Impulsivity, Indecision (Douglas/Martin - Cabin Pressure) *WIP*
Story Title: Impulsivity, Indecision (*WIP*)
Author's Name:
rhombus_
Fandom/Pairing: Cabin Pressure - Douglas/Martin (eventually)
Rating: T for mild language
Chapter: 1/5
Summary: Linda sees what Martin doesn't, and may end up being the biggest shipper of them all. Takes place during and after S03E03: Newcastle; S03E04: Ottery St. Mary; S03E05: Rotterdam; and S03E06: St. Petersburg.
Disclaimer: Characters ≠ mine.
A/N: My first CP fic. Probably full of errors and accidental Americanisms. Apologies in advance. (I tried, but Wikipedia's entry on BrE vs AmE can only do so much.) Despite that, I hope you like it, and that it's passably CP-ish. :)
Impulsivity, Indecision
Part 1
--- Newcastle ---
Ask a girl out, get rejected. Lah-dee-bloody-dah.
"Maybe I should give you my CV now." Martin meant it, in all seriousness, though his mortification had turned it somehow into a laugh.
"There you are. See, you're funny," Linda said with a smile. "I had a feeling you would be if you just relaxed."
Martin felt a streak of boldness shoot through him. "So, might you after all-?"
"No." It had only been a very faint streak, really, and it faded away again without fuss. "I think you relaxed because I said no. And I think you're probably right about that."
Right about that...
It circled his head in a confused loop, unwilling to come in for a landing.
Right about that. Right about that?
Wait. What?
"What-what do you mean? Right about what? What?"
What!?
Linda had turned to walk away, but stopped and slowly swivelled on a foot. "Oh, Martin."
Nothing good ever came after that simple utterance. Martin swallowed the thick bean that had planted itself in his throat.
"You do know you don't really want to go out with me, right?" she said, not unkindly. Sympathetically even.
Martin felt his cheeks burn red with confusion. That was women all over, always speaking in riddles! How any man understood them, he'd never know!
"Of-of course I do! Or, well, I did. Not that I like you any less! I just mean, I wouldn't want to date anyone who wasn't willing. No, that didn't come out right. I just mean, I would never force-Nope. Much worse. What I mean to say is..." What exactly was it he meant to say? Other than Oh God I'm so embarrassed right now don't mind me I'm just going to dig a hole and hide in it until I die and birds pick away at me.
"Martin..." Sympathy was very quickly slipping the slide whistle down to pity.
"I only mean-" he broke in, desperate to put an end to this whole conversation. "You're a beautiful girl-no. Woman. A very beautiful woman-" Not exactly true, but she had her good qualities, as all women rightly did. "Any man-or, or, or woman!-would probably, more than probably, really, want to-to date you. And, well, you've got, got, your brogue, and all... as well..." he finished lamely. If ever there was a bigger git than Captain Martin Crieff...
"My brogue?" Linda's eyebrows shot up her dainty little forehead. But there was the tiny creep of a smile on her lips, as if unexpectedly charmed. "Martin, you really are spectac-" A dart of excited air shot through his lungs... "-ularly bad at this, aren't you?"
A meek acquiescence: "Yes."
"You don't want to take me out. Well, you do, I should say, but not for the right reasons."
Riddles again! Women!
"I-"
Linda tapped a finger against her chin and looked meditatively upwards. "How to put this delicately. Let's just say I'm not exactly the First Officer on this aircraft you really want."
"I-" Martin forgot how to form other sounds. "I-" Flippety-flappety flounder mouth. "I-"
But there were only the two passengers, Linda and Herc. And only one of them was a First Officer. And-more importantly-a woman.
"Think about it for a while, Martin." She gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Let it settle in. You'll be so much more relaxed and happy when you do." And then, inexplicably, for reasons completely unable to be explicked, she cast a significant glance at Douglas's empty co-pilot's seat.
There was a small noise of shock. But only a very small one. And it wasn't undignified. Not in the least. It was under not a single circumstance a squeak. And Martin wouldn't in good conscience be able to say for certain who or where it came from anyhow.
"I would say I wish you both all happinesses," Linda said, "but I've only known you for about two hours, and that seems a bit presumptuous."
"A bit!" She took caution when presuming happiness, but hid no hesitations when she presumed... when she presumed what she presumed! Whatever on Earth that was. Martin cast a baleful glance at Douglas's chair.
