The Very Picture of You
Martin Crieff loved flying. This was fact. Indisputable.
Anyone who knew him could tell you this. Family(though they probably didn't understand it), friends(If he had any), acquaintances(that's more like it). Flying was the thing he loved above all else(was there anything else to be above?), and there was nothing he could, or would, do to change this.
It was ironic, therefore, that something that Martin really does not love is travelling. Sure, the tourist traps are entertaining for a while, and the first time stepping onto new soil is exhilarating. Once you've done all that, though, you're left with the unglamourous task of merely existing in a country that's not your own, and that's not something that Martin had ever particularly relished. He'd confessed as much to his co-workers, on more than one occasion.
No, he didn't hate it. How could he? He spent most of his time doing it, when not in the air or counting down on the clock until he could be in the air again. He just didn't like it.
In fact, there was really only one place that Martin hated to travel. Martin Crieff hated to visit Tokyo.
And Douglas Richardson was determined to find out why.
The First Officer of MJN Air considered himself to be an observant man. Sure, he was no Sherlock Holmes, but most people would agree that his powers of deduction were sharper than the average pilot's.
And as an observant man, he'd seen his Captain get distressed an enormous number of times, and had learned his 'tells'. Admittedly, it was usually Douglas himself that was the reason for Martin's distress. Or Carolyn. Or Arthur. Or Herc. Or, occasionally, Carl from Fitton tower control. (It really was remarkably easy to get Martin riled, which is part of the reason why Douglas enjoyed it so much. He looked so adorable when flustered.)
So, when Douglas began to notice the signs of an upset Sir and he, himself, wasn't the cause, he observed extra hard. He caught the pattern pretty quickly, if he did say so himself(and he did).
They flew to Tokyo fairly frequently, as they had an extended contract with a Fitton-based textiles company with sources in the capital of Japan. They flew there just about once every two months, starting about half a year after Martin was hired on.
One of the most interesting things about Martin's aversion to the large city, was that it hadn't always been that way. It used to be just another airport. That was one thing that Douglas had been unable to pin-point. He had no idea when Tokyo's International Airport had gone from just another place to park GERTI, to a place causing Martin great concern.
Because it really did! Douglas loved to watch his Supreme Commander struggle to calm himself during the half-day flight(and fail miserably). As someone who knew how to appreciate beautiful things, he looked forward to the flights a little too much. How could he not? The flushed cheeks, the tousled curls, the exaggerated stiff posture. It was remarkable that Martin managed to look his best when at a great disadvantage.
One of the most interesting things about Martin's fear and/or loathing of Japan was what happened after the flight. A few days after returning from Tokyo, his Captain's uniform looked spiffy and fresh, Douglas suspected dry-cleaning. His intriguing face(with it's damnable cheekbones) didn't look quite so wan. He didn't devour his half of the cheese tray as if it was manna from heaven(And Douglas no longer had to pretend that he wasn't hungry so as to give Martin the lion's share). His complaints about aches and pains from his Man-With-A-Van jobs were cleaved in half. (He still complained, of course, if he didn't, Douglas would have demanded to know where the real Martin had gone.) It was quite perplexing.
Something was definitely up, and Douglas intended to find out. While, of course, expending the least amount of effort as possible.
First, he tried subtle, probing questions:
"So...heading to Tokyo again next week, aren't we?"
"Yep." One word answer? That didn't bode well.
"Excited? We've been on stand-by for a week, it'll be a nice change, I think."
"Nope."
Well, that didn't work. Next, he explored other sources. Perhaps Martin had confided in another, less sarcastic, co-worker.
"Arthur."
"Yeah, Douglas?"
"Has Skip ever mentioned to you if he...Oh, I don't know, doesn't like Japan, for some reason?"
"Um, no. He told me he doesn't like sushi all that much? He says it's too fishy."
"Hmm. Unsurprising, as one of the main ingredients happens to be fish."
