Dear gemstone1234 requested a sequel and left me a plot bunny, so I wrote this.

"Er, Douglas, do you think… you could give me a lift home tonight? I-I wouldn't ask, only the van's in for repairs and -"

"Of course, Martin. I need to go shopping on the way back, though."

"Oh, well that's… me too." It wasn't a lie exactly - there was no food in Martin's kitchen except a cupful of pasta, half a litre of milk and a packet of broken biscuits that had been 10p from the reduced-to-clear section - but he had not intended to go shopping yet. He could not afford it yet.

"Douglas? W-Why are we stopping here?"

"I find I impulse-buy rather too much if I shop on an empty stomach," Douglas replied, turning off the engine and opening his door. "You don't mind, do you? Haven't developed an allergy to deep-fried fish?"

"No, no, of course not," Martin said as he joined Douglas on the pavement. "It's fine. Fine." Martin stopped himself before he could go overboard with his reassurance, but Douglas still gave him a slightly puzzled glance. Thanking his lucky stars that Douglas had not said anything, Martin followed his First Officer into the chippy.

There was a worried frown on Martin's face as he examined the back-lit board behind the counter. God, he felt light-headed. The prices, the prices. He spent less than this on a fortnight's food shopping. His head was spinning.

"Large haddock and chips, and may I say how fetching you look in that apron?"

Martin stared at Douglas in surprise - how on earth could that be a compliment? But there was a particular quirk to his smile that made it a joke, and the 30-something woman shook her head at him, smirking.

"Watch it or I'll spit in your chips," she responded.

How did people do that, Martin wondered. If he tried to make casual conversation he ended up getting flustered and stammering, or accidentally insulting the person's aunt.

The woman turned to scoop chips out of the fryer and added them to a polystyrene box with a long battered fish. "Open or wrapped?"

"Open."

Douglas added salt and vinegar.

"Anything else?"

"Whatever Martin's having," Douglas said, gesturing at him.

Martin started, pulled out of his consideration of whether he could get away with just ordering chips.

"Douglas, you don't -"

"It's all right, I dragged you in here. Haddock?"

Martin had eaten slowly, ashamed of every last sliver of batter. But he had choked down every bite and now the meal lay heavy and uncomfortable in his stomach as they entered Tesco.

Douglas had mentioned off-handedly that he preferred M&S, but Tesco was on the way to Martin's house. (Martin had only ever been in M&S once in his life, when he needed the loo. He felt too poor even to look at the shelves.)

As they entered, Martin shrank into himself. He could feel his heart rate increasing already. Douglas had picked up one of the half-size trolleys, should he get one? No, no, stick with a basket.

He trailed behind Douglas, his mind buzzing with doubt. The balance of keeping the shop cheap and keeping up appearances. He was still preoccupied with shame about how much he had eaten. He knew Douglas had eaten more but somehow that was okay, it was Martin who had done wrong.

"Martin, are you quite alright?"

Martin jumped guiltily. "I'm fine. Fine. Perfectly. Not a problem. Completely alright."

Douglas raised a gently disbelieving eyebrow. "You're even paler than usual," he pressed.

"I just, I - I don't -" Martin, in the process of avoiding Douglas' eyes, took one look at the neatly stacked packages of butter, and promptly vomited all over the floor.

"Oh, god," he whimpered.

Douglas stared at him in shock. A member of staff eyed him warily, judged him suitably looked-after and not drunk, and slipped away to find the "wet floor" signs.

A hand found Martin's shoulder as he stood frozen in a paroxysm of embarrassment and panic. "I can't." Tears were running down his cheeks; he pressed a violently shaking hand to his mouth, tasting acid and the fish's encore on his tongue.

"Come on, Martin," a voice said gently, and Martin followed the kind voice, allowing himself to be guided by the hand that had slipped to the small of his back. He could barely see, his eyes blurry with tears. It felt like he was walking through a swimming pool, except there were trails of vomit down his clothes.

(Actually, that had happened once. His inner-ear problem had once, as a teen, made him dizzy and disoriented enough to throw up in the swimming pool on a school lesson. He still remembered the screaming as the other kids splashed away from him in horror.)

He found himself walking out of the large automatic doors, into the blissfully cool air of the car park. Douglas led him back to the car, bundled him into the front seat and put the blanket that he kept on the back seat for his daughter over him, all without saying a word. Martin curled into the blanket, the seatbelt digging into his hips as he lifted his feet up onto the seat.

He heard the engine growl as Douglas turned the key. It was not until they had left the car park that Douglas glanced at him and said gently, "What was all that about?"

The urge to just pull the blanket over his head and hide away as though he had never been there was overwhelming, but Martin knew that wouldn't solve anything (and was not very Captain-y, whispered a voice), so instead he sighed deeply. "Shopping. Makes me panic." Martin's eyes were fixed out of the window, watching the alternating patterns of light and dark on the streets, so he did not see the slight frown on Douglas' face as he spoke.

"I see," he said thoughtfully.

"My dad, he, was always very definite about what we were allowed to buy. I don't like… I never know what to choose. There's too much choice."

"You feel out of control?"

"I-I-I don't want to get it wrong."

"I'm not sure the best answer to that was to throw up all over the dairy aisle," Douglas responded drily, and Martin huffed out a little laugh.

"Dramatic, though."

"Oh, certainly. I'm sure the staff will crowd round at break time to watch the CCTV, the young Captain throwing up his fish and chips and his dashing First Officer rescuing him from certain death by embarrassment."

Martin sandwiched his blanket-covered hands between his knees and his face, before twisting his head to watch Douglas drive. It was different to watching him fly (not that he would ever admit to doing so), though the careless concentration, the easy elegance of his movements were the same.

"Douglas… Thank you."

A slight smile tugged at the corner of his friend's mouth. "No problem, Martin. Though I suggest you get a good dry-cleaner for that uniform of yours."

Martin groaned loudly. "Oh god, I threw up on my uniform!"