Disclaimer: From here on out I own nothing that you recognise, in fact, I don't even own Deborah, not really, she's Finnemore's at heart.
All things considered, waking up to a sparse and chilly hotel room wasn't too much of an inconvenience. In fact, the lack of heat was enough to urge Deborah out of her cocoon of grotty blankets and into her far warmer (if only because it was cheap and clung to her curves) uniform.
Chances were, she might actually vacate her room in enough time to join the lads for breakfast before they left to sort things out at the airport.
Wouldn't Martin be pleased. So pleased that he would inevitably find some way to take the credit. Captainly skills had never left the least of an impression on her before, there was no chance that Martin's, of all people's, would alter her behaviour to such a degree.
God, he was a pretentious sod, Deborah thought to herself as she shrugged her polyester jacket onto her shoulders and swiped her travel-bag from the bed. It did make her wonder why he was even still with MJN. Anyone with Martin's disposition should have been long gone within his first week; but no, Captain Crieff had lasted nine long months.
As she retrieved her phone from the bedside table, Deborah glanced down at the slip of glass and plastic in her palm and paused briefly, coming to a steady halt in the centre of the hotel room.
Perhaps she should call Harry and find out whether he was going to be at home when she returned later in the evening, say good morning and wish him a good day. After a moment's thought, Deborah decided that it wasn't necessary; he didn't require his wife to pay him a shred of attention in the morning, settling when she was actually in the house for slight physical affection when he was in the mood.
Later in the day they would chat and discuss their days, sharing dinner (when they weren't in at different times), and perhaps, if they felt so inclined, they would cuddle, or move to the bedroom. Not often, and the passionate clothes ripping that had taken place to begin with had devolved, but it was nice to have someone there should certain needs arose.
Deborah ignored the imperceptible fizzle of something between the back of her throat and her chest, wrinkling her nose at what was eerily similar to sadness, before discarding it. She didn't particularly miss Harry on a day to day basis, jetting about the world, but it would be disappointing if he wasn't at home when she returned. That was love after all.
As she strode through the dank halls towards the bottom of the hotel, avoiding the corners from which oddly furtive odours wafted seemingly from nowhere, Deborah's mind wandered once again to the infuriating puzzle that was Martin Crieff, as if riddling him out might make his bite easier to swallow.
She supposed that the man's continued presence in her flight-deck was somewhat her own fault.
She had been the first pilot at MJN, a godsend in Carolyn's eyes until she had realised just what she had let herself in for; that light had never left Arthur's eyes, something that only spurred her ego. That privilege had left Deborah with a certain feeling of entitlement over the company, and by extension, who she was forced to associate with.
The first Captain that Carolyn had hired had been dull; thirty years too old for relevant conversation, far too deaf to hear ATC, let alone a word game, and much too interested in the logistics of Thatcherism. So Deborah had tackled this with visceral political views, and the man had thrown in the towel, taking an early retirement from the whole profession.
The second had been around Deborah's age, and charming in the sense that he wasn't charming at all, but made an effort to appear so; he had lasted about as long as it had taken him to run his hand up his First Officer's thigh. Even now, Deborah didn't know who was angrier about that, her or Arthur, who had caught the tail end of the offended slap from the corner of his eye.
The third had attended one flight, received one day's wages, and never returned. If she was honest with herself, Deborah was actually intrigued by that particular turn of events; he had let her take control for the entire flight, and simply requested that she do the 'checks' as well.
So after much negotiating, Carolyn had promised that Deborah could be Captain; this would mean that she had more control over what went on in the flight-deck, and could eject any unsavoury characters without having to resort to subliminal manipulations.
And then Martin had arrived. There had only been one day's warning, in which Deborah was told that Carolyn had hired a Captain, and not to 'take it too hard'. That had been fine; Deborah could accept the lack of promotion, it wasn't important, not really, not when she knew she would be better than whoever had been hired.
True, she may have told Harry (very excitedly) that she was now Captain, but there was no need to tell him otherwise now; it would only create embarrassment…and besides, it was the first piece of information that he had shown a real interest in lately.
But Martin…Deborah could say with the utmost certainty that he was the most pedantic, pernicious, stuck-up, pretentious, self-absorbed, irritating man she had ever met.