"Oh, that's right, isn't it? Maybe he doesn't like Japan because of the fish."
"An interesting theory, Arthur, but highly doubtful."
That had been even less successful. It appeared Arthur didn't know any more than Douglas did. Not that this was particularly surprising, as it was Arthur.
He kept poking and prodding Martin, every single time they flew to Japan, until one day, Martin could not stand it anymore. It was then that he'd been given another, very subtle, clue.
"Douglas, could you just stop?!"
"Stop what, Sir?"
"Interrogating me!"
"Interrogating? I? Whatever gave you that impression?"
"It's the same thing with you, every time we fly to damned Tokyo, and I want you to stop."
"Dear me, 'damned' Tokyo? I don't think Carolyn would be pleased to hear you disparaging the destination of one of our most lucrative clients."
"Carolyn doesn't give a toss what I think, as long as I get us there, and I always will."
"You don't think Carolyn would like to know that you'd prefer not to fly to her favourite customers home and back?"
"No, I don't think she would, besides, I can't stop going-"
"You 'can't?'"
"..."
"Not, you 'won't?'"
"...I don't want to talk anymore, Douglas."
"That's too bad. We've got another eight hours to kill before we get there."
"Well, you'd best settle in, then."
It had been the longest, quietest eight hours in the history of MJN Air, but, in the end, it had been worth it. All because of one slip of Martin's ungainly tongue.
He can't stop going. Not won't.
Any other person could have played down the error, corrected themselves. But Martin, being Martin, did no such thing. He'd specifically said that he could not stop flying to Japan. The plot was about as thick as it gets in Fitton Airfield. (Which was still only about as thick as the day-old coffee Arthur had tried to serve them last week.)
Now, while most people would label Douglas Richardson as 'perceptive', almost none, least of all his co-workers, would go so far as to call him 'affectionate.' Nevertheless, something in Douglas' cold heart twinged that day, and the sensation was utterly alien to the seasoned pilot.
Douglas began to worry about Martin.
What if his Senior Officer was in some sort of trouble? Honestly, it wasn't too difficult to imagine, him being the unluckiest person in all of Britain.
What if this hypothetical trouble was more serious than their usual hijinks? And why wouldn't Martin talk to him about it? They shared much, during their long trips, and it was out of character for the younger man to be so tight-lipped. (And no, he was not hurt that Martin had failed to confide in him, that would be ridiculous.)
Douglas decided to investigate further. Asking questions was clearly getting him nowhere fast, so he changed his tactics.
Martin, typically, did not stray far from their hotel on an average trip. However, if the schedule permitted, the dear man would take himself off to the nearest air museum for a day of rousing fun.
However, as there was only one such museum within walking distance of their usual hotel, Douglas suspected that Martin did not, in fact, visit the museum every two months. (Also, Martin was absolutely terrible at sneaking anywhere, he was embarrassingly, and adorably, obvious.)
The first time Douglas followed him, Martin got lost in the considerable crowd. Impressive, really, as his pretty red hair could be seen for miles in a sea of dark locks.
The second time wasn't much more successful. He didn't find out where he went, but he did see his quarry slide into a nondescript black vehicle.
The third time was quite interesting. He managed to tail Martin all the way to a small, expensive-looking tea shop, where he met stylish, older caucasian woman. The lady took his hands, and they did that double cheek kiss thing, before disappearing into the shop.
Douglas was surprised to say the least. He honestly didn't think Martin had had it in him. (He tried very, very hard not to be jealous. )
Following Martin a few more times did not seem to help him much. Martin either met the classy woman, or was met by a car. Douglas was loathe to actually confront his captain about his mysterious appointments, but could not puzzle out the reason behind them. He couldn't really justify sticking his nose in any further, especially as Martin never seemed to come to any harm during these visits. Quite the contrary, in fact. Douglas was surprised to note that Martin's usually untamed hair came back looking rather good. Clean, neat, and styled. Very curious. Douglas was dying to know the whole story, but barring grabbing Martin and shaking him until he pried the truth loose, there wasn't much he could do. (Although, the first part was looking more and more tempting everyday, for its own sake.)
