things right and now - and now -
He presses his palms to his forehead and groans.
He had dared to hope that Arthur was right, had dared to believe that this could be over.
He can’t stay at MJN after this, he knows. It’s a dull, painful blow which causes a lump to rise in his throat. It’s been bad enough already, but now, after having tried and failed to fix things - how can he do this to himself? He doesn’t think he’d be able to stand the daily reminder of what could have been, if only he’d been slightly less of his usual incompetent self. He doesn’t blame Douglas; Douglas was trying to help. It’s all his fault really; Martin’s.
He’ll finish this trip, get back home, and write his resignation. He should have done it long ago.
Maybe he’ll find a paying airline now.
Fat chance.
Maybe he’ll become a full time man-with-a-van.
Oh, God.
‘Ah, you’re awake. At last,’ Douglas’s voice breaks into Martin’s thoughts; there’s a rustle of bags, a whiff of take-away chips, and the click of a switch before Martin has to close his eyes against the glare of the light.
‘What are you -?’ he manages weakly, squinting and hurrying to stand up,
‘Food,’ Douglas holds up the bags, ‘the restaurant idea didn’t go down too well, I’m starving, and I wouldn’t touch the room service in this place for all the sushi in Japan.’
‘But - I mean -’ Martin’s eyes widen, ‘this is - did I fall asleep in your room?’ he exclaims desperately, ‘I’m sorry, I -’
‘Alright, from now on, we are both banned from using that word,’ Douglas declares, ‘I’m thoroughly sick of hearing it, to be honest, and you have nothing to apologise for. You fell asleep in the car, after I told you to, and I brought you here because frankly you looked too tired to stand up and I figured you’d be easier to transport unconscious as, knowing you, you would have objected to being carried if you were awake.’
‘But…’ Martin responds automatically, then finds he has nothing to say. ‘I’m - I mean, what happened, I didn’t mean to - I’m sorry I - sorry, I mean -’ Douglas raises an eyebrow and throws one of the bags he is holding to Martin.
‘Eat,’ he instructs. ‘I think I’d better do the talking for now, don’t you agree?’ Martin nods meekly, unwrapping his chips and picking at them gingerly. Douglas rolls his eyes. ‘Just eat them, Martin. Stop feeling guilty, you can pay me back later if you really want to.’ He settles into the chair beside the window, stretching out his long legs and perching them on the edge of the bed, mere inches from where Martin is now sitting.
‘So, from the top; and correct me if I get anything wrong,’ Douglas begins smoothly, ‘about…six weeks ago now? Your van broke down. Your brother was in the area, for whatever reason. He offered you a lift or you asked for one - I’m going to assume the former given how uncomfortable you looked about the whole thing - and on arriving you immediately ran into me. I proceeded to compliment your brother and his car. You assumed that meant I liked him, which by the way was the whole idea, though not as you took it, and you got jealous. I had no idea what I was supposed to have done wrong - and still maintain that at this point I hadn’t done anything wrong - you snapped, I responded in kind, and it all rather snowballed from there. Correct?’
Martin nods sheepishly.
‘Tell me, did Arthur give you a talking to as well?’
Martin looks startled then nods again. He’s pushing his food around now, looking guilty and ashamed, and not eating any of it. Douglas puts his own to the side, though he is still hungry, wanting to focus his attention solely on Martin now.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said - well - look, I’m just repeating what he told me okay? I’m not saying it’s true or anything, I just -’
‘Understood,’ Douglas interrupts, leaning back in his chair and waiting.
‘He said,’ Martin continues in a small voice, ‘that…that you wanted to talk to me, and that you liked me. He said - well - that you didn’t have to be nice to me, because we’re friends…but that you had to be…polite to Simon because…you don’t know him. He sort suggested that…well…never mind.’
Douglas considers pressing the point, but decides against it; he can work out what Arthur might have suggested from his own conversation with the steward, and the purpose of this is not to make Martin any more uncomfortable than he already is.
‘Is that it?’ Douglas asks lightly; not challenging or expecting, just checking. Martin nods.
‘But this is just what he said!’ he exclaims, desperate to make this fact abundantly clear, ‘I’m not saying I believed him!’
‘Would you like to know what he said to me?’
Martin hesitates, then, ‘I…yes.’ He looks hopeful suddenly; Douglas smiles.