He didn't cut the most imposing figure; just taller than her, a few years younger, pale, freckled, ginger, and slim, diminished as she was by his uniform, with an expression like he was balancing a lemon on the tip of his nose. That was fine, she could appreciate that she didn't have to endure the face of someone twisted and stinking of cigarettes, or mouldy with their hatred of personal hygiene.
Martin had even been pleasant, smiling and introducing himself nervously, with an underlying self-importance, shaking her hand with his own sweaty one, his cheeks flushing as he stumbled over his surprise that she was a woman, and then his frantic attempt to assure her that he was in no way sexist, he was just surprised. That was fine, Deborah was patient enough to allow him to finish his sentences and realise that he really was that bad at other human beings.
Then he had ruined it all the moment that he was left in charge. Martin wasn't just rule conscious, he was pedantic to the point of dictatorship – fine, she could deal with that. He wasn't just self-important; he genuinely believed that as Captain he was at the right hand of god – fine, she had dealt with men like that before.
But what really pissed her off, what really made Deborah's hackles raise and made her tear into him with all the force that she possessed, was the way he treated her. Being Captain apparently meant that he could order her around and ignore her far better advice. If she deviated from CAA approved behaviour by even the smallest margin, he would criticise her – and not just on her behaviour. He would criticise her using anything he had learnt about her, make it personal, make it an attack on her personality, her upbringing, her previous career status – anything to make himself feel superior.
Deborah had no doubts about the fact that Martin despised her. She didn't despise him, but she knew that she absolutely should.
The problem was…they did get along. When things were going right, when GERTI was functioning and their flight was going to plan, they could get along perfectly well. If she was honest with herself, Deborah would have said that they clicked.
Because she had an inkling, a tiny suspicion that a lot of what she hated about Martin existed purely because he thought that a Captain should be that way, and that he should elevate himself to that level by pushing her down.
Sometimes, he would abandon proper procedure for the sake of something slightly better; it was rare, but she had seen his internal monitor go 'what the hell' and go along with her ideas. And he was funny; he was genuinely fun to be around…when he wasn't being a prick.
That was why she hadn't driven him out. Because on that first day, that first conversation they had ever had, Martin had been friendly, and he had been funny, and she had genuinely liked him for all of about half an hour.
Granted, his jokes were terrible (and often politically incorrect), but the way that he delivered them, the mixture of pride and excitement that lit up his features, made them the highlight of Deborah's day.
For all his faults, Martin had the potential to be someone that she would want to be friends with. Save for Arthur, there were very few people that she knew anymore that could fall into that category, and even fewer that were actually fun.
Harry was fine…he was okay…but he was her husband, and they were too busy being married on opposite sides of the world to have fun anymore.
Deborah handed her key to the miserable looking woman on the other side of the front desk, who nodded morosely and waved her away. Shrugging off the dismissal, Deborah rearranged the bag strap over her shoulder, and peered through the glass partition that separated her from the dingy excuse for a restaurant.
Right in the corner, shunning the other holiday goers and businessmen, she caught sight of Martin and Arthur seated either side of a rickety table; the Captain was flicking idly through a book, checking his watch every few seconds, and Arthur was shovelling eggs into his mouth at a tremendous speed.
Deborah couldn't decide whether she should join them for breakfast more often or not. She just hoped that today was going to be one of those flights where they all got along with each other.
oOoOoOo
It hadn't been one of those flights.
It had started off well, and remained well even as they approached Fitton. Martin was proving to be adept at Brians of Britain, and overall, it had been a pleasant day; there was something enjoyable about bringing out her competitive streak to match Martin's own. Even when Arthur had entered and given his own flawed contribution to the game, Deborah had good naturedly allowed Bob Holness.
Then Martin had decided that they were diverting to Bristol, and everything went downhill as his 'command decision' was called out for its ridiculousness; it was ridiculous.
Arthur had put forward some reasonable arguments, dim, but reasonable, and Deborah had chipped in from the side, hoping to persuade the Captain to embrace the more liberal side of himself that he so rarely exposed and wait to land in Fitton.
Then Martin had been rude to Arthur, and Arthur had responded by asking Deborah what she thought; Deborah momentarily relished the request, not considering for a moment that she might be undermining Martin's authority – it was her flight-deck.
