God she was bored!
Deborah flumped over the edge of her sofa, allowing herself to fall back and lay her head on the furthest pile of cushions. She noticed half-heartedly that her frustrated groan echoed ever so slightly off of the walls of the living room. She could just hear it over the imperceptible murmur of the radio that she'd put on to drive away the silence.
It hadn't always been that empty; before Henry left she hadn't even been able to see the pale purple walls. The ornaments and modern art had covered them all up. And it hadn't been nearly so dull.
Honestly! What had happened to her, what had actually happened to her in the last few months, that had her physically dreading the grinding dullness of Days Off?
Normally she'd just read a book, or do something out of the house (she wasn't any kind of hermit, of course; no, Deborah Richardson was a hardened social creature). But all the books that she hadn't read had been taken from the house (it was always hilarious to see what kind of thing her husbands had been reading; all three of them), and the Christmas season had brought with it torrential rain and unfriendly weather overall.
Deborah slung an arm over her face and closed her eyes against the warm darkness. If she imagined hard enough, she might even be sprawled just like this over the sofa in the Portakabin.
No. That was just sad.
With another groan (why not? no one would hear it.) Deborah hoisted herself upright and headed through to the conjoined kitchen to search through the fridge. Surely there'd be some icecream or something in there to keep her entertained for a little while. She'd need to ask Arthur to bring her some more sugary things next time he spontaneously dropped by.
Maybe she could call Martin and see what he was up to.
No, she thought quickly, better not.
Normally she'd have jumped on the chance; it had become apparent very quickly that nothing was funnier than to turn up at his attic and bother him for a while on a boring and empty day. He'd actually started just shrugging and nodding along after a while.
Martin...Ugh! The lack of things to do might have been less frustrating (because, she had to face it, life as one of two pilots at a poxy airline that kept awkward times did not lend itself to a flourishing social life), if every moment that wasn't employed in a task hadn't been hijacked by thoughts of Martin Crieff.
It was horrible. Deborah had seriously considered trying to drown herself in the sink after the second night that he'd been on (or all over) her mind.
The first night she could accept; one did not undertake an impromptu (and surprisingly satisfying) kissing (make-out) session under the mistletoe without some repurcussions. And they'd...she wouldn't say flirted, Deborah thought as she dropped back onto the sofa and watched meaningless pictures flit over the television screen, but there had been something. Sickening (lovely) fluttery goodbyes, and then they'd gone home as usual.
And that was fine; Martin wasn't the first colleague that she'd fooled around with over the years. However, he was the first that she'd felt and lingering fondness for (the little voice in the back of her head that usually did a bad job of censoring her verbal jabs kept muttering petulantly that it wasn't 'lingering', it was damn well an overall, all-encompassing fondness for his entire person).
Martin was her friend (and even havign to clarify this was so not right it was boggling). She supposed that was what made it so strange.
Because the next day they'd gone to work and flown out as if nothing had happened. Which was the exact thing Deborah relied upon after such encounters...except...she had spen the entire day getting more and more agitated that Martin wasn't mentioning their kiss the previous night. Not even an acknowledgement. She'd even caught herself thinking traitorously that 'maybe he'd been looking at me just then' and 'he's definitely thinking about me now, I can see him looking'; furious with herself, she'd made up for it by viciously slamming her Captain in their word-game.
It's not that she wanted to kiss him again, or for anything to happen, she told herself resolutely; it was that she wanted HIM to want something to happen. Which was ridiculous.
Deborah was fully aware that he had hated her when they first met, and for a year or so after. But recently he seemed so fond of her (there it was again, FOND), and she really did want him to like her. She really, really wanted him to like her; wanted him to like her a lot.
She huffed petulantly and snatched up the remote, taking her misery out on the buttons as she turned the television off and relished the silence.
She was SO BORED!
Suddenly she was knocked ungracefully from her agitated musings by five loud, uneven thuds, which could only have come from the front door.
Deborah didn't need to check the clock to know that it was too late for random guests, but too early for the more drink inclined of her neighbours to be calling at the wrong door.
Wincing at the stiffness in her legs, Deborah wondered on her way to the door whether she was going to be deliberatley smarmy and have some fun with whoever was there, or if she would act like a normal person and make them go away quickly.
Instead of either of these, she had to school her expression swiftly to cover up the mild surprise at seeing her co-pilot leaning tensely against the side of her doorframe.
"Hello Martin," she said slowly, taking in his jeans and thin jacket (he'd been on a van job then), and the peculiar object that was being partially mangled between his hands, "You appear to be fondling a plant."
Martin took a deep breath and his eyes widened, his expression hardening in the same way that it always did when he was about to try and overrule her decisions (and the same way it had the other night, her mind provided). He rubbed absentmindedly at his forehead, and Deborah's eyes followed the hand's path, curious as to what it actually held.
"Hello Deborah, yes, yes I am, a client just handed it to me and it got me thinking, so I came here because-" the words fell quickly, jumbled from his mouth and deborah couldn't stop herself, even though the comment wasn't her best, even in her head.