‘He told me that you were jealous of your brother, which I informed him was painfully obvious. Which it was. He stressed the point, repeatedly, and said you thought I liked - emphasis entirely intentional - Simon, more than I liked you.’
Martin is beetroot red by this point, and Douglas’s smile grows wider.
‘He seemed quite convinced - without actually being explicit about it of course, this is Arthur - that you…I believe the term is “fancy” me,’ he finishes triumphantly. Martin actually buries his head in his hands at this point, and Douglas’s smile becomes a grin. ‘Do you know what I deduce from this, Martin?’
Martin looks up at Douglas through his fingers, fighting tears of humiliation and wincing as he shakes his head silently. Douglas stands up smoothly and cross the small space between them, kneeling down so that he isn’t towering over Martin. He reaches forward, hands steady even though his heart is racing, and brushes his fingertips ever so lightly across Martin’s wrist, which makes him jump and move his hands away. Douglas immediately cups his palm to Martin’s jaw and leans closer; Martin’s eyes are wide with fear and hope in equal measure. He is sitting absolutely still, as though afraid this is some sort of hallucination that he might accidently banish with even the smallest movement.
‘Arthur Shappey is a genius, and we are both absolute clots,’ Douglas whispers at last, and closes the gap between them.
The kiss is brief and chaste; Douglas doesn’t push for anything more, just presses his lips against Martin’s and moves away again. Martin’s expression has not changed; he seems to have frozen in shock. Douglas laughs and kisses him again, and again - only gently, not expecting anything, not trying to force it any further - just connecting softly before pulling away, watching Martin carefully and waiting for him to react.
‘You know,’ he whispers after the fifth time, ‘you are allowed to kiss back.’
Far from kissing back, however, Martin pulls away. Douglas is not worried; there is no sign of rejection in Martin’s expression, only stunned disbelief.
‘Is this -?’
‘Please don’t as if this is real, Martin; I assure you, your imagination is not capable of summoning up an accurate representation of me, no matter how many otters it can picture. My charms are something else entirely.’
‘So I’m not -?’
‘No.’
‘And you’re -?’
‘Yes.’
‘And we’re actually -?’
‘Yes. Or we would be, if you would be quiet and get on with it.’
This time, Martin responds. Enthusiastically. And then both of them are grinning, and they stand up, pressed together, and Martin’s hands are clutching the back of Douglas’s shirt, and Douglas decides Martin’s hair isn’t too long at all, but just the right length for running his fingers through. And oh once Martin gets started he’s actually not a bad kisser and Douglas actually has to fight for dominance but he doesn’t mind, because he wouldn’t have it any other way and he chuckles and Martin even giggles a little nervously and then Douglas’s fingers are on Martin’s shirt buttons and -
Martin pulls away, breathing hard.
‘What’s wrong?’ Douglas asks, a little breathlessly.
‘I was trying to make you jealous,’ says Martin, with the voice of someone getting an unpleasant admission out of the way as fast as possible. He tries to turn away so that Douglas can’t see his face, but Douglas catches his arm and pulls his around.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘At the bar. After we - when I got drunk. The day after…it.’
‘I remember,’ says Douglas. ‘But why are you telling me this now?’ he gestures with frustration at Martin’s open top button and dishevelled hair, eyes drawn automatically to his kiss-swollen lips.
‘I - it seemed…important,’ Martin replies a little helplessly. ‘I don’t know, it just - I thought you should - you should know…while we’re…it seemed…I wanted to be…honest.’
‘Martin, whatever you did or didn’t do that night is absolutely no business of mine. I’m much, much more interested in what you’re going to do tonight,’ he says pointedly. Martin blushes; Douglas is tempted to continue - he really rather likes that expression on Martin’s face - but resists.
‘I just thought…we’re…we’re even, aren’t we? So…’
‘Well no, because I wasn’t trying to make you jealous, was I?’ Martin’s face crumples at this, and Douglas realises too late that this was very much the wrong thing to say. ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he clarifies. There’s a pause, and he raises an eyebrow pointedly, ‘well? While you’re in a confessing mood, did you succeed?’
‘No,’ Martin mumbles, looking defiant and embarrassed at the same time. ‘I’m…me. What do you expect?’
Douglas rolls his eyes, ‘I was right before; that uniform really is wasted on you, Captain.’
Martin doesn’t have a chance to look offended, because by the time his words have registered, Douglas is kissing him again, and he forgets what it is he’s supposed to be annoyed about.