Disclaimer: 'Cabin Pressure' sadly does not belong to me – all characters were created, and rightly belong to, the amazing John Finnemore.

Rating: T

Pairing: Douglas/Carolyn

Spoilers: Vague spoiler for 'Johannesburg' but I'm sure you've all heard it by now anyway! It's just me who's late to the party ;)

A/N: Hello! I am pretty much a newbie to this fandot but am absolutely in love with it…and, despite me trying not to (in fact, trying not to 'ship anyone!), I am also in love with the idea of Douglas and Carolyn. I know this is a bit of a rare!pair but once my little 'shipper brain went there, I just couldn't stop it ;-) I do also love Herc/Carolyn though so please don't hate me!

Massive apologies if the characterisations here are a bit off – this is my first attempt to write for this fandom so I'm kinda trying to find my feet. I might also blame any dodgy characterisations on me projecting my Roger Allam fantasies onto poor unsuspecting Carolyn ;-) This ficlet is set during 'Johannesburg', where Carolyn pulls up a deckchair to watch Douglas cleaning Señor Quintanilla's BMW…and it's basically her…erm… thoughts ;-)

It was, Carolyn Knapp-Shappey mused as she shifted back against the harsh canvas of her deckchair, an utterly ridiculous indulgence. The most ridiculous, ludicrous, delicious indulgence she had ever allowed herself to entertain since deciding categorically to stop fighting it. Examining it too closely, as she had done initially, had given her a headache of epic proportions, and eventually she had forced herself to stop over-thinking and simply accept it for what it was: a harmless, pointless, good old-fashioned fantasy. It was completely unreciprocated, of that she was certain, but somehow that was strangely liberating, allowing her the luxury of some truly licentious thoughts without any fear of consequence or expectation. She had managed over the years to ruthlessly compartmentalise, to function as his boss whilst keeping an iron lid on her desire but occasionally she permitted herself to relax her restraint, to rake her eyes across him and feel the electricity crackle hotly through her blood in response. It should have been agonising, the knowledge of his utter obliviousness to her attention, but instead she had trained herself to find it oddly life-affirming; a one-sided study in the unfathomable nature of human attraction, of lustful fantasy, of curious desire.

He was glorious, her errant and contrary miscreant of a First Officer; resplendently and indifferently glorious. She watched him as he stretched to reach the top of the four-by-four he was cleaning, trickles of soapy water running in rivulets atop the strong lines of his wrist and tracking the length of his arm, his skin glistening beneath the relentless intensity of the Spanish midday sun. His greying hair was matted against the nape of his neck, his expansive shoulders slick with perspiration, and she bit hard against the inside of her cheek as she imagined the taste of him, pictured exploring the saline, masculine tang as his body battled for equilibrium against the elements.

She had only once before witnessed him so unencumbered by his uniform, and at the time she had been so focussed on exerting her authority that the spectacle had been entirely lost. Now she lazily savoured the breadth of him, absorbing the imposing planes of his torso still partially, teasingly hidden beneath his vest, the gentle curve of his belly, the solid bulk of his thighs encased beneath the confines of his trousers. He was, Carolyn pondered with a small smile, inarguably a man built for the arrogant authority that was his trademark; tall and generously proportioned, she found the bulk of him inordinately reassuring and she was well aware that most people he came into contact with felt the same. It was the reason he was so often mistaken for the Captain in their little single-jet enterprise, the commanding nature that ebbed from every pore of his body and which saturated every nuance of his complementary baritone voice.

Christ, that damned voice. She had in the past tried to pretend that it was merely a useful attribute for adding gravitas to her flight-deck, but in truth his gravelled velvet tone was capable of doing unspeakably dangerous things to her blood pressure. Even now, as that same voice cursed thoroughly and imaginatively in consternation, she still found herself enraptured, the rise and fall of his strains causing a pleasant quickening of her pulse combined with a deep sense of wicked glee that he was becoming so utterly annoyed.

Presently, she raised a hand to cheerfully wave in his direction, the subject of her reverie scowling darkly in response, and she gave a low chuckle as he rolled his eyes dramatically before returning to his task. He was truly gorgeous in aggravation, sadistically captivating in distemper, and she felt her grin widen as she settled back to observe him anew, each of her nerve-endings tingling warmly as she drank him in with a thirsty greed.

"Carolyn?"

She blinked slowly awake as she became aware of the sound of her name, rising through the blissful fog of her unconsciousness, the last pleasant vestiges of her vividly inappropriate dream fading regretfully into mist. He was staring down at her and frowning, and she raised a palm against the glare of the sun as she squinted up towards him.