In true Sky God fashion, however, the answer to the riddle that plagued him fell, quite literally, into his lap a few months after Douglas had given up hope.
Martin had returned from his perplexing excursion and had just sat down for dinner next to Douglas to wait for the Shappeys, when he turned absolutely white, then completely red. Douglas was so engrossed in watching the colours appear on the man's face that he almost didn't turn to look at what Martin was staring at in such abject horror.
It was the Mystery Woman. Dressed in her customary chic business suit, she was making her way across the hotel lobby with a broad grin and a waving hand.
"Hi, Martin!" She trilled as she approached their table. "I know you told me I probably shouldn't come to your hotel unless I called first, but I've got the finished product here, and I need you to okay it for release. I could've mailed it, but it takes such a long time, and I was in the area, so here I am!"
The sound that came out of Martin's mouth was probably one of a kind, and definitely hilarious. (Think the smallest bagpipes in the world being trod on by a morose duck.)
"I-I...Well, good, that's great. Thanks. I'll just-" He moved to get up from the table, but her crisp voice made him stall.
"No, no, don't get up, I'll just...wait." She tore at the large envelope that she carried. "They sent me a few, but they've only chosen one. You can keep the others, if you like, they'll be tossed out, otherwise."
The next few seconds seemed to slow to the consistency of Arthur's homemade gravy, but was much, much sweeter, in Douglas' estimation. The envelope the lady held tipped to the side, and the contents spilled out, mostly on the table, and one into his waiting hands.
Finally! The answer was right in front of him! The riddle could be solved, all he had to do was turn the thick page around, to reveal...a photograph.
It was Martin. And yet...not.
The man in the photo was clad only in a pair of tight black trousers that rode low on his hips, and was brandishing an oversized clock in one hand. He stood proudly in front of a black background, pale skin and bright hair contrasting starkly with the dark void. The Not-Martin faced the camera, shoulders back, feet apart, slender hips cocked to one side. Confident. Assured in his fiery, unique beauty and his blazing masculinity.
If the walls of the hotel had come crumbling down about his ear, Douglas would not have blinked. He was certain he'd entered another dimension.
As he slowly came back to reality, he realized the woman was speaking.
"-so clumsy, honestly, I'm really sorry about that."
"It's quite alright." He squeaked out. He cleared his throat. "Really, it's fine."
She pointed to the page Douglas held. "That's my favourite one. It's too bad, they chose the one with the top hat instead. Oh, well, the customer's always right, I guess."
Martin seemed to jerk out of his mortified stupor. He began to frantically gather the scattered pictures.
"Yes, thank you, Susan, everything seems fine. Great. I'll give you a call later, thank you, bye."
He dashed off in a blur of anxious energy. He was out of the lobby in a flash. Douglas and the overly friendly woman watched him go, both of them speechless, but only momentarily.
"Wow, what's got into him? I was gonna give him his cheque, now I'll have to mail it." She pouted in annoyance. "I'm Susan, by the way."
He shook her soft, manicured hand. "Douglas Richardson."
"Oh! You're Douglas? It's very nice to meet you, finally. Martin talks about you sometimes, I almost feel like I know you!"
"Really?" This was surprising.
"Oh, yeah." She laughed daintily. "He told me once that you're his inspiration for shoots like this." She tapped on the photo he still held.
Good lord. "Did he? In what way ?"
"Oh, you know, the swaggering alpha male type. It doesn't come naturally for dear Martin, as I'm sure you're aware." She produced a cellphone from her jacket pocket and clicked a few buttons. "It's not his usual gig. This is more like what he's usually called for." She turned the phone around, and for the second time that night, Douglas' world turned upside down.
This time, the background was white, his posture was wilting, his face, soft and calm. A mis-buttoned white dress shirt hid little, but words in Japanese covered the bottom half of the page. This was almost like the Martin he knew, but...different.