Martin had then reacted in his typical manner, pushing Deborah from contentment and slight disagreement with him into a flaring self-righteousness and irresistible need to bite back and make sure that she wasn't talked into submission. The supercilious arse.
It had happened slowly, of course. What had early on in their working relationship been an indignant anger, was now an indignant despairing at the way that she was, and he had brushed off the match trick with a sighed acceptance. That was good.
He ruined it though, by making a jab at the fact that she was no longer at Air England, and that she was in the co-pilot's seat, raising himself up as Supreme Commander. If it had been said during a normal conversation, Deborah might have laughed playfully, but frankly insulted, she twisted it and used it to mock him, adding salt to the wound by comparing him to a mutinied Captain.
He hadn't understood the reference, something that gave Deborah pause, and inwardly shake her head at the very Martin response; that might have been the end of it. She might have allowed him that, allowed him to do as he pleased with a shake of her head at the typical 'Martin behaviour' – but no.
Martin had to take it one step further. He had to big himself up while simultaneously pushing her to the ground, subordinating her and insulting her in one foul swoop. The word 'sir' had never been uttered with such bitterness.
She wanted to strangle him; Deborah had felt a surge of visceral rage, but she had merely smirked a sneer and gone about the rest of her duties in silence.
Now Deborah was sitting right in the corner of the sofa in the Porta-cabin, arms folded over her chest, inspecting her nails and watching with a sadistic pleasure as Martin received the dressing down that he deserved.
"Martin, you're a berk." Carolyn informed him matter-of-factly, bearing down upon her Captain, who was perched on the other end of the sofa, one arm over the edge and the other making affronted motions in the air.
"I'm not a berk, Carolyn; I'm an airline captain." Martin insisted, his cheeks flushing in indignation.
Deborah's smirk grew and she observed as Carolyn turned Martin's own pedantics on him and nagged him about the money he had wasted. She wasn't cruel, not really, but after the way he had treated her, Deborah relished then way that he squirmed as he tried to justify his 'command decision'.
Perhaps the 'Supreme Commander' might discover a shred of humility; knowing Martin, probably not. She didn't know how he could demand respect when he had none for the people that he worked with.
Carolyn turned her wrath on Deborah, but it was hardly adequate for intimidation; this was the scolding of an employer who treated her most valued staff as equals in responsibility, if not in mind – unlike some who treated their colleagues as second class citizens.
"And where were you in all this, Deborah? Don't tell me you voluntarily went to Bristol."
Deborah rolled her eyes, making sure that they fell on Martin, who was glaring at her from across the sofa, lips pursed and cheeks red.
"I did suggest an alternative plan to Sir, Carolyn, but Sir quite properly reminded me that Sir is in command, and we should all obey Sir at all times." She drawled, making sure to maintain eye contact with Martin.
This was his fault, his mistake, and she was damn well going to make sure that he was the one to suffer for it. As an added bonus, perhaps Carolyn might pick up on her tone and realise that anything she had done had been in response to his audacity.
"Who reminded you?" Carolyn demanded, looking between her pilots with a stormy expression that could have made armies waver; she caught Deborah's gaze for longer than necessary, just long enough for Deborah to catch the underlying message: I don't know what's ruffled your feathers, but you will behave for so long as I am the one paying you.
"Captain Crieff, or – as I am privileged to call him – Sir." Deborah replied succinctly, nodding towards the Captain.
Martin huffed and looked away, before sneaking another glare at Deborah, crossing his arms roughly about his chest and picking at his epaulets.
Carolyn's eyes shuttered fleetingly in despair, and her shoulders sagged, before she focused in on Martin once again.
"Martin, you are many things but, believe me, you are not 'Sir'. If anyone is Sir, I am Sir; and as Sir I am telling you from now on diversions are out." She informed him, her cheeks hollowing out, making it clear to a practiced Carolyn watcher that her decision was final.
Martin however, was never one to shun an argument. Deborah wondered briefly if it would be worth leaving to find Arthur and entertain herself some other way, but there was far too much a risk of drawing Carolyn's attention back onto herself, and it was much more fulfilling to watch Martin get cut down to size.