"Ah, Douglas," she managed eventually, shifting to sit further upright and forcing the words through her parched vocal chords. "All finished?"

He gave an irritated grunt, deliberately ignoring her. "If you get sunburn or heatstroke it'll be your own damned fault, you know."

She smiled with a devastating sweetness. "Oh, poor mollycoddled pilot. Too much like hard work, was it, washing the nice man's BMW?"

"Nice man?!"

"He's a very nice man. As I recall he offered you the car-washing thing as a favour."

Douglas Richardson inclined his head and smirked. "Indeed he did. A twenty Euro favour. A twenty Euro favour that's going to cost you two thousand pounds."

Carolyn gestured dismissively. "Never in a million years."

"Well, not in a million years, certainly. More like," he made a deliberate show of checking his wristwatch, "in about an hour and a half, when Martin returns victorious and we're sky-born."

"Ever the optimist, Douglas; much good may it do you." She held out a hand towards him impatiently. "Well, come on, then. I think it's only fair that I do an impartial check of your handiwork for Señor Quintanilla."

He blew out a disdainful breath but took her hand regardless, encasing it between his strong palms and pulling her gently to her feet, leading her towards the car before releasing her anew. "Eh voila," he announced sardonically, watching her as she closely surveyed the results of his toil. "Does it meet with madam's approval?"

She blinked, his question momentarily re-igniting the edgy spark in her gut as she allowed herself a furtive glance at his body before forcing her gaze back towards the four-by-four. Oh, good Lord, yes. Most definitely. Aloud she settled for a broadly non-committal, "It'll do."

"High praise, indeed. I suppose you'd rather I'd have got down on my hands and knees and applied a bit of the old spit-and-polish?"

She smiled at that, unable to stop herself as the images exploded behind her eyes. "It's your twenty Euros, Douglas, not mine."

"It most certainly is. A little amuse-bouche before the one thousand pound main course."

"Dream on, funny pilot." She stepped away from him to walk around the rest of the car, observing the droplets of water gleaming brightly from the bodywork, and she gave a conciliatory shrug. "Well, luckily for you, you're a much better car washer than you are negotiator."

Douglas raised a scornful eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Given that you ended up doing said car washing instead of managing to weasel your way out of it."

"I wasn't trying to weasel my way out of it."

"Ah, but neither did you manage to think of anything else to do for your paltry twenty Euros, did you? No clever little scheme to wangle the money without actually having to lift a finger?"

"Theft, Carolyn?" His tone was laced with mocking amusement, dark eyes shining mischievously as he held her gaze. "I'm hurt at the very suggestion."

"Your track record would beg to differ, Fingers."

He gave a throaty chuckle, the sound reverberating about the breadth of his chest. "And how exactly do you imagine I might have achieved that particular feat?"

"You mean aside from brazen pick-pocketing?"

He pulled a face. "Please."

She shrugged. "I don't know. You're supposed to be the master schemer extraordinaire, Douglas."

"That I am."

"And yet, here you are: Chief car-washer of a tiny Spanish airfield." Carolyn tutted and shook her head in feigned disappointment. "How the mighty have fallen."

He grinned and approached her anew, completely unperturbed. "A thousand pounds, Carolyn. There's not much I wouldn't entertain for those sorts of sums."

She looked up at him fearlessly, the significant difference in their heights amplified by his sudden proximity, ignoring the flaring in her chest as she caught the warm spice of his cologne. "Especially when it's my thousand pounds, I'm assuming?"

He shrugged casually, his rakish smile widening. "Merely a fortuitous bonus, I assure you."

"Yes, well; smug posturing aside, the chances of you actually accruing my money…."

"Odds-on even, I'd say…."

"…are about as likely as me offering to mop your brow."

Douglas laughed loudly. "Then I suggest you find a suitable weave. I'm rather partial to silk, as it happens."

"Of course you are." She rolled her eyes acerbically. "Juvenile delinquent."

"One out of two ain't bad. Besides," he added teasingly, "it wasn't my mind that went…."

"Shut up." She scowled at him for a protracted moment, letting him feel the full force of her irritation. "Just to be clear: you will never see that money, Douglas…."

"And the brow-mopping?"

"Never on the cards."

He inclined his head pensively and held her gaze unyieldingly. "Shame."

She was stunned into silence for several seconds as their eyes locked together, acute tension arcing painfully between them, before she forced herself to laugh, her tone deliberately scornful. "Oh, stop with the silver-tongued smooth talk. I think you'll find I'm immune."

"Are you, though?" Douglas' polished recovery was characteristically effortless. "Is anyone?"

"I don't know; why don't you try it on Señor Quintanilla and see what happens, hm?"

"I could…."

"Well, don't let me stop you."

"…though he's not really my type."

Carolyn shook her head long-sufferingly and began to turn away from him, suddenly needing to put some distance between them, confusion at his insinuation causing an irritating tightening across her shoulders. "Do what you will. I'm heading back to the hangar."

"Fine. I won't be long."

"You take as much time as you need. We wouldn't want to throw Señor Quintanilla's generosity back in his face by not finishing the job properly now, would we?"

"Of course not," he replied evenly, amusement flickering across his eyes. "Final spit-and-polish it is."

"Good boy. I'll see you later."

She began to stride away from him then, feeling the intensity of his gaze boring into her back with the same ferocity as the burning overhead sun, and she took a deep breath, the dry heat scorching her throat and lungs as she readily reasserted her composure.

"Carolyn?"

She turned back towards him as he intoned her name anew, raising a quizzical eyebrow as she watched him lean his weight against the car and fold his arms across his chest, his expression unusually impassive. "Yes?"

"Just to throw it out there…."

"Douglas," she warned abruptly, fixing him with a trademark glare through suspiciously narrowed eyes. "if this is some sort of ridiculous…."

The First Officer barely missed a beat. "The next time you want to see me without a shirt on…."

"For goodness sake!"

"…all you've got to do is ask."

She was momentarily floored by his statement, its implications causing embarrassment to writhe uncomfortably in her gut and she snatched a quick breath, the previous thirty minutes replaying brutally behind her eyes. He knew. He damn well saw straight through me, the arrogant bastard….and now he's saying, what exactly? Something he'll later blame on the heat of the sun and use against me? She gave a brief shake of her head to clear her thoughts, firmly dampening down any instinct to respond in the affirmative and allowing her more rational judgement to supersede it. It has to stay a fantasy, she told herself forcefully. Simply castles in the sky and nothing more. She cleared her throat momentarily and pasted on a disdainful smile, thoroughly determined to regain the highly-prized upper hand.

"Oh, good," she drawled with mock enthusiasm. "And am I to assume that I could extend such a generous invitation to the rest of MJN Air?"

Douglas blinked, any reaction to her scathing retort disappearing into the dark depths of his eyes, and he shrugged in apparent nonchalance, his ample shoulders rising and falling. "Again, I think you'll find it comes down to type; something I am most definitely not when it comes to Martin and Arthur."

Carolyn barked a sharp laugh. "Really? I thought there was no limit to your arrogance, First Officer Sky God?"

"Well, you've got a point there," he intoned thoughtfully, a sly grin forming slowly across his features. "Maybe I am their…?"

"Oh, rubbish. They could each do far better, if they were that way inclined…"

"You wound me, Carolyn, you really do."

"…but type or not I might well be able to make money selling them tickets to the spectacle. I'm sure they'd both pay handsomely for the opportunity of a good laugh at your expense."

He rolled his eyes. "Cruelty, it doth become you."

"Oh, get over yourself, Douglas. Perhaps next time engage your brain before making such a preposterous suggestion."

"Or lifting the lid on any cans of worms?"

She held his eye unwaveringly, feeling the frisson of heat simmer between them anew at his loaded question, and she inclined her head slightly in concession. "Indeed."

"Noted."

She permitted herself to smile at him then before turning and walking crisply away, embracing the shame she felt at the pounding of her heart against her ribcage and then allowing it to mellow into a dull ache. The pinching pain between her eyes had intensified into a razor-sharp heat, and she blinked rapidly, willing away the tension across her shoulder blades as she strode purposefully away from the subject of her discomfiting consternation.

Well, she mused eventually as her thoughts began to order themselves back towards equilibrium, the cool balm of the aeroplane hangar a welcome tonic against both the ravaging exterior heat and her interior storm. That was…interesting. He as good as offered….She stopped herself determinedly mid-thought, her jaw tensing tightly as she battled the reflection to the ground with the sheer force of her notorious iron will. No, she reiterated firmly, silently. No, old girl. You are utterly past the point of making colossal mistakes with egocentric swines like Douglas Richardson. She allowed herself a flicker of a smile as a further pondering snaked into her consciousness. Handsome though they may be, and especially whilst shirtless.

The notion was warmly amusing and she felt herself soften as she turned to watch him anew, his broad form almost silhouetted against the brilliant sun. Castles in the sky, she pondered carefully once more, sighing gently as he began to wind his way towards her. And in the sky for everyone's sake they should bloody well stay.

FIN