"You thought you'd come and see your plant-like friend Debbie?"
Martin shook his head and bit the side of his lip exasperatedly. He was clearly on a mission, and Deborah decided that, given the hour, and her thoughts only moments ago (and the last few days), it would be nice to let him continue; folding her arms loosely across her chest, she mirrored his position against the doorframe.
"It-it's just that it got me thinking-" Martin spluttered, and Deborah nodded along quietly, biting back a smirk as he actually paused for a sarcastic comment, and then carried on when one wasn't provided, "and I've been thinking about-well thinking a lot the past few, I mean...you've been looking at me that weird way you have been for a while now, and I thought- well I've been thinking...and this" he waved the still unidentifyable plant before her momentarily, "it got me thinking about- things I've been thinking for a while, and was the other day, but I wasn't sure you were thinking...but I just thought-"
"That sounds like an awful lot of thinking for one aeronautically filled brain." Deborah but him off; cute or not, it would only have been cruel to let Martin keep going.
He exhaled iritably, rubbing his hand over his red face.
"It's just...it's just this-" Martin blurted, and to Deborah's further confusion, he raised the plant over his head, his arm stiff but shaking with exertion (he'd probably tired himself with all that thinking).
Deborah wasn't sure what how to respond, so stuck with the default answer to anything Martin and insanity related.
"Would you like to phone a friend?" she offered guardedly, trying not to smile lest he take it the wrong way and storm off (again), "Ask the-"
For the second time in the space of a week Deborah found herself unable to finish her sentence, or for the matter, the train of thought that had carried it.
She didn't even see him move, but before she was fully aware of what was happening, Martin's arms were wrapped around her torso, one hand pressed firmly at her back, while the other drifted up to hold rest at the base of her neck, and Martin's lips were pressing determinedly at hers as the rest of his body pressed them together.
This was nothing like the cautious approach of the other night; this was Captain Crieff demanding that he took the landing off her and then slamming it into the ground because, damn it, he had control.
Deborah brought her arms around his neck and pulled him in closer, pushing her lips back into his and enjoying the warmth of his flushed cheeks against hers.
She really should have protested this just a little bit, the voice in the back of her head muttered, the contrary bastard.
Martin pulled away, and Deborah might have complained at the loss of his arms around her is she hadn't been breathing to fast for words to form, or her mind had been racing a little slower. Martin, she observed, was looking very pleased with himself. And he still had that plant in his hand.
"Look, see...it's mistletoe." he panted as he extended the object.
A closer look told Deborah that it may once have been mistletoe. Something about the dumb simplicity of the gesture made the warmth in her chest flare, and (to her dismay), she felt her cheeks heat up.
"That Captain is a pile of crushed leaves." she finally answered carefully, the corners of her lips rising as she watched Martin's sheepish expression as he dropped the leaves on her porch.
"Well, it wasn't," he started, and then took a deep breath, centred himself, let his hands hang by his sides, and looked her straight in the eye, "But you see what I mean?"
Deborah nodded slowly, without even thinking about it. This was really, really bad; life could become so much more difficult if she sent him away AND if she invited him in. (She really wanted to invite him in- that was bad too. Deborah Richardson of two and a half years ago would be ashamed.)
Martin was still waiting for an answer, his face drooping just a fraction as the moment dragged on.
Gently, cautiously, Deborah reached forward and, swinging her arm just a tad, brushed the back of his hand with his knuckles. It seemed like the right thing to do given the moment; it was eerily similar to the way the back of their hands would brush every now and again in the flight-deck as they nudged past each other to get to the controls.
Martin's face lit up, and his eyes dropped to track the floor; the blood rushed to his cheeks and Deborah couldn't quite help the small laugh as he chuckled lowly, as if he couldn't quite believe his luck.
After another few seconds, Deborah realised that she wasn't entirely sure what to do. She decided to settle for getting them out of the doorway, as the breeze (which she had barely felt until then), buffeted her bare ankles.
"Was that all, or did you want to come in?" she asked, eyeing Martin carefully. He smiled briefly, but his face returned to its excited wariness.
"Yeah..yeah, only if that's alright..." he said quietly.
"I wouldn't offer if it wasn't." Deborah remarked, stepping aside to let him pass.
Martin started forward and then stopped, looking nervously into the hall, and then tracign his eyes down her body (which made her weirdly self-conscious - she'd explore that later).
"Do you think..." he asked suddenly, and then reasserted himself, his hands dropping away from his sleeves and back to his pockets "Are we going to mess this up?"
Deborah paused in trying to sweep Martin through the door and watched him for any sign of wanting to leave; he really was quite handsome, and he was looking at her so seriously.
"Probably." she replied confidently.
Martin nodded resolutely and bit at his bottom lip. After a moments thought, he nodded again, and, stepping into the hall, allowed Deborah to close the door with an inward surge of victory, although she hadn't been aware that she was trying to achieve anything.
I realise that this is far shoddier than the other chapter, but hopefully the message has been put across.
Just me, fulfilling my need to write