Hi there. Got a few new fandoms during my brief hiatus, and here's a little-big oneshot for you that just popped into my head (though it took me a week). Character death, angstiness and sadness enclosed.

I am not John Finnemore. I wish I were that brilliant.

Arthur whistles as he tidies up the portacabin, picking up several discarded items from their week of standby – books, food wrappers, Douglas' cap, and Martin's jacket – in preparation for Mr Goddard to forget he's hired them yet again.

The tune grows jauntier as he packs things into boxes and lockers. Dusting off the First Officer's cap, he places it on the hat stand and turns to hang the Captain's jacket in his locker. Glancing to where he can see Skip hunched over his desk doing paperwork, Arthur wonders if he should ask Martin if he wants the broken coat hanger replaced.

He could just do it anyway, as a good deed for Skipper. There's probably a spare one somewhere.

As Arthur takes the jacket off the broken wire, something falls from inside it and flutters to the ground. Draping the coat carefully over a nearby chair, he bends down and picks up what looks a bit like an eagle's feather, mottled brown and white. It must be a really big eagle to have such a huge feather. Brilliant! I've always wanted to see an eagle! They fly even better than Skip can fly an aeroplane!

He's about to put it in his pocket, when it strikes him that that is a rather odd place for a feather to be. This is about the most insightful Arthur's been all week.

'Skipper?' he calls out.

'What now, Arthur?' answers Martin tiredly, not looking around. Douglas, seated in an armchair, raises his eyes lazily from the book he's reading and frowns, confused, at the feather in Arthur's hand.

'This fell out of your spare jacket when I took it off the hanger. What's it doing there?'

There's a long silence, and when Arthur speaks again, his voice is worried. 'Skip? Are you okay?'

Martin has turned around at Arthur's question, and is now frozen in his chair, white as a sheet, staring at the feather the steward is holding several inches from his face. Douglas, also unnerved by his captain's uncharacteristic stillness, puts down his book. 'Martin? Martin, what's the matter?'

The ginger-haired pilot swallows hard before answering. 'Nothing. Just – just a message. It's fine.' He takes the feather from Arthur and returns to his paperwork.

Douglas glances at Arthur, their eyes meeting confused and worried, before looking back at where Martin is working furiously, obviously desperate to leave. Five minutes later he snaps the logbook shut, picks up his backpack and leaves without a word. The others wait in silence until they hear the rattling of his van disappear. Carolyn emerges from her small office just in time to hear. 'Arthur?'

'Yeah, Mum?'

'Tea, please.'

Martin closes the door to his dingy attic room and sits down heavily on the bed, pulling the feather from his pocket and holding it to the light.

Yes. A flight feather. The sheer length was proof of that. It was a message he'd hoped not to see, but here it is. He doesn't have much time, then.

Probably only a week or so.

He sighs and lets his head fall into his hands. What will he tell the others? Getting to his feet, he pulls open an empty drawer in his desk and places the feather inside, closing it quickly.

It was too soon. Or too late, depending on how you looked at it.

He's dug himself in too deep.

Now the message has come, but he doesn't want to leave.

Two days later, the team are preparing for a cargo flight to Sydney. Carolyn has noticed the concerned glances directed Martin's way, and as the captain leaves to do the walk-around, she takes the other two men aside. 'What is it that's wrong with him, exactly? He looks perfectly fine to me.'

Arthur speaks quickly as he tells the story of finding the feather, of how Skip went all quiet.

'Quiet?'

The First Officer cuts in. 'He was awfully pale, too – like he was terrified. But when we asked him if he was okay, he said it was just a message, and then didn't say another word until he left five minutes later.'

'Martin, silent for a whole five minutes?'

'I know. Didn't believe it myself.'

'Well, see how he is on the trip and if it happens again I'll talk to him. Now get this plane to Sydney as fast as possible.'

'Aye, aye, Carolyn.'

'Okay. Mum!'

Martin does seem to be okay during the flight, playing the usual word games with Douglas and talking about otters with Arthur – though heaven knows how he put up with the steward during that conversation. He was just as pedantic as ever, reminding the First Officer about the safest way to land as they came into Sydney International. Douglas simply replied with his usual acid humour, glad that everything was back to normal.

With fourteen hours to waste before the flight back to Fitton, the three men check into the (fairly cheap) hotel Carolyn has booked them, dump their bags in their rooms, shower and change into casual clothes, and leave to explore the city.

Standing on the footpath of the Harbour Bridge, Martin closes his eyes and tilts his head back to let the breeze ruffle his curly hair. Something brushes against his leg, and he looks down to see another feather. Hurriedly, he stuffs it in his bag and goes to catch up with the others.

'Fitton approach, this is Golf Tango India, we are beginning our descent, over.'

'Roger, Golf Tango India, how was it Down Under? Get chased by any sharks?'

'No, actually,' replies Douglas, 'but Arthur nearly got bitten by a huntsman spider.'

'Nearly?'

'Our courageous Captain attacked it with a shoe. After shrieking loud enough to wake the dead, of course.'

Martin cuts in, trying to hide the embarrassment in his voice. 'Can we land somewhere, please?'

'Oh, and the ginger whinger makes his appearance!'

'Carl…'

The radio clicks off, and Douglas looks askance at Martin. 'Ginger whinger. That's a new one.'

'Shut up.'

'A little sore about our carrot-top, are we?'

Martin gives a disgruntled 'hmph!', but says nothing, focusing instead on landing GERTI safely.