"I see. So if an engine catches fire on take-off, shrug shoulders, keep upper lip stiff and press on for Portugal. Got it." Martin sniped, slouching back into the sofa, making his uniform crease unattractively.
It was the sort of thing that Deborah might have stifled a small chuckle over, but now she just scoffed under her breath, loud enough for Martin to hear and shoot her a glare with his nose crinkled and his forehead clenched in frustration.
Deborah watched in quiet smugness as Carolyn instructed Martin on their no frills flight to Abu Dhabi, interjecting only once to inquire as to the passengers; it was interesting enough to merely let the scolding wash over her while idly curling the end of a lock of dark brown hair around her finger. Her hair was died as dark as she dared with her slightly peaky complexion, and she somewhat missed when the waves were long enough to properly twirl, playing a leading role in her 'disinterested' act, now falling only to her chin.
As Martin flustered over Carolyn's right to penalise him for rational behaviour, Deborah centred herself back in the present, hearing the end of the conversation near and the need to move approaching.
"Now, please, go and be somewhere else." Carolyn finished, sounding well and truly done with the both of them. She swiftly retreated into her separate office, slamming the door behind her, leaving a stony silence in her wake.
Deborah shifted so that she was perched on the edge of the sofa, ready to rise but waiting, as Martin remained slumped into the meagre cushions, eyeing her with as much charged discontent as was possible.
"Well done sir. That's her told." Deborah drawled, letting her smirk overwhelm her face.
He needed to see exactly what happened when he acted as if he were the more important person in the room; he had to realise when he was beaten.
Martin rolled his eyes and looked away, before returning her stare, pouting petulantly.
"Well, don't you have somewhere better to be?" he demanded disdainfully, adopting the reedy tone that his voice took on when he was stressed.
Deborah rose to her feet, shrugging away the tension in her shoulders and looking down at the Captain with barely restrained contempt. That was inconsequential though; he had received his talking to, now it was time to let the matter go.
"Hmm…I need to find Arthur before I leave." She told him as she wandered over to her desk and swept the jacket from the back of her seat.
Behind her, she heard Martin rise, and watched out of the corner of her eyes as he moved towards his own desk, on the other side of the room; it was painfully organised, far more strategically than her own, which was overlayed with various items of stationary and even some impressive origami aeroplanes.
"Why's that?" Martin inquired; Deborah could tell that despite the clipped and disinterested tone, he wanted to know. It was the way his eyes flickered towards her when he thought that she wasn't looking.
"I gave him my car keys so that he could throw my bag in the boot." She replied shortly, sending Martin a false, glimmering smile when he glanced up from where his fingers fiddled with his pen pot, one eyebrow quirked.
"It must be nice that, having someone act as your very own servant." Martin sneered under his breath; Deborah knew that it was just another dig, but she took offence at the idea that she treated Arthur with anything other than grace.
Deborah stood stiffly between her desk and the door to the Porta-cabin, back straightened as she met Martin's accusatory gaze with a measured expression.
"You know Martin, when people are nice to each other, sometimes they like to do each other favours." She remarked lightly, feeling victorious as he looked down at his desk, pretention petering into sheepishness, "Perhaps it's something you might like to look into."
With that Deborah left Martin to his own devices, putting him out of mind and striding from the Porta-Cabin and into the breezeless chill of the early evening. She was in a terrible mood, despite the pleasure of watching Martin get put in his place, and all she wanted was to go home.
Perhaps Harry would be in…or he might have one of his evening classes, she wasn't sure. If he was, Deborah was sure that he'd listen find some way to resurrect what was left of the day. In truth, she just needed someone to complain to.
oOoOoOo
It was far too early to be up and about, and definitely too early to have walked all the way to Carolyn's from her own house. Harry had still been snoring when she had woken, sprawled on the opposite side of the bed as usual. Deborah didn't mind; it had started to feel uncomfortable, having someone else wrapped around her when she was trying to sleep, and if she was honest, she could get out of the house much more quickly without the added distraction of having to talk to him.
He had been patient the night before, listening to her once again try to rationalise why Martin was such an arse when they could quite easily be successful should he listen to her advice and calm his neurotic inferiority complex. It was only fair that he be allowed to sleep now.
