So, this is my first Cabin Pressure fic, since I normally write for the ACD Sherlock Holmes fandom. But, I really love Cabin Pressure (I mean, who couldn't?), and, after seeing how sparsely populated the list of fic was on this site, I decided to write one of my own.
Including a doodling Martin, a procrastinating Douglas, and an overabundance of parentheses. And a very sentimental ending, or, at least, very sentimental coming from Douglas.
Not beta'd, and as Brit-picked as I could possibly make it.
Martin had, surprisingly enough, managed to trick (trick?) Douglas (Douglas?) into doing some paperwork.
Paperwork was, not astonishingly, a bore. Douglas leaned back in his chair and sighed. He wasn't bad at paperwork (after all, he wasn't just a Sky God), he just hated to do it. He decided to get back at Martin for making him do it, by not filling the forms out in the first place.
Douglas started to procrastinate. He looked around the portacabin in boredom, his gaze finally landing on Martin, who was filling out one of those tedious forms. Then Douglas frowned, and leaned a bit closer.
Martin wasn't actually doing paperwork, he was doodling on a separate sheet of paper! The impulsive urge to call Martin out was quickly quelled by his curiosity. What was Martin drawing anyway?
Leaning as far as he could while still having the excuse of having dropped something on the ground (never mind that if he actually dropped something, it would be directly beneath him instead all the way there), Douglas strained to see the doodle. Mentally, he berated himself for being so curious. Carolyn would definitely be annoyed if she walked in to see Douglas in such a strange position.
Well, he had wormed out of worse situations before, so he could manage to stop an annoyed Carolyn Knapp-Shappey.
Finally, as Martin shifted the elbow covering his paper, Douglas managed to catch a glimpse of the drawing.
It was an aeorplane.
Suddenly, a wave of memories washed over Douglas.
Memories related to a drawing almost exactly like the one Martin held.
Douglas had been in his early twenties, at the park with Sarah, who would soon become his first wife.
He had been strolling around, chatting animatedly with Sarah, his voice as smooth and persuasive as it was now. Suddenly, a little boy who couldn't have been more than six ran up to him, shoving a paper into his hand. "Look, Daddy! I drew an aeroplane!" he exclaimed proudly,
Douglas stared down at the boy. He was not very tall, even for a six-year-old, and had a shock of red hair.
The boy finally got a good look at Douglas's face, and nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to get back. "You're- you're not my dad..." he stammered.
Douglas shook his head and laughed, which, in hindsight, may not have been the best thing to do. After all,. the boy was clearly intimidated by him already, and Douglas probably looked like he was laughing at him. "I'm definitely not your father."
The scrawny little boy's eyes widened a bit fearfully. "Sorry, mister!" He turned and ran.
"Wait!" exclaimed Sarah and Douglas together. "Take your drawing!" Douglas added.
The boy didn't turn back.
Looking at the paper, Douglas had to admit that the boy was rather good at drawing.
Drawing aeroplanes, of course. The rest of the drawing was how one would expect from a six-year-old. The usual spiky grass and squiggly clouds, and, of course, a little yellow sun in the corner.
Douglas snapped out of his reverie. The boy had looked rather a bit like Martin. Everything was there: the red hair, the freckles, the slightly jumpy nervousness, and, (here Douglas smirked) the height, or rather, the lack of it.
Even Martin's little doodle looked the same, with the perfectly drawn aeroplane, and the childish technique of drawing everything else. And if there was ever a person who could have drawn an amazing aeroplane at the age of six (and fail at drawing everything else), it was sure to be Martin Crieff.
Now, if only he still had that drawing so he could compare it to the one that Martin was making now. Douglas remembered that he had originally kept the drawing, out of a ridiculous sentimental streak, just in case he ever met that kid again, so he could return it. The drawing had been kept for years, and had seen Douglas's first divorce (with Sarah), his second divorce, and his being chucked out of Air England for smuggling. After that, when he had only managed to find a job with a "stupid little charter airline", he had lost the paper. Douglas didn't know whether really lost it or unconsciously thrown it away after losing all hope.
He sighed quietly and decided to stop nosing around. He glanced over at Martin's table and suddenly realized how neat it was. Martin seemed to have almost everything filed away and in a specific place on his desk. Douglas wouldn't be surprised if that single haphazard pile of papers on Martin's desk had some sort of order to it as well.
Douglas then looked over at his desk. Though he rarely ever used it (he normally could worm his way out of doing paperwork), it was an absolute mess compared to Martin's. Douglas decided to clean up his desk. That way, he could say he had been working. Just not on paperwork.
He shuffled some papers, put some in a stack to be thrown away, and sorted through the others.
An old photocopy of a flight plan (throw), a birthday card from his daughter (keep), a note from Carolyn to "CLEAN THIS MESS" (throw), a... note from Arthur? Douglas peered closer at the paper and realized that the note had been written after their eventful trip to Molokai.
"Dear Douglas,"
"Well, actually, Douglas and Skip, but I found this paper on your desk, Douglas, so I thought I'd use it."
"This Christmas was BRILLIANT, chaps! Thanks a lot! The Christmas tree-" those words was scratched out- "The Christmas umbrella was brilliant too! And that raisin-y Christmas pudding! Actually, everything was as brilliant as possible. Which was very brilliant!"
"Anyway, this Christmas was the best of this year! I can't wait for the next!"
"-Arthur"
Douglas nearly laughed at the ridiculously Arthurian letter, and turned the paper over.
And froze.
It was the drawing.
Douglas suddenly remembered having tossed it onto his desk in a fit of frustration, after his first day at MJN. He had been extremely annoyed at having been stuck with a hyperactive man-child and a sharky old lady. Not that he would ever tell Carolyn that she was old, of course.
He swiveled around in his chair. "Martin."
The man in question started and dropped his pen. "What?" he asked irritably.
As smoothly as possible, Douglas spoke. "Martin, could you ever, oh, I don't know, mistake me for your father?"
Martin turned to look at him in disbelief. "What?"
"Merely a question set by my oh-so-inquisitive mind."
Martin stared at him. "Well, I don't- I don't think- well... What colour hair did you have?"
"Have?"
"Yes, before it became all gray-" Martin suddenly quailed under Douglas's expression.
"My hair, sir, is not gray."
"Fine, then! Before it turned a- um- colour that is very light but not white!"
Douglas fixed the shorter captain with a look. "Brown, bordering on orange."
Martin peered at his face. "I guess you could have looked like my dad when I was a kid."
Ah. That settled it. "Really?" asked Douglas, trying not to give anything away with his voice.
"Yes, he was a rather tall person."
"Well, there's no question as to who in your family that gene skipped."
"Douglas!" exclaimed Martin petulantly. Then he paused. "What brought this on?" he asked curiously.
"I believe you may want this back." Douglas handed the drawing to Martin with a flourish.
Martin's eyebrows contracted in puzzlement, then disbelief. "This- no- It can't be!" His eyes flitted from Douglas, to the paper, to Douglas again.
Douglas smiled smugly as the stuttering captain's face turned red. Finally, Martin burst out, "It was you that day!"
"Stunning conclusion, Martin."
"But- but- what made you keep it all this time? You didn't even know who I was, how could you try returning it?"
Douglas leaned back in his chair. "I haven't the faintest clue."
He was lying, of course. He knew what it was, though he didn't understand it at all.
It was a strange little thing called hope.