A/N: The idea for a Martin/Arthur fic came to me one morning in a "rush of clarity", as they say (Well, really it was the idea for ALL MY MARTIN/ARTHUR HEADCANONS. I decided they needed their own fic). I've been working on this for a few months, and the beginning is a bit messy, but I am committed to finishing this because these two are the cutest people and my headcanons seem really canon to me.
Thanks to: my lovely beta Toria (angelofmadness13) for being supergreat! Don't worry, dear, you were a huge help! Also future chapters will probably not have been combed over as many times before I send them to you like this one was. If that makes any sense.
Warning: Not much questionable stuff happens in this chapter. Warning for Martin's depressing life and Arthur's… unique attempts at wooing, I guess? Heh.
/
There isn't much room in the galley of a small passenger aeroplane that can be set aside for conducting important, highly personal conversations. Nevertheless, two MJN crewmen were squeezed into the small space, only about a foot away, having one.
Martin adjusted his cap, scratching his head nervously as he glanced back at the flight deck. "Er, pardon?"
Arthur Shappey's round pink face shone with eager happiness. He was positively beaming, even more than was usual. "I've fancied you for ages, Skip!" Arthur's hands fidgeted inside his pants pockets. "I thought you knew; I think everyone else does!"
Martin groaned, bemoaning his bad luck yet again. "Everyone else- why didn't they tell me?" Arthur shrugged. Martin put his head in his hands, leaning back onto the drinks trolley. "I'm- I'm so sorry, Arthur. I'm afraid I can't return your feelings."
"…Oh." Martin looked back up to the steward's face and blanched when he saw the taller man's lip begin to quiver. He wasn't going to cry, was he?
No, apparently quite the opposite.
"Hahaha! Good one, Skip!" Arthur grinned at the sort of-professional pilot in his typical oblivious fashion.
"What was?" Martin had definitely not made a joke just now.
Arthur made a face. Martin wasn't sure, but he thought maybe the steward was trying to look intelligent. "Well, you may think you don't like chaps, but," here he paused for effect. "How do you know, right, until you try?"
"Arthur, I have tried." It had not gone well. Let's just say that men were about as receptive as women to the ah yes I'm a pilot actually. A- a CAPTAIN, mind you! Yes, yes. Well, no, I'm not actually paid or anything, and, well, it took me quite a few goes to get the license, but I got it and that's all that- Wait where are you going approach to flirtation.
His hands returned to his head as he muttered under his breath: "Don't you think I'd give something that would double my chances a shot?" But then louder and looking back up: "I'm very sorry, Arthur. I'm afraid I'm really not into men."
Arthur's face fell and he slumped. "Oh." He actually looked upset. Martin hadn't seen him like this since his portable DVD player broke a few months ago and he could no longer watch Quest For Camelot on long flights. "You're serious."
Martin couldn't handle the pain evident on Arthur's normally blissful face. He struggled to find a better excuse, unable to come up with anything but clichés. "Besides, we work together! And you're… you're Arthur! You wouldn't- we wouldn't make a good match. Ask anyone! Because you're you and I'm me!"
Arthur looked down, slumped. "I suppose you're right…" he sighed. "Well, that's too bad." He looked up, smiling again, though it was obviously forced. "Sorry I brought it up, Skip."
Martin shook his head, guilt gnawing at the pit of his stomach. "It's fine. Just… try to get over me?"
As Martin fled to the flight deck, Arthur sighed again, picking up an apple from atop the microwave and glancing at it morosely.
"I don't think that's going to happen any time soon…"
/
Martin wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, he knew, even if this particular drawer was full of knives that habitually stole expensive whiskey and couldn't even remember fore and aft without a mnemonic. It might have been because of this, or perhaps because of his overabundance of bad luck, that though he was already in his thirties, he didn't have very much going for him at the moment. In fact, his life pretty much was awful for the majority of the time.
He engaged the landing gears, internal monologue continuing as he ignored Douglas' snide comments about his ability to fly a plane with practiced ease.
For example, although Martin was an airline pilot, he was also a man with a van and was paid nothing for the former job and next to nothing for the latter. Indeed, he lived in a nice flat, but he lived in the attic of the flat and had to hide when the students who lived in the actual flat brought friends over, like a mad aunt or a friendly ghost.
But more to the point at this particular moment in time was that he was single, but this was not by choice; and to put the metaphorical cherry on the icing on the cake of misery, there was actually someone who fancied him and he had just rejected them. Needless to say, he was feeling very, very guilty about it.
Really, Martin didn't know anyone else in his life who had the potential to make a suitable romantic partner. When thinking about the people he saw regularly, the closest he could see to being viable was the van (Carolyn was older, and frightening, and his boss; Douglas was slightly older, and frightening, and that just seemed intrinsically wrong to him; the ground crew were all of varying age, and frightening, and… well, the ground crew). And dating the van would be even worse than dating Arthur. Although intellectually it was a toss-up on who would make a more stimulating conversational partner.
Arthur Shappey was a sweet man – kid might be a more appropriate term to be honest – but Martin was really, really not interested in him.
He finished shutting the engines off and sat back, fingers drumming on the side of his chair nervously.
"Post-landing checks complete." Douglas looked up from the instrument panel and slowly raised an eyebrow at his copilot. "Something wrong, Martin?" His face was getting that familiar I'm thinking of something sarcastic to say right now and you cannot stop it from coming out of my mouth look.
"N-no, Douglas." Martin snipped. "Just thinking about a job I have later, actually. So I'll have to leave a bit early, actually. Can't help clean up or anything. Give Carolyn my apologies, bye!"
He got out of the plan as quickly as he could, ignoring Douglas' chuckles and the sound of Arthur starting to Hoover. He ran across the airfield, glancing at his watch and groaning.
The incident with Arthur had severely fazed him. He needed to get some sleep, then have a long think over a Pot Noodle, but, unfortunately, he really did have a job.
Someone had called it in right before he had gotten to the airfield: moving a some furniture to a warehouse not too far away. But with the job ending in the late afternoon, the crate in one location and the warehouse in the other, and the shops being an unreasonable distance away by foot and too close to drive and bother trying to park, he figured it would be a while before he had time to eat or sleep. And then, just to make it all worse, he had to wake up early for another job…
He unlocked the door to his van and climbed in, sitting back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. "Oh God… What am I doing with my life?"
After another moment, he sat up an started the van.
/
Martin slumped on his threadbare sofa, pulling noodles into his mouth sullenly. It was dark, it was cold, and he was too tired to fall asleep. Instead, he stared at his wall with dull eyes, waiting for something to happen, and gulping down hot soup.
"CRIEFF?"
Amy knocked on his door, shouting. She was a fiery Scottish art student and was usually out with her boyfriend on Friday nights like this. Jumping, Martin spilled Pot Noodle all over his shirt (thankfully he had hung up his jacket as soon as he walked in the door- always keep your uniform clean and pressed) and swore loudly. He searched for something to clean himself up with, forcing himself to stay calm and collected. "Ah- yeah?" he called.
"There's someone here to see you! Says he works with you."
"Yeah, let him in."
Blotting his shirt with his lone dishtowel and a rapidly diminishing bottle of water, he called to let the mysterious visitor in. Probably Douglas, unable to contain his rapier wit until the next day.
"Hello, Skip!"
Martin froze, standing in the middle of the room with his shirt soaked and dripping with noodles. Arthur was standing in his doorway, carrying a shopping bag and about a gallon of fruit juice, wearing a bright red shirt, flannel pants, and a wide smile. "I decided that we should have that date anyway!"
Amy smirked. "I'll just leave you boys to it, then!"
Martin's mouth gaped. He didn't even manage to stammer any more than: "N-n-no, you don't-" until after Amy had shut the door behind Arthur.
The steward smiled brightly and started looking around for cups for the juice in the various cabinets and shelves Martin has installed over the past couple years in the side of the attic space that wasn't full of other furniture. "Gosh, Skip! You sure have a nice flat!"
Martin rolled his eyes, cheeks colouring slightly as he tried to shake the damp out of his shirt. "Er, thanks, Arthur. I think." In reality, his flat was about as far from nice as four walls and a ceiling could be. His furniture was all cheap and smelled slightly off, and he had to go downstairs to get running water or go to the toilet.
"Ah! Heeere we go!" Arthur found a plastic cup from Martin's one Ikea trip several years ago and his chipped porcelain mug with a picture of a cartoon plane on the side and began pouring sugary liquid into them.