As the front door to the grand house swung open, Deborah stepped back to allow Arthur to bundle out and shut it behind him. He was looking exhaustingly put together for so early in the morning, but Deborah supposed that one sleepy person was plenty for a half-decent conversation.
"Hi there, Deborah!" Arthur greeted her, grinning as if he were pleased to see her, brown eyes alight with it.
It was actually pleasant to be greeted with such sincerity; if she was ever feeling down, rarer than she thought, but more often than everyone else thought, Deborah could always fall back on the fact that at least Arthur liked to have her around, depressing as that was. He may have been dim, but he had never been anything other than a good friend, and more importantly, a gentleman around her. Unlike some people.
"Morning, Arthur. You're revoltingly chirpy for half-six in the morning. Where's your mother?" she inquired as she followed him towards the smart car parked on the driveway.
"She's just brushing her teeth. She says to wait for her in the car." Arthur replied; he rounded the opposite side of the car to Deborah, and extending his arm to jab the keys at the driver's door, switched off the alarm with a beep, letting himself in moments later.
"Um, where's Martin?" he asked, once they were both seated. Deborah rotated in the passenger seat, kneeling up so that she could address Arthur over the back of her seat.
"Who can predict the movements of the Supreme Commander?" she drawled drearily, rolling her eyes at her own imaginings of Martin sauntering in as if he owned the place, uniform pressed and red hair unsuccessfully slicked back, "Perhaps God wanted to pick his brains about something."
"How d'you mean?" Arthur asked, confused.
"Never mind." Deborah shook her head, the movement allowing her to see out of the back window at a better angle; she caught herself as she spotted the very man they had been discussing, marching towards the car, "Ah, but what's this? Who is this commanding presence hoving into view? Can it be Sir? It can."
As Martin approached, Deborah decided that they would behave like adults today and make it through the flight as friendly people, if friends was too difficult for him. There was no reason that they couldn't, save for Martin's evident dislike of her.
That plan fell to pieces as Martin, once again, tried to lord his superiority over her by acting like a child, and she had no choice but to embrace the malicious joy when Carolyn put her back in the front seat. She knew it was practicality, but there was a small part of her saying, 'See…I'm the favourite, I win.'
oOoOoOo
They were getting along now, it was fine.
Apparently a mutual interest in the obscure cargo of their client was enough of a bridge to allow friendly conversation, and that was enough for Deborah to make the effort and allow herself a comfortable flight.
They had even shared a conspiratorial glance over Arthur's mauling, a sort of 'wouldn't want to be him', 'me neither', 'isn't that nice' kind of glance. And in essence, wasn't that why Deborah made the effort, if not to find some kind of connection with the man.
That in no way changed Martin. No, he was still Martin, whether he was being nice or not. While the three of them were strolling around GERTI's exterior, towards the steels steps, one of the lads either side of her, Arthur had inquired about how planes fly.
Well, he had asked Martin, but there was no reason that Deborah couldn't chip in.
"Ah, well. Essentially …" she began, raising her hands in order to use them as makeshift demonstratives in her explanation; it had been a while since she had been able to really show off her knowledge, she had always enjoyed teaching Arthur things and being able to say 'I did that' when he repeated them correctly.
"Uh, Deborah, he asked me." Martin interrupted, quirking his eyebrow and tilting his head as he looked smugly across at her; Deborah closed her mouth and gestured for him to continue, calm enough to appreciate that he wasn't being rude on purpose, he was just overly proud of him, "Listen carefully, Arthur. The wing is curved on top but flat on the bottom. When it meets the air, it splits it in two. The air that goes over the top has further to go, so it has to go faster to keep up with the air underneath. That reduces the pressure above the wing, giving us lift."
"Ah, fantastic! Thanks, Skipper! I totally get it now." Arthur replied, nodding doggedly to emphasise his point. Deborah had to admit, he wasn't wrong.
"You're welcome." Martin answered, and Deborah sighed as he looked pointedly at her. She knew that she was a show off, but Martin took it to a new extreme. That was fine, she could cope with competitiveness; she practically thrived on it.
"Except … why does it have to?" Deborah was broken from her musings by Arthur's question. His face was pinched in thought, and he was peering between she and Martin expectantly. Trust Arthur to make a simple explanation more complicated.