"I-You-I-You... you don't mean-You couldn't, of course, because that would mean-that would mean-No, of course not. Absolutely not. No."
He looked up from the chair to find that Linda had already gone.
"But-"
Oh, sodding Christ.
He could hear the faint rumble of Douglas's familiar voice, somewhere else, away somewhere, oh Martin didn't know where, nor did he care! Nope. Not a single, solitary whit. There wasn't a whit to be cared for on his entire person. He was entirely whit-less.
Truer words, Captain...
Oh, Douglas would pop into his head right at the exact moment he didn't want him there. Which was never. Or always. Whichever one grammatically meant he didn't want Douglas tromping around in his subconscious making comfy little nests to settle down into. Whichever one meant that. That was what he wanted. Or didn't want. Blast!
It certainly wasn't... he didn't. Linda was entirely, and without question, wrong. With a capital wrong.
He didn't want Douglas, of all people.
Really, Douglas was just so arrogant, conceited, selfish, underhanded, disrespectful...
And a man!
Oh yes. And that too. That first of all. Before all the rest.
He slowly made his way out of the flight deck, ruminating on... well. Everything, really. Linda and the rude engineer in Birmingham and Herc's bribe and Douglas and nope not Douglas at all no certainly not stop it stop it stop it.
He was so absorbed in not-thinking about Douglas he hadn't realised he'd stumbled into the back end of a conversation.
"...move to a slightly bigger airline. With aeroplanes in the plural. I mean, even Caledonian mightn't be a bad-"
Douglas.
"Oh, I wouldn't do that."
And Herc.
Douglas and Herc discussing... Douglas going to Caledonian? Martin felt his mouth dry up like the Sahara and his stomach drop from an aeroplane without a parachute. He wouldn't... he couldn't... Why would he want to leave MJN?
You were planning the very same not ten minute ago, idiot.
Yes, but not really. He knew he'd never get the job. It was MJN or nothing for Captain Martin Crieff. His heart suddenly took like an anchor and sank. No other choice. He'd never thought on it before, but it must've been the same for Douglas, otherwise he'd have left ages ago. Of course he'd have done. But... But... they had a pretty good working relationship, hadn't they? It wasn't... he wouldn't leave because of Martin, would he? Douglas got on with him. He might've hid it underneath layers of insolence and merciless teasing, but Martin knew from bad blood, and it certainly wasn't that between them.
"But, if, hypothetically I were to ask-?" Oh, they were still talking.
"Ah, but you wouldn't ask, would you?"
"No," Douglas sighed, sounding like a impertinent child. "As you say, I'm... very happy where I am."
Sound more like it, please, would you, Douglas?
Martin tried to cast off his sudden gloominess. Why did he care? He didn't care. Douglas could do as he pleased. And if that meant leaving MJN, so be it. It wouldn't bother Martin in the least...
He was leaning a shoulder against the cabin wall, arms crossed over his chest, deep in thought, when Douglas took notice of him.
"Ah... Martin." His tone was bathing in feigned nonchalance. Bubble-bathing, in fact, with a glass of pinot noir. "I didn't see you there."
"I wasn't there," he lied. "That is, not until now, just right this... now."
"Hmm."
Douglas's uniform jacket had been deposited over one of the passenger seats, jauntily haphazard and carelessly elegant, like the rest of him, of course. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing forearms that were slightly tanned and covered in an appealing patina of dark, soft-looking hair.
Martin cleared his throat. "So, uh..."
"I'll be on my merry way then," Douglas said at the same moment Martin spit out:
"Any plans for this evening?"
"Why Martin," Douglas replied, all silk, around a smirk. "Is that a solicitation?"
Martin congratulated himself for barely colouring. "For company? Perhaps. If the gentleman were so inclined."
He wondered a bit at his sudden return of verbal-competence. Miraculously gone were his frayed-edge nerves. Coherent thoughts gathered obediently together and formed squadrons of coherent sentences. A somewhat unexpected recovery from the tongue-strangled fool he'd been with Linda only five minutes prior.
But that was just because it was, well, Douglas. He knew Douglas. There was no heightened panic at the thought of ridicule or rejection, because Douglas already knew him, knew every depressing, ridiculous thing about him, and-though a bit of good-natured ridicule was to be expected-seemed to like him anyway. Despite all rules of logic and universal balance, they were friends.
"What did you have in mind?" Douglas asked, brow perfectly arched.
Not a date. Just a friendly evening out amongst mates. That was all. Like a... a Chaps' Night, provided he could staunch any attempts on his uncouth scoundrel of First Officer's part to incite rounds of competitive farting or Whoops Johnnies.
"Dinner?" Martin offered. Then added, "Your treat," which elicited a deep laugh from Douglas.
"Is it indeed? Martin, m'lad, the only treat gratis you should prepare for is me gifting you with my presence."
"And your fattened wallet. I imagine it wasn't mere Monopoly money and coloured wedges at stake today."
"My reputation and your imagination both serve us well. And I should share my ill-gotten gains with you because...?"
"Because you wouldn't have ill-got them without me."
"A bold statement. You weren't even there, as I recall. Some trouble with a broken tail lamp, was it not?"
Martin was undeterred by the tease. "Yes. And if we hadn't been delayed, you'd have, what? Nicked that fifty quid off Herc whilst he was in the lav?"
"You make a convoluted and thoroughly unconvincing point."
Martin pushed off the side of the cabin he'd been leaning against and rubbed his stomach. "I'm feeling a bit peckish for something cheap and deep-fried." It was a trick he'd learnt from Douglas: Always act as if you've already won. Perhaps for once it could actually work for him.
Douglas smiled as he slung his uniform jacket over one shoulder. There was the sweet mien of surrender in that smile, and maybe even the smallest hint of pride. Martin could taste that elusive sup of Victory like the soft tang of cherries between his teeth.
"Come along then, my little stray," Douglas said. "I'll throw you a cheap, deep-fried bone. Just don't nip at my heels. These shoes are worth more than your van."
Something swelled in Martin's chest, warm and light and tingly. He considered fighting it down for a moment, but gave in to the feeling perhaps a little more readily than he should've.
"Arthur's self-knit woolly wombat shoes are worth more than my van."
"You poor sod," Douglas chuckled. Martin trailed him out of the plane, feeling a mite like he was up flying through the clouds again. Well done, Captain Crieff. Chaps' Night: Cleared for takeoff.
And as he watched the confident sway of Douglas's shoulders, feeling with great satisfaction his own follow suit, he airily thought to himself that Linda bleeding Presumesalot from... down Wrongingham way hadn't a single clue what she was on about.
Link to Part 2: Ottery St. Mary
Author's Name:
rhombus_
Fandom/Pairing: Cabin Pressure - Douglas/Martin (eventually)
Rating: T for mild language
Chapter: 1/5
Summary: Linda sees what Martin doesn't, and may end up being the biggest shipper of them all. Takes place during and after S03E03: Newcastle; S03E04: Ottery St. Mary; S03E05: Rotterdam; and S03E06: St. Petersburg.
Disclaimer: Characters ≠ mine.
A/N: My first CP fic. Probably full of errors and accidental Americanisms. Apologies in advance. (I tried, but Wikipedia's entry on BrE vs AmE can only do so much.) Despite that, I hope you like it, and that it's passably CP-ish. :)
Impulsivity, Indecision
Part 1
--- Newcastle ---
Ask a girl out, get rejected. Lah-dee-bloody-dah.
"Maybe I should give you my CV now." Martin meant it, in all seriousness, though his mortification had turned it somehow into a laugh.
"There you are. See, you're funny," Linda said with a smile. "I had a feeling you would be if you just relaxed."
Martin felt a streak of boldness shoot through him. "So, might you after all-?"
"No." It had only been a very faint streak, really, and it faded away again without fuss. "I think you relaxed because I said no. And I think you're probably right about that."
Right about that...
It circled his head in a confused loop, unwilling to come in for a landing.
Right about that. Right about that?
Wait. What?
"What-what do you mean? Right about what? What?"
What!?
Linda had turned to walk away, but stopped and slowly swivelled on a foot. "Oh, Martin."
Nothing good ever came after that simple utterance. Martin swallowed the thick bean that had planted itself in his throat.
"You do know you don't really want to go out with me, right?" she said, not unkindly. Sympathetically even.
Martin felt his cheeks burn red with confusion. That was women all over, always speaking in riddles! How any man understood them, he'd never know!
"Of-of course I do! Or, well, I did. Not that I like you any less! I just mean, I wouldn't want to date anyone who wasn't willing. No, that didn't come out right. I just mean, I would never force-Nope. Much worse. What I mean to say is..." What exactly was it he meant to say? Other than Oh God I'm so embarrassed right now don't mind me I'm just going to dig a hole and hide in it until I die and birds pick away at me.