Martin decided his button-down was the driest it could be under the circumstances and sat down on his couch again, giving up on discouraging his coworker and giving in to the inevitable. "So this is your idea of a date, is it?" Martin let his head fall backwards and just listened to the noise of Arthur clumsily bumbling around his improvised kitchenette.
"Yep! Oh no!" There was a crash. "Sorry, Martin! Don't worry, it didn't break! Much."
Martin, too tired to care, just mumbled something in response. Arthur continued to natter away. It was a strangely comforting noise- annoying, yes, but comforting as well. Martin thought, through the growing haze of fatigue and the germ of a headache, that he might actually be able to fall asleep to that noise.
"Eat up, Skip!"
Martin's eyes snapped open as a cup was pushed into his hands and the sound of a bag of crisps opening came from his left. He glanced at the bag. There were ice creams next to it.
"What's this, Arthur?" Martin looked quizzically at Arthur, who had seated himself on the other side of the couch and was gulping down juice and stuffing his face with Doritos.
"I bought you dinner!" Arthur replied, tearing open a Magnum wrapper. "And I brought over a DVD, but… I guess… you don't have a TV, so… Just dinner then. That's good, though. Better, even!"
Martin sipped the juice. The overpowering sweetness stung the roof of his mouth slightly, but he swallowed some more, not actually appalled by the taste. He hadn't had juice in years. He would have thought a date between two grown men would involve alcohol, but this was Arthur after all. If anyone would bring kid's drinks, Doritos, and ice creams to a date, it would be Arthur.
Martin reached into the crinkly red bag and pulled out a handful of tortilla chips, tossing a couple into his mouth and chewing them, licking the orange smears from around his lips and off his fingers.
Arthur sucked his fingers to get the last of the sticky cream off them, continuing to grin around his appendages. "So, this is fun, huh Skip?" He edged a little closer to Martin on the couch.
Martin finished his drink and wiped his hands on the couch cushions. He turned to Arthur and smiled sleepily. "You know what, Arthur? It is." The sugar and carbs were going to his pounding head, and he was seeing everything through the rose-tinted glasses of sleep deprivation. Arthur was an idiot; that was a fact that no one could dispute, but he was sweet too, in his own way, and probably would be a great guy to have around when you were feeling down. A really supportive boyfriend.
But what was he thinking? This was Arthur, and he was Martin, and there was no way Martin was ever going to think of Arthur as a boyfriend ever again. He frowned slightly, but Arthur didn't seem to notice.
"I'm glad you like it!" The pink-cheeked steward carefully put the crinkly red bag on the floor and put the remaining, unopened ice cream inside of it. Then he slowly leaned towards Martin. Martin froze in his reclined position, mouth slightly open. This close, with his torso almost pressed against Martin's left arm, Martin could smell Arthur's chocolatey, sugary breath and see the ice cream smeared on his lips over a layer of cheesy product. His hair was wet and gave off a faintly fruity scent, probably shampoo. He caught Martin's gaze and his smile became more subdued; one could argue it was even more genuine.
Martin gulped. This was a mistake. He needed to move.
"Alright Skip?" Arthur's face was right beside his. His hands supported his reasonable weight right next to Martin's stiff-trousered leg, fingers touching him lightly enough for the pilot not to fully register it.
Martin's heart was beating abnormally fast. This was extremely nerve-wracking. "Arthur, I-"
Arthur's sticky lips pressed against Martin's cheek firmly. Martin didn't move. After a moment, Arthur drew back, blushing in blotchy spots of bright pink high on his round cheeks and smiling shyly, eyelashes actually fluttering slightly. Martin started breathing again.
Arthur mumbled bashfully: "That okay? I mean, I know you said you don't like men, and you said you didn't want to go out with me, but you seemed to like this date enough and, well, I thought I might as well give it a shot!"
Martin looked away, biting his lip.
"Oh." Arthur moved away from Martin, back to his side of the couch."You didn't like it."
Martin was silent.
Arthur closed off in his posture, hunching his back and folding his hands on his knees. "Right then. Sorry to have bothered you, Skip. I'll go home. Mum'll be- she'll wondering where I am."
"N-no, Arthur." Martin sighed.
Arthur looked up, hope spreading obvious across his features. "What?"
Martin turned to face his coworker- well, his friend- again. This had to be resolved, even if it just made every part of his body hurt. "Arthur, what is it exactly you want from me?"
Arthur was blushing again. "You know… Like, dating 'n things."