"Why does what what?" Martin retorted; he stumbled to a halt, and Deborah and Arthur followed. Deborah crossed her arms and looked up at Arthur, who stood about a foot taller than her, his shoulder reaching half way up her head.
"Why does the air on the top have to keep up with the air on the bottom? Why don't they just split up?" Arthur continued.
There was a pause, and Martin's eyes flickered to Deborah. She sighed, unsure of what he expected; they were both pilots, and if he didn't know, chances were, neither did she.
"… For the sake of the kids?" she drawled dubiously. Nevermind…
oOoOoOo
She had thought that things were going well; in fact, Deborah was almost cheerful. The post-take off checks had been swift and Martin had been nice company. Until he reacted in typical fashion to a perfectly reasonable statement.
"Thank you, Captain. Perkins.
"Oh, knock it off, Deborah." Martin sounded frustrated, as if he had been dealing with her attitude all day. Deborah was the first to admit that sometimes that particular tone was well deserved, but she couldn't help the pang of hurt at the unwarranted attack. She didn't think she had said anything to annoy him.
"Knock what off?" she asked, inwardly wincing at the heightened tone of her own voice. Deborah turned ever so slightly so that she could watch Martin's face tinge red with indignation, and his eyes focus on the sky rather than on her.
"Yes, all right, I've never heard of Captain Perkins. Happy now? You win again in the game of Referencing Fictional Captains I Don't Recognise." Martin stressed, shrugging and shifting with each intonation, "But d'you know, that's because of instead of reading The Adventures of Captain Perkins while sitting around a posh girl's school getting all my opportunities handed to me on a plate, I was re-reading Principles of Climatology for Pilots, and underlining bits in red, all right?"
Deborah inhaled deeply, steadying herself. He had to go and make it personal, every time. There was no need to, and it was hurtful; the last thing she needed was Martin bloody Crieff belittling everything she said based on her upbringing.
But she could deal with that; Martin was hardly the first man to belittle her, based on anything they could pick out. So she gripped the arm of her seat tightly with one hand, the one farthest away from him, and took the moral high-ground. He may have been a prat, but in nine months she had realised that he didn't usually mean to be rude (except, it seemed, when she was involved), so she wouldn't call him out on it.
"All right. Feel better?" Deborah asked lightly, putting on a smile.
"Yes." Martin answered, sounding guilty now that the words had been said. He glanced towards her, attempted a small curl of his lips, and then looked away quickly, clearing his throat.
"Good. I said, "Thank you, Captain. Perkins." Brian Perkins." Deborah filled what promised to become an awkward silence.
"Oh. Right. Hanrahan." Martin replied shortly, bringing the conversation to a close.
oOoOoOo
Deborah was perfectly happy to allow Martin to debate with Carolyn over their disastrous meals; it might even be funny. He had a tendency to make his shrill affronted nature funny, when he wasn't directing it at her, of course.
So she settled back in her seat, just about listening, until he heard Martin tell her that he cargo hold heating was off. Off.
"On." Deborah said hastily, raising her voice so that there could be no doubt about what she had said. She knew that her eyes had probably widened with the mental strain of having to think very, very quickly, but she made an effort to keep the rest of her expression cool to match her tone.
"What?" Martin retorted, but Deborah ignored him, leaning instead to place her fingers on the switch for the sat-com, preparing to cut them off from radio contact.
"Sir means on, naturally. It was on. Whoops! Must go now, Carolyn – here comes a mountain. Cheerio!" Deborah said cheerily, clicking the sat-com off the moment that the words had left her mouth so that Carolyn wouldn't have time to respond.
That done, she slumped back in her seat, confident that Martin had control. The idiot; the absolute idiot, she thought as she pressed the palm of her hand over her eyes and relished the momentary blindness.
Martin…bloody Martin. She couldn't find it in her heart to be mad at him…it was just so…Martin.
When she opened her eyes, Martin was pursing his lips, cheeks sucked in in such a way that his cheekbones became pronounced, and he looked for all the world as if he were the victim of some tremendous prank.
"Deborah, is this some half-baked revenge attempt? Because, if so, it's really pointless. Why would she believe I deliberately turned it on?" he asked; Deborah had to fight not to roll her eyes. Honestly, only Martin could believe that she was out to get him considering the way he treated her.