The flat seems darker after the bright sun of Australia. Martin sits at his desk and places three letters in the drawer, on top of the small pile of long brown feathers that has gathered there.

He has days, only a few at this rate.

Placing a last envelope in the centre of the desk, he picks up a small pack and leaves the flat, closing the door.

He doesn't think they'll come, but he'd left the note anyway. If they stopped there he had written them each a letter of explanation, and said where they were hidden and where he was going in the note.

If they wanted to be there, they would find him. If not, well, he was used to being alone.

It's Douglas who finds the note the next day, when Carolyn calls him and says that Martin isn't answering his phone. The First Officer knows this is unusual, very much so, and says he'll go round to Sir's flat straight away. Finding it empty and with the note on the desk, he fears the worst, but reads it anyway. Opening the drawer mentioned, he finds three envelopes, addressed to him, Carolyn, and Arthur.

He has to tell them now, and they have to find Martin as soon as possible.

Here the sky is blue, the grass is green and there are dandelions everywhere. Martin sits beneath a large oak tree and watches the sun sparkle through the leaves.

It's a beautiful day.

He doesn't remember how long he's been sitting here, how long it's taken for the burning pain to become a spike twisting in his chest.

It feels good to stretch himself, cramped as he was under shirts and jackets that didn't have holes in the back. Then again, it had been necessary to hide. People just didn't believe anymore. But he'd grown tired of being a hermit.

No point reflecting on it now.

'Martin!'

'Martin?'

'Skipper?'

His eyes flicker open. They came?

Martin goes to call out, but a coughing fit seizes him. Douglas is there, though, and is by his side in a second, helping him sit up so he can breathe. 'Always… could… depend on you…' he manages to choke out. The others are coming up the hill – the three of them having split up to look for him – but he's fading fast, too fast. His voice is gone, he won't be able to speak to them (he wants to, so badly). He grabs Douglas' wrist and hopes that the First Officer understands what he's trying to say.

Douglas recovers from the sight of the wings – now a tattered remainder of their former glory – long enough to see the question, the fear in the pain-dulled eyes. Unable to answer with anything but a nod due to the lump in his throat, Douglas takes Martin's cold, thin hand in his own large and calloused one as the younger man slumps bonelessly against him. His free arm curls protectively around Martin's bony shoulders – not for the first time does Douglas fully appreciate how thin his friend really is.

His friend? Yes. He knows that now. The Captain is the closest thing to a brother that Douglas has ever had; an annoying, adopted little brother perhaps, but nevertheless he has earned the right (three times over, he thinks) to be called his friend.

Does Martin consider him a friend? He doesn't know, but he hopes so.

Carolyn is here, with the air of a mother who is going to lose a child. In some ways she is, really – though they got off to a bad start, and although he has a tendency to drive her up the wall, her feelings toward this pedantic beanpole of a pilot have grown into something that can only be described as maternal. And now this underrated, bumbling, brilliant boy is dying, and she doesn't know what to feel.

Has Martin forgiven her for all the wrongs she'll never have a chance to put right? She doesn't know, but she hopes so.

Arthur isn't sure what to think as he looks at Skip's pained, bloodless face. The Captain was his hero – someone who had been courageous and stubborn enough to go against not only his father's wishes but also six examiner's reports and tried again and again to get the chance to fly planes.

He feels like he should say, something, but his mouth is dry and his mind is blank. Then a question leaps forward, one that's been nudging him since he came up the hill and saw Skip there, with the mottled brown wings stretched behind him.

'Skipper?'

Blue-green eyes, so much older than they should be, rise to meet his, questioning.

'Are… are you an angel?'

Martin's mouth twitches in a small smile. Oh, Arthur, what a question. The stories I could tell you of the things I've seen…

The pain is gone now, replaced by a creeping numbness. Carolyn is talking, but he can't hear the words, and there are tears on Arthur's face, and Douglas is gripping Martin's hand as if with that alone he will be able to pull the captain back from the brink.

A cloud wafts in front of the sun, and the shadow reminds them that the end is almost here.

And then, without warning, it is.

Several months later, Martin's birthday comes around, and two cars pull up at a small cemetery just outside Fitton.

Standing by the grave, each of the three is aware of the others standing by, but their thoughts are taking them far from here.

After a while, they drift away, and Douglas thinks he sees a flash of brown feathers and ginger hair at the corner of his vision – but it has to be a trick of the light. He'd be okay. Martin is still his friend, even now.

'We'll miss you, Martin,' murmurs Carolyn as she leaves, brushing tears from her eyes. She'll be alright – she knows Martin forgave her. She doesn't know why, but she just knows.

Last through the gate, Arthur feels something brush against his shoulder, very faint, like a cool breeze. When he looks back, there's nothing there, but a peaceful feeling steals over him. He's going to be okay. Skip is looking out for him. 'We'll be back next week, Skipper,' he says out loud, 'see you then.'

The cars drive away, and, sitting on his gravestone with his wings folded behind him, Martin smiles.

I'll be there.

Well, that was something different. I feel like angel!Martin could be the basis of a universe, except technically I just killed him. Thoughts on the fic? on how I could pull off a return without resorting to trickery? (Because I really did kill him, this is not the Reichenbach fall...)

Anyway, for a first Cabin Pressure fic by someone who's only listened to seven episodes in total, I think I did okay.

Laters. I needs must go and cry for my poor Martin now.

- ST