"Things? Things like?" Martin prompted.
"Like, I dunno, kissing… sorry! Sorry! I know you don't like it." Arthur raised his hands in defense of some imagined threat. Martin sighed for the nth time.
"It's fine, Arthur. Talking about it, I mean. It's just…" The fact that Arthur was this tongue-tied over a kiss on the cheek combined with the steward's childlike demeanor was giving Martin a terrible suspicion. "You… you do know about, er, sex, don't you?" He felt dirty just asking it. His vision was getting slightly blurry now.
Arthur giggled. "Of course I do! I'm not a child, you know!"
"Could have fooled me," Martin muttered.
"What was that, Skip?"
"Nothing." Martin wasn't sure how to handle this. He instinctively wanted Douglas' advice, but had enough sense to know that, for this situation, his advice would probably be worthless. "I just meant, I meant- do you want to sleep with me or not?" He blurted his inquiry, making Arthur jump slightly. The steward looked like a deer in the headlights, if the deer was a twenty nine year old man-child and the headlights were the possibility of sexual maturity.
"I- I- I wasn't even thinking about that! Can't we decide later!" Arthur's eyes were huge with panic.
"No, no! I wasn't asking- No!" Martin shook his head fervently, blinking as a wave of dizziness hit him. "No, I just meant- Ohhh, it's not important anyway." He closed his eyes as his three-year headache began to close in on him, as it did nightly.
Arthur looked sympathetically down into Martin's haggard face, realizing that they wouldn't be able to finish this conversation that night. "You look tired, Skip. Where's your bed?"
Martin shrugged, gesturing at the rickety four poster with the ratty blue hospital sheets in the corner of the room with one hand and rubbing his temples and wincing with the other.
"Right!" Arthur stood and pulled Martin to his feet by wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him upwards. His greater girth meant that he could move Martin around like some sort of action figure. Martin let out a strangled noise, struggled for a moment, then went limp and held onto Arthur's shoulders, letting Arthur carry him the short distance to his bed with his feet dragging on the floor slightly. Upon reaching their destination, Arthur tossed the pilot onto the bed, which creaked and shook under the sudden addition of weight. Martin was briefly breathless, then he coughed and curled up slightly on the rumpled bottom sheet, not bothering to pull up his duvet.
The roof of Martin's building sloped down into Martin's "rooms" right over his bed, meaning that, as Arthur put it, were you to lie down in it, one could probably draw on the ceiling, like Micky Angela.
"Micky who? You mean… Michelangelo?" Martin rolled onto his back and glanced quizzically at the steward.
"I don't think so, Skip." Arthur leaned over to pull Martin's duvet over his legs and bumped his head on the low ceiling. "Ow!"
"You all right?" Martin was aware that that was a painful bump, but Arthur seemed to recover quickly, nodding to convey his healthy status.
Arthur sat on the bed next to Martin's legs, causing more creaky metal noises to come from Martin's ancient furniture. Martin shifted slightly so Arthur wouldn't fall off the bed. "Alright, Skip! Bed time!" He grinned, mouth still grimy from his date meal. Martin thought it was both endearing and disgusting. "Do you want me to read you a story or sing you a bed time song? Mum used to read me stories, but she hasn't recently… in the past few years… since I was five."
Martin considered laughing. He wasn't sure if Arthur was being his enthusiastically stupid, candid self or perhaps… joking? Did Arthur know how to joke?
"No, Arthur, I don't want a bed time- I'm not five." He tried to stay acerbic, but he was just so tired, so it came out petulant instead.
Arthur snorted. "I know you're not five! It would be weird if you were five! You couldn't fly the plane if you were five, and you wouldn't be a captain if you were five, and I definitely wouldn't fancy you if you were five!"
Martin went red, suddenly reminded of their awkward situation. "Can you… can you not mention the whole… fancying me thing at work, Arthur? I guess… I don't really mind that you feel that way, but I don't want Douglas to tease me…" He was getting sleepier and sleepier, and the last thing he saw before letting his eyes close for the night was the blurry outline of scruffy brown hair and a red torso, and the last thing he smelled was the scent of sugar and wheat, and the last thing he heard was a quiet, heartfelt "Goodnight, Skip. Love you."
This should have bothered him, but his body knew what it needed and by the time his brain had processed all of this he had dropped straight into a deprived REM sleep and he forgot all about it.