"Why indeed? But I had this sort of feeling you might hope she did, what with the cat in the hold…and all." Deborah drawled, meeting his gaze across the flight-deck.
The problem was easily solved, but she couldn't help but allow Martin to suffer just a little longer. There was something very appealing about watching him fluster and splutter and mess up in the most beautifully manner imaginable, sometimes in such a way that if it had been anyone else, it would have had to be orchestrated.
She supposed that it was actually possible to see the information dawn in his mind; his blue eyes widened and his cheeks drained of all colour.
"… Oh God."
"Precisely." Deborah remarked, looking down at her nails in an attempt at nonchalance, "I did try to remind you."
"Oh God." Martin repeated; having waited a while for Martin to clamber down a peg without the aid of someone else's shouts, it was too good an opportunity for Deborah not to soak it in. Martin raised his hands to rub them over the bottom of his face.
"Yes." She interjected, doing her best to repress a smirk as she watched him unashamedly.
"D'you think it's dead?" Martin asked through his teeth, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth. To Deborah's surprise, although she wasn't sure what she had expected, Martin looked imploringly to her; now that was a welcome thought. He may dislike her, but he had faith in her.
Still, she might as well enjoy the Martin baiting while it lasted.
"No, no. Definitely not. Not yet." Deborah replied, her smirk growing as Martin's expression became more desperate, the flush returning to his cheeks with a fury.
"Oh God!"
"Probably feeling the chill, though." She teased in a low tone, settling back comfortably and leaning the side of her head against the back of her seat so that she could observe him properly.
Martin scrabbled at his wrist and yanked back his sleeve to look at his tatty watch, still gnawing at his lip.
"What flight time have you got?" he demanded.
"A little under eight hours." Deborah answered dutifully.
"How long can a cat survive in an unheated hold at thirty-four thousand feet?" Martin inquired, and he actually sounded as if he believed that Deborah might know. She almost wished that she still possessed that kind of hope, but this was eclipsed by the fact that she was finding the whole situation rather funny. He was funny.
"Oh, I used to know this one. It's always coming up in pub quizzes." She remarked playfully. Unfortunately, Martin caught onto her antipathy, as he glared at her disparagingly and shook his head.
"Yes, all right." He sighed, raising one arm up to rest his elbow against the arm of his seat, and to drop his chin into the palm of his raised hand.
Deborah noticed, but did not acknowledge this, choosing instead to squeeze out her fun for as long as she could; it wasn't often that they could bicker without insulting one another and actually enjoy it. Martin, if not enjoying it, didn't look bothered, just annoyed, and that was fine.
"Now then, is it three hours and twenty-eight seconds, or is that a weasel in a submarine?" she chuckled, smirk growing into a dim smile when she met Martin's eyes. He really did look 100% done with the day; perhaps she should ease off him just a fraction.
"You don't know?" Martin inquired sarcastically; Deborah thought that he might be resisting a smile, but she couldn't be sure.
"I regret not," Deborah conceded, glancing back towards the pearly blue of the sky ahead to hide the cheerful expression that she suspected she was presenting, "but I wouldn't hold out too much hope for the answer being 'eight hours'."
"Oh God. I'm going to have to kill the client's cat!" Martin groaned, pushing his hands once again across his face, rubbing as if to rub away the whole mistake.
"It's looking that way." Deborah remarked, leaning across to pat his wrist sympathetically. Martin didn't react save for an imperceptible movement that could have been mistaken for the clicking of the bones in his limb.
"I can't kill the client's cat!" Martin exclaimed, throwing his hands down on his lap and looking desperately to Deborah for instruction.
"That's also true." She noted, nodding; he nodded in tandem, as if this might help them to formulate a solution. In truth, Deborah knew that all they had to do was ditch in somewhere, but there was, and always would be she assumed, a part of her that wanted to see Martin make these big decisions that he claimed he had rights to and endure the consequences.
"But what else can I do?" Martin asked in despair; he exhaled raggedly, exhausted apparently by the massive moral dilemma that he had walked himself into.
Deborah allowed herself a moment of sympathy.
"I suppose you could always …not that I'm giving you answers Captain, but you could always…" she hinted, making sure to emphasise that she was in fact providing the answers.