"That was a fun one," Susan prattled on. "One of the first he did. Said he just had to think happy thoughts. Actually, you might be the inspiration for that, too." Her eyes flashed mischievously.
"It was very nice to meet you, Susan. I have to go now."
Leaving her behind, he walked quickly to the exit and scanned the street. Martin couldn't gone that far. He spotted an alley a little further down the street, and weighed his odds that Martin had hidden there. He pegged them as being pretty high.
He was spot-on, in fact. Martin was leaning against the wall, head in his hands when he rounded the corner. The younger man lifted his head for only a moment and groaned at the sight of Douglas approaching, before plunging his hands through his curls, which were no longer quite so nicely styled.
"What do you want, Douglas?"
"Why, nothing, really. Only to return this to you." He extended the forgotten photograph. Martin whipped it out of his hand, and stuffed it under his arm with the others.
"Thanks." Silence. Achingly tense silence, which Martin broke. "Go ahead."
"Pardon?"
"Don't play dumb. Go ahead and laugh. I know you want to. Don't let me stop you. You can start teasing me now. I'm sure you'll have a lot of fun."
"Now, why would I do that?"
Martin finally looked up, accusingly. "Because you're you. You're Douglas Richardson, mighty Sky God, expert mocker, and luckiest bastard in the whole world."
"Oh, I don't know about that. Maybe there are a few people luckier than me."
"Doubt it."
Silence reigned, again. Douglas spoke up, this time.
"So, are you going to tell me about this...thing that you do?"
"What thing?"
"Now you're the one playing dumb." He gestured to the crumpled pictures. "These, this thing you're doing. Are you going to tell me about it?"
"What's there to tell?" He sighed, resignation oozing into every word. "Susan saw me in a shop a while back and said I looked exotic enough to get some work in modeling."
Martin. Modelling. For something other than the front cover of his work in progress How NOT To Be An Airline Captain: An Autobiography of Martin Crieff. Douglas probably wasn't hiding his shock as well as he thought he was, because Martin continued:
"I know what you're thinking. Why the Hell would anyone want me to model for anything? Honestly, I have no idea. Apparently it has something to do the hair."
"There is something of a shortage of gingers in Asia, I understand."
"Quite right. And they can do a lot with computers after. I'm not nearly as short in pictures as I am in real life."
"I should hope so." This earned him a glare.
"You see, Douglas, this is why I didn't want you to know. I just knew that you would never let this go. I'll never live this down."
"Oh, come now, I'm not that bad."
"Yes. You are."
Yes, actually, he was. He knew it, and very seldom felt bad about. Now, was one of those rare times.
"Martin, is that why you've been so nervous about coming here?"
"Yes. The ads I do are only in a few magazines that are published here. You can't get them anywhere else, and they're very popular. But I didn't want you to come across one. I knew what you'd say."
"I think it's fantastic."
"That...is not what I expected you to say."
Douglas attempted to put on his most earnest expression. "Martin, I'm delighted that you found an easy way to make some extra cash. I know the Man-With-A-Van business doesn't pay that well, and I know Carolyn feels bad about your salary. Or lack-thereof. We worry about you, we at MJN." He paused. "I worry about you."
Martin blinked in surprise, and stared hard at Douglas' face. "You worry about me?"
"Yes, of course I do." He shifted uncomfortably. "Martin, you might find this hard to believe, but I do care about you. Very much, in fact."
Their eyes locked for a long moment. In that brief locking of eyes, Douglas thought he saw in Martin's eyes a few of the things that he himself had been feeling since the younger man had started with MJN Air. Hope. Fondness. Attraction.
They broke eye contact the second it started to feel too intimate. That didn't change the atmosphere that much, however. A deserted alley, darkness falling, two grown men discovering things they'd never expected of each other.
This time, the silence wasn't awkward, so much as...Expectant. It didn't last long, though, because Martin ruined the mood.