"Martin..." Sympathy was very quickly slipping the slide whistle down to pity.
"I only mean-" he broke in, desperate to put an end to this whole conversation. "You're a beautiful girl-no. Woman. A very beautiful woman-" Not exactly true, but she had her good qualities, as all women rightly did. "Any man-or, or, or woman!-would probably, more than probably, really, want to-to date you. And, well, you've got, got, your brogue, and all... as well..." he finished lamely. If ever there was a bigger git than Captain Martin Crieff...
"My brogue?" Linda's eyebrows shot up her dainty little forehead. But there was the tiny creep of a smile on her lips, as if unexpectedly charmed. "Martin, you really are spectac-" A dart of excited air shot through his lungs... "-ularly bad at this, aren't you?"
A meek acquiescence: "Yes."
"You don't want to take me out. Well, you do, I should say, but not for the right reasons."
Riddles again! Women!
"I-"
Linda tapped a finger against her chin and looked meditatively upwards. "How to put this delicately. Let's just say I'm not exactly the First Officer on this aircraft you really want."
"I-" Martin forgot how to form other sounds. "I-" Flippety-flappety flounder mouth. "I-"
But there were only the two passengers, Linda and Herc. And only one of them was a First Officer. And-more importantly-a woman.
"Think about it for a while, Martin." She gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Let it settle in. You'll be so much more relaxed and happy when you do." And then, inexplicably, for reasons completely unable to be explicked, she cast a significant glance at Douglas's empty co-pilot's seat.
There was a small noise of shock. But only a very small one. And it wasn't undignified. Not in the least. It was under not a single circumstance a squeak. And Martin wouldn't in good conscience be able to say for certain who or where it came from anyhow.
"I would say I wish you both all happinesses," Linda said, "but I've only known you for about two hours, and that seems a bit presumptuous."
"A bit!" She took caution when presuming happiness, but hid no hesitations when she presumed... when she presumed what she presumed! Whatever on Earth that was. Martin cast a baleful glance at Douglas's chair.
"I-You-I-You... you don't mean-You couldn't, of course, because that would mean-that would mean-No, of course not. Absolutely not. No."
He looked up from the chair to find that Linda had already gone.
"But-"
Oh, sodding Christ.
He could hear the faint rumble of Douglas's familiar voice, somewhere else, away somewhere, oh Martin didn't know where, nor did he care! Nope. Not a single, solitary whit. There wasn't a whit to be cared for on his entire person. He was entirely whit-less.
Truer words, Captain...
Oh, Douglas would pop into his head right at the exact moment he didn't want him there. Which was never. Or always. Whichever one grammatically meant he didn't want Douglas tromping around in his subconscious making comfy little nests to settle down into. Whichever one meant that. That was what he wanted. Or didn't want. Blast!
It certainly wasn't... he didn't. Linda was entirely, and without question, wrong. With a capital wrong.
He didn't want Douglas, of all people.
Really, Douglas was just so arrogant, conceited, selfish, underhanded, disrespectful...
And a man!
Oh yes. And that too. That first of all. Before all the rest.
He slowly made his way out of the flight deck, ruminating on... well. Everything, really. Linda and the rude engineer in Birmingham and Herc's bribe and Douglas and nope not Douglas at all no certainly not stop it stop it stop it.
He was so absorbed in not-thinking about Douglas he hadn't realised he'd stumbled into the back end of a conversation.
"...move to a slightly bigger airline. With aeroplanes in the plural. I mean, even Caledonian mightn't be a bad-"
Douglas.
"Oh, I wouldn't do that."
And Herc.
Douglas and Herc discussing... Douglas going to Caledonian? Martin felt his mouth dry up like the Sahara and his stomach drop from an aeroplane without a parachute. He wouldn't... he couldn't... Why would he want to leave MJN?
You were planning the very same not ten minute ago, idiot.
Yes, but not really. He knew he'd never get the job. It was MJN or nothing for Captain Martin Crieff. His heart suddenly took like an anchor and sank. No other choice. He'd never thought on it before, but it must've been the same for Douglas, otherwise he'd have left ages ago. Of course he'd have done. But... But... they had a pretty good working relationship, hadn't they? It wasn't... he wouldn't leave because of Martin, would he? Douglas got on with him. He might've hid it underneath layers of insolence and merciless teasing, but Martin knew from bad blood, and it certainly wasn't that between them.
"But, if, hypothetically I were to ask-?" Oh, they were still talking.
"Ah, but you wouldn't ask, would you?"
"No," Douglas sighed, sounding like a impertinent child. "As you say, I'm... very happy where I am."
Sound more like it, please, would you, Douglas?
Martin tried to cast off his sudden gloominess. Why did he care? He didn't care. Douglas could do as he pleased. And if that meant leaving MJN, so be it. It wouldn't bother Martin in the least...
He was leaning a shoulder against the cabin wall, arms crossed over his chest, deep in thought, when Douglas took notice of him.
"Ah... Martin." His tone was bathing in feigned nonchalance. Bubble-bathing, in fact, with a glass of pinot noir. "I didn't see you there."
"I wasn't there," he lied. "That is, not until now, just right this... now."
"Hmm."
Douglas's uniform jacket had been deposited over one of the passenger seats, jauntily haphazard and carelessly elegant, like the rest of him, of course. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing forearms that were slightly tanned and covered in an appealing patina of dark, soft-looking hair.
Martin cleared his throat. "So, uh..."
"I'll be on my merry way then," Douglas said at the same moment Martin spit out:
"Any plans for this evening?"
"Why Martin," Douglas replied, all silk, around a smirk. "Is that a solicitation?"
Martin congratulated himself for barely colouring. "For company? Perhaps. If the gentleman were so inclined."
He wondered a bit at his sudden return of verbal-competence. Miraculously gone were his frayed-edge nerves. Coherent thoughts gathered obediently together and formed squadrons of coherent sentences. A somewhat unexpected recovery from the tongue-strangled fool he'd been with Linda only five minutes prior.
But that was just because it was, well, Douglas. He knew Douglas. There was no heightened panic at the thought of ridicule or rejection, because Douglas already knew him, knew every depressing, ridiculous thing about him, and-though a bit of good-natured ridicule was to be expected-seemed to like him anyway. Despite all rules of logic and universal balance, they were friends.
"What did you have in mind?" Douglas asked, brow perfectly arched.
Not a date. Just a friendly evening out amongst mates. That was all. Like a... a Chaps' Night, provided he could staunch any attempts on his uncouth scoundrel of First Officer's part to incite rounds of competitive farting or Whoops Johnnies.
"Dinner?" Martin offered. Then added, "Your treat," which elicited a deep laugh from Douglas.
"Is it indeed? Martin, m'lad, the only treat gratis you should prepare for is me gifting you with my presence."
"And your fattened wallet. I imagine it wasn't mere Monopoly money and coloured wedges at stake today."
"My reputation and your imagination both serve us well. And I should share my ill-gotten gains with you because...?"
"Because you wouldn't have ill-got them without me."
"A bold statement. You weren't even there, as I recall. Some trouble with a broken tail lamp, was it not?"
Martin was undeterred by the tease. "Yes. And if we hadn't been delayed, you'd have, what? Nicked that fifty quid off Herc whilst he was in the lav?"
"You make a convoluted and thoroughly unconvincing point."
Martin pushed off the side of the cabin he'd been leaning against and rubbed his stomach. "I'm feeling a bit peckish for something cheap and deep-fried." It was a trick he'd learnt from Douglas: Always act as if you've already won. Perhaps for once it could actually work for him.
Douglas smiled as he slung his uniform jacket over one shoulder. There was the sweet mien of surrender in that smile, and maybe even the smallest hint of pride. Martin could taste that elusive sup of Victory like the soft tang of cherries between his teeth.
"Come along then, my little stray," Douglas said. "I'll throw you a cheap, deep-fried bone. Just don't nip at my heels. These shoes are worth more than your van."
Something swelled in Martin's chest, warm and light and tingly. He considered fighting it down for a moment, but gave in to the feeling perhaps a little more readily than he should've.
"Arthur's self-knit woolly wombat shoes are worth more than my van."
"You poor sod," Douglas chuckled. Martin trailed him out of the plane, feeling a mite like he was up flying through the clouds again. Well done, Captain Crieff. Chaps' Night: Cleared for takeoff.
And as he watched the confident sway of Douglas's shoulders, feeling with great satisfaction his own follow suit, he airily thought to himself that Linda bleeding Presumesalot from... down Wrongingham way hadn't a single clue what she was on about.
Link to Part 2: Ottery St. Mary