"I can't." Martin replied firmly, leaving no doubt that he was terrified of Carolyn; Deborah filed that away for later, "I can't divert. She'll hunt me down. She'll actually hunt me down with knives.
"Whereas if we carry on and freeze the client's cat to death …?" Deborah reminded him; he may have been hilarious to taunt, but she wasn't about to allow him to get them both in trouble by messing up the job.
"Also knives. Big knives." Martin agreed, nodding and dragging his lip through his teeth again; it was a wonder that he still had a lip to gnaw, "If we … if we did carry on and the cat didn't make it, d'you think they'd be able to tell how it died?"
Deborah rolled her eyes at that, shrugging dismissively.
"Again, I fear you flatter my knowledge of cat pathology." She drawled, inspecting her nails. It was time for Martin to do as he usually would, accept the CAA approved solution, and call in a diversion.
Instead, his expression was thoughtful when she glanced up at him, and he had his hands pressed together as if he were trying to cling to an idea.
"I don't see how they could." Martin remarked, as if he were honestly thinking about going ahead with allowing the cat to die, "I mean, it's not as if it's gonna freeze into a block of ice, is it?" he chuckled into silence.
Deborah paused before replying; she was suddenly intrigued by the fact that Martin was apparently a devious bastard…and she hadn't seen it. A few moments passed before she realised that she was staring at his face, trying to absorb and store the expression, and Martin was still waiting for her support.
"Well…I, uh…Not unless it's a cartoon cat, no." she said dryly, turning her face away from his to adjust the controls and check the altimeters. Martin's hands were already there though, thin yet worn, and adeptly taking over without realising that Deborah wanted the distraction.
"I mean, it's not as if the Cat CSI's gonna descend on us." Martin joked, making a motion with his elbow that suggested had they been standing, he would have nudged her in a show of companionable joviality.
Deborah exhaled sharply, the closest to a laugh that she ever got to one of his appalling jokes. It wasn't laugh out loud funny, or funny at all, but nevertheless, Martin was.
"I wouldn't have thought so. They're so busy these days."
"I mean, I know it's a bit rotten – for the cat – but ten thousand pounds to divert is quite a lot, isn't it?" Martin continued to sound almost reasonable, save for the subject matter, "Don't you think?...What do you think?"
Deborah was mildly surprised to find that Martin was peering at her, looking for all the world as if he genuinely valued her opinion.
"A fair bit rotten...I wouldn't like to be the cat." Deborah admitted; he should divert, but she wasn't going to tell him, he could work it out himself, prove that he was not in fact, a cat murderer…or if he was, prove that he was, "Have you considered how Carolyn will react to your decision, whether there will be shouting…"
"… and the knives, yes." Martin agreed; he was thumbing the controls anxiously, looking between them and Deborah, "So, what d'you think? Is that reasonable? That's reasonable, isn't it? Isn't it?"
No, thought Deborah, it's not. But Martin wanted to be the Supreme Commander, so he would have to deal with all that came with such a title.
"It's a command decision, sir. All yours."
oOoOoOo
In the end, all it took was Arthur's abject horror to convince Martin that perhaps the best course of action would be to not cat a small mammal's life short. Deborah had taken pity on him and offered up the same match trick as the previous flight…and to her joy Martin had actually agreed.
By the time she was tucked up in her hotel room, which Carolyn had booked both her and Martin into to save money, Deborah was actually in quite a good mood. It had been a good day, all things considered; it turned out all it took was a little cooperation and a little teamwork, and the two of them got along perfectly fine.
And now that she knew how easily swayed Martin could be when the stakes were raised, Deborah could see a lot more fun on the horizon.
Yes, things had gone as well as could be expected. She considered briefly the idea of phoning Harry to tell him about her day, but discarded the thought with a shake of her head; she wasn't in the mood. No, she'd tell him all about it when she got home, and maybe he'd just listen, maybe he'd have some constructive comments to make.
Whatever, she had had a good day.
So here's the beginning of my sort of sequel. I know I said it would be ages away, but I couldn't resist.
There will be a chapter per episode and the occasional interlude - BUT updates will not be regular, it might be a while before the next one, as this next month is full of revision and A levels for me. I will try, but no promises - never fear, it will happen, it will just be a while
Otherwise, do enjoy.