"As the winter winds litter London with lonely hearts,
Oh the warmth in your eyes swept me into your arms.
Was it love or fear of the cold that lead us through the night?
For every kiss your beauty trumped my doubt."
-"Winter Winds", Mumford & Sons
Martin Crieff flung himself onto the bar stool, folded his awkward legs awkwardly, and ordered an apple juice.
The bartender gave him an odd look, but complied nevertheless because after all, a customer is a customer.
Martin sighed to himself as he sipped the juice that was slightly too bitter. Bars were not frequented by him, but today was quite the exception.
It was his birthday. And not even Arthur Shappey had remembered it.
In fact, it seemed as if the rest of the cabin crew went out of their way to be especially rude to him. Of course, he's used to the sly jokes from Douglas insulting his piloting skills, or lack thereof. He's accustomed to Carolyn calling him an idiot at least three times per flight. He was okay with that because he knew it was true.
However, he was most assuredly not okay with Carolyn shouting at him because Douglas had used the intercom to successfully insult every person on the aircraft in one go while he had been off to the toilet. He was not okay with Douglas letting him take the blame for all of it. He was not okay with Arthur borrowing his pilot's hat, decorating it with ketchup, and wrapping it in a greasy newspaper as a last-minute birthday present.
Martin had never expected much from his birthdays to begin with, as he actually detested the day itself, but, really. This was too much.
And so, as soon as the flight into London landed, he made his way to the nearest bar to drown his sorrows in a glass of apple juice, a technique Douglas had taught him.
He chuckled miserably to himself. Why was he even still alive? What was left of his "family" hadn't spoken to him in six years. He lived in a bloody attic, moved furniture to make money, and flew a charter plane in his spare time. He had no girlfriend, no pets, no real friends, and no money. He had nothing, except an ugly van, a piloting license, and a particularly useless knowledge of airplanes.
Wouldn't it just be better if he were gone? He wouldn't be a burden anymore, for one thing. Douglas would surely get a kick out it and would probably laugh at the funeral. In fact, there wouldn't even be a funeral. Who would pay for it, anyway? Maybe the government would construct a small headstone for him. They'd most likely spell his name wrong as well.
Here lies Martian Crienf
The only pilot who took seven tries to get his license
May he rest in peace
Yes, he could see it now.
He knocked back another swallow of his apple juice.
Though spelling his name as "Martian" wouldn't be too off. He certainly looked like an alien, what with his oddly shaped head and ginger curls and his freakishly long limbs. It was no wonder he had never had a significant other. All the women were far more attracted to his brother, who held no interest in such petty things as love.
It was quite unfortunate, really. It only gave him another reason to not want to live anymore: he was the family failure, a complete and utter waste of oxygen.
Outside of the bar, a chorus of raindrops pitter-pattered against the pavement and a cold, January wind blew. From where he was seated, Martin could hear it through the thin walls. A loud boom of thunder accompanied the rain, shaking the building a bit.
The lights flickered and went out, plunging them all into blackness.
"Great," Martin muttered to himself. "Excellent. Really, really excellent."
He set his empty glass down on the counter and stood abruptly, planning to head back to his cheap hotel as paid for by Carolyn, and possibly celebrate his birthday alone, watching whatever DVD he could scrounge up.
But as he headed to the exit, his body met another, and with a crashing sound, some sort of liquid seeped into his socks.
The lights flipped back on, thankfully. Angry now, Martin stooped down and gathered some shards of the broken glass.
"Oh, God," a female voice said anxiously. "I'm so sorry. I- I didn't mean to-"
Martin straightened up, hands full of glass. "It's fi-" He stopped short when he saw her face.
This woman was the single most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life. And of course, being the awkward idiot he was, he'd made a fool out of himself yet again by spilling her drink and nearly running her over.
"Um," he said, speechless. His face grew hot. Great, that was exactly what he needed, blushing wildly.
"Erm, hello," she said back, sounding nearly as uncomfortable as he did. "I'm, uh, Molly."
Martin snapped back to his senses. "Hi, Molly," he finally said, face still flushed. "My name's Martin."
She smiled awkwardly. "I'm sorry about spilling on your shoes, I really am-"
"No, it's my fault! Let-let me buy you another drink." What was his name again? Who was he? Where was he? What was flirting? What was breathing? What? What?
He tried to pull back the dating advice Douglas had given to him, but it just would not surface.
"You really don't have to do that," Molly said quickly.
"No, please, I simply must. Erm, what would you like?" Martin turned to find the bartender.
"Well," she said, "it sounds a bit ridiculous, but I don't really drink. That was actually apple juice." Her lovely face contorted into a grimace, as if embarrassed by that statement.
Martin made a noise in the back of his throat that was a mixture of a shrill giggle and a low chuckle. Quickly, he tried to cover it up by pretending to cough in his hand.
"Funny, because that's also what I was having," he said with a shy smile. "I've been trying to reduce my alcohol intake, to be honest."
She bit her lower lip in a half smile. Martin tried to keep his jaw from dropping at how incredibly cute that action was.
He cleared his throat again. "Er, so, Molly, what is it that you do?" he asked, trying to make small talk.
"I..." Her voice trailed off for a moment. "I work at St. Bart's Hospital."
"Yeah?" he prompted. "What do you do there?"
"Oh, you know, I'm a nurse," she said in a slightly higher pitch, shrugging her shoulders.
Martin raised his eyebrows. "Really? That's fascinating!" God, he sounded like such a moron. He was an embarrassment to pilots everywhere.
"And yourself?" she asked, quickly changing the subject. Molly leaned closer to him, and it was all Martin could do not to run away screaming. He was bloody terrified; never had a female seemed actually interested in him.
"I'm- I'm a pilot?" he managed to stutter out, though it sounded more like a question than a statement.
"That's wonderful," she said with a sincere smile. "What airline do you work for?"
"Erm, a large one," he lied. Martin had a feeling that if she knew he actually worked for a one-plane charter company, she'd be completely turned off.
Her phone began to ring shrilly from her handbag with some ring-tone from the nineties. She blushed and pulled it out, glancing at the lit-up screen.
"Sorry," she apologized. "I really need to take this. Do you mind?"
Martin nodded eagerly. She flipped open the mobile phone and held it to her ear. Secretly, he was glad for the distraction. It helped him prepare what he would say next: 'Molly, I am absolutely smitten with you. Would you do me the honor and accompany me on a date sometime in the near future?'
Well, it sounded good in his head.
From beside him, Molly sighed, flustered, still speaking into her phone. "Now, John? Can't he wait an hour or two?"
There was an indecipherable response from the other end of the line.
Molly's eyes widened at whatever it was, and a faint blush trickled onto her cheeks. "Did he really say that? Alright, John, I'll be over soon. God, he's so difficult sometimes."
She flipped the phone shut and replaced it in her purse.
"I'm sorry about that," she addressed Martin. "But I have to go into work. A 'co-worker' needs me." She sighed sadly.
"Oh! Oh, yes, yes, okay." He stood up and nearly turned over a chair in the process.
"It was lovely meeting you, Martin." She did that adorable lip-biting half-smile thing again, and he automatically forgot his next words.
As she started to walk away, Martin finally recalled what he needed to say. "Wait, Molly!" he called out.
She stopped and turned back to him, surprised.
'Okay,' he coached himself in his head. 'Just as we rehearsed.'
"Molly, willyougoonadatewifme?" he sputtered out.
"Sorry? I didn't catch that."
Martin attempted to regain his composure and tried again. "Molly," he started slowly. "Would- would you like to go on a d-date with me?"
It was better than the first time, he supposed. It wasn't exactly as he'd planned, but close enough. At least he'd managed to get the words out and not choke to death in the process.
Molly's face broke into a full smile.
"I'd love to, Martin," she said earnestly, extracting a pen from her bag and reaching across the table for a stray scrap of paper. Quickly, she scrawled some numbers on it and passed it to him.
"Here's my number. Give me call so we can schedule a time that would work for both of us. Well, I'm free most of the time, anyways, unless I have my job, but you're a pilot, so I guess it's a bit different for you... Sorry, I'm rambling. Just give me a call sometime," she finished awkwardly.
Martin didn't care. This was his first real date in countless years, and he was determined not to screw this one up.
First, though, he hoped she'd actually given him a real number and not a rejection hotline. God knew he had received enough of those to last a lifetime.
Though it was the dead of winter and a cold wind still blew outside, he couldn't suppress the warmth in his heart and the ray of hope that maybe, his luck was finally about to change.
Author's Note: I just have a lot of Martin Crieff feels, okay? He and Molly are just so perfect for each other. This may or may not be continued, debating on the response to it.
Sorry, but I had to write this out. The title is inspired by the song "Winter Winds" by Mumford & Sons. In fact, the entire story is based off that one song.
I hope you liked it! Please review!
-SketchbookPianist