"Shall we go in, then? It's kind of hot out here, isn't it?" It wasn't, really. A few hours earlier he'd been wishing for a warmer jacket. Perhaps the sizzling tension between them had actually started to produce it's own heat. Douglas took a deep breath, and plunged into the conversation he'd sworn he'd never start. It didn't go quite as he'd thought it might.
"Martin."
"Yes, Douglas?"
"If, in some parallel universe, this were a very bad film of an adult nature, this might be the moment when I invite you, a young, talented model, up to my hotel room, to take some photographs."
"But...Douglas, you don't even own a camera."
"Exactly."
The look on Martin's face as his cheeks filled with colour would stay with Douglas for a very long time, as would Martin's response.
"You know, Douglas, I think...I think I'd quite like that." His tentative smile could have warmed the heart of any frosty pilot, but Douglas' got absolutely toasted.
Later, in Douglas' room, Martin reached down to grab one of the pictures that lay, scattered and forgotten, on the hotel floor. Pulling the sheet modestly back into place, he turned to face Douglas and waved the photo in front of himself.
"You know that this isn't actually me, right?"
Douglas arched a brow. "How do you mean? I've seen that bare torso firsthand, now. That's quite the fetching birthmark you've got, and, dear me, what an interesting location. Can't be too many slender, ginger, models with a freckle such a cheeky location."
Martin blushed furiously. "That's not what I mean. It's just...I don't want you to look at these photos, then look at me and think that it's the same person. Because it's not, really. I don't look like that in real life. I can't act like that in front of people." He worried the edge of the thick paper and stared at the dashing man depicted on it's glossy surface.
"I know that, Martin."
"You do?" He seemed skeptical.
"Of course, I do." Douglas took the picture from Martin's fingers and folded it up. He tossed it back to the floor, and rolled closer to the softly grinning man. "That picture is not the reason why we're here. Together. In this bed." He stopped, and thought for a moment. "Well, actually, it sort of is, but the fact still remains that you."
He kissed Martin's forehead.
"Are who."
His cheek.
"I want."
The tip of his freckled nose.
"Not the person in the picture."
Finally, he captured Martin's soft lips in a lazy kiss, and ran his fingers down the side of his Captain's remarkable face.
When they broke apart, he murmured, "I might like to see that one with the top hat, though."
FIN!
AN: This is a little extra bit that I couldn't quite make fit. I wrote this first, actually.
It took a few months, but eventually, he persuaded Martin to show him his portfolio. Well, not so much persuaded, as stole right from under his nose.
"Douglas"
"Yes, Captain?"
"What is it you have there?"
"Hmm, it may or may not be a folder filled with pictures."
"Douglas, no!"
"Really Martin, if you didn't want me to see it, you shouldn't have left it lying out."
"It wasn't! It was in the bottom of my drawer."
"You should have left it locked."
"I did."
"Left it with a more effective lock."
"Apparently. "
"Indeed."
"So...what do you think?
"Well, obviously I've not seen them all yet, but...
"But?
"These are really nice actually.
"You think so.
"Definitely.
"Well, good. I'm glad.
"What on earth was this one for?
"I don't know. Sometimes they don't tell me.
"Something...flowery?
"Could be perfume. Those ones are always the weirdest.
"I'll take your word for it.
"This one's my favourite.
"No, Really? I wonder why.
"Oh stop.
"I'd have to agree, though.
"I kind of like the concept. Serving one's country and all that.
"Except for the small fact that that is not your country country
"I know, but it's the thought that counts.
"Besides, you do look quite fetching in a good uniform.
"You think so?
"I know so. You look even better out of one, though.
"Douglas!
"...
"Although, now that you mention it, there's...this one.
"...
"Douglas?
"Oh Martin.
"Um, yeah.
"I've changed my mind. This is my favourite.
"Is it?
"Oh, yes. The wings are a really nice touch. Very you.
"You think so?
"I do. I most definitely do.