Chapter Summary: Geoff finally gets to meet his son's co-workers. Martin gets the help he needs. In Boston, Arthur finds he definitely has a friend in Martin, and it's (mostly) brilliant! Carolyn makes a death-threat, and Douglas finally relates the story of the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day he died.

Herein are word games, over-eager security guards, people taking the mickey out of others, and happy endings, Cabin Pressure-style.

..

.

June 2013, Wokingham

"Mom, Dad, this is Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, my boss and her son, Arthur. And this is Douglas Richardson, my first officer." Martin was both nervous and proud as Geoff stepped forward to shake hands. The oven buzzer went and Wendy started.

"Oh, the roast! Excuse me. It's lovely to meet you," she said and hurried to the kitchen.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all at last, Martin's told me so much about you," Geoff said.

"Likewise," Douglas said. He cast Martin a mischievous glance. "All good, I trust."

"Well, there's been a few choice stories," Geoff began.

"Dad!"

"But I want to hear about the apple juggling!" Geoff said, grinning at his son's discomfiture. "Your specialty, I hear, Arthur."

"Yeah!" Arthur said. "It's not that hard, really. You only need one apple. But it's really relaxing and it makes me happy! Shall I show you?"

"Not now, Arthur," Carolyn said at the same time Geoff said, "Why not? We'll go out back, you, Douglas and I, and you show me how it's done. We can all use feeling happy at times."

Douglas chuckled at Arthur's wide grin. Geoff called into the kitchen. "Wendy? I'm just going to take these fine fellows into the back yard. You won't mind sparing a few apples, will you?"

Wendy appeared, wiping her hands on a tea towel. "Oh, no, go ahead and help yourselves! You boys have a nice time. Martin, would you help set the table? Carolyn, I'll show you where to sit."

Douglas lifted a brow. Geoff explained, "Oh, Wendy doesn't hold with any foolishness about us PDS folk sitting around pretending to eat. We'll come in and have a good long chat over dessert and coffee."

"Wendy is clearly very sensible," Douglas commented. "Come on, young Shappey. Let's go juggle apples and talk sports and power tools with Geoff."

Martin choked at this but Arthur perked up. "Power tools? Brilliant. Mum never lets me play with them."

"That's because you're supposed to use them, not play with them," Carolyn called from the adjoining room. "They're not toys. Do you remember the leaf blower and air mattress incident? I for one shall never forget it."

"Aw, Mum!" But Arthur went happily enough when Geoff offered to set him up with safety goggles, some plywood and a jigsaw. Douglas followed with a broad grin and Martin shook his head at the strange anomaly that was his life.

Over dessert, Caitlin breezed in. "Sorry I'm late, Mum, Dad! Are these all your work mates, Martin? Hi, everyone, I'm Caitlin, the sis."

"Hello, love," Wendy said over the general greetings. "Would you like some roast? I've a plate set aside."

"Dessert first, I think." Caitlin grinned at her and got a bowl, serving herself a hefty scoop of trifle. "Mm, lovely. How meals should always go, I think - sweet first and savoury after. If I have room for it."

"I think so too!" Arthur agreed. Carolyn and Wendy exchanged glances over the vagaries of children.

"At least you're here," Martin muttered. "Where's Simon? I mean, I told him we'd have guests. Couldn't he make the effort just this once?"

Douglas cocked his head. "Your younger brother?"

"Yup, the youngest of us sibs," Caitlin said, waving her spoon. "Married, proud possessor of two sprogs, and a member of council. In Dorking, mind." Her tone said everything there was to know about Dorking.

"It's an important job," Wendy protested mildly.

"So important that he's too busy to come by? Probably spending all his time trying to suck his way up the political stepladder by pretending he doesn't have a dad with PDS," Martin couldn't help saying.

Caitlin felt the same by the look on her face but shrugged. "Pretty sure it's Donna. His wife," she explained to all and sundry. "Her family doesn't have any PDS sufferers and they're all a bit… extreme on the matter." She made a face. "I think he's being a fathead, myself."

"Martin, Caitlin," Wendy admonished, darting a look at their guests. "You shouldn't talk about Simon like that."

"Like what?" Martin wanted to know, tired of her constant evasions about Simon's self-centredness. "Like he can't be bothered with you or Dad, now that Dad's got a, a condition? It's been, what? Three months since Dad came back? Has he even come here once?"

Arthur was watching the exchange with his mouth open. Douglas' eyes travelled back and forth between the combatants while Carolyn occupied herself with scraping the last of the cream from her bowl. Geoff had the trace of a frown creasing his forehead.

"Martin!" Wendy's tone was placatory. "I'm sure it's not like that. Simon is very busy, what with the government's concerns with PDS, and then there's his family -"

To Martin's surprise, Geoff stopped her. "No, Wendy, he's right. You know I love Simon, but you have to admit - the boy's always had his head up his arse." Carolyn covered her choking by pressing a napkin to her mouth. Likewise, Douglas pressed a knuckle hard against his lips but his eyes danced. Geoff went on, "I know he's the youngest and the apple of your eye, but he's not a baby anymore. You need to stop making excuses for him."

Wendy sighed. "I do wish -"

"I know." Geoff's smile was pained. "He'll come 'round, or he won't. When the chips came down, Caitlin and Martin were there for their old dad. Especially you, Martin." His eyes spoke volumes. "You're a good lad."

Martin swallowed. "Thanks, Dad."

"Hey, what about me?" Caitlin said jokingly. "You know Martin and I are old rivals. No playing favourites!"

Geoff chuckled at the sally. "You're my staunch lass, steady as a rock."

"True, true," Caitlin nodded. "Martin always did have his head in the clouds."

"Hey!" Martin protested.

"Literally these days," Carolyn contributed.

"Yeah!" Arthur said.

"This isn't fair," Martin complained. "If you're all going to gang up on me, I'll just have to console myself with the last of the trifle." He snagged the bowl before Caitlin beat him to it. "Ha!"

"Children," Wendy reproved, but she was smiling. "You should ask guests if they want more first."

"Oh, no, let them go at it," Douglas suggested as Caitlin threatened Martin with a spoon. "I'm quite enjoying seeing the true Martin in his native habitat."

..

.

June 2013

It's dark, the shapes of trees and hedgerows darker shapes against the night sky. Martin looks back at his van, parked on the grass of the roadside verge, before starting down the road. A cool breeze touches his face and he shivers. The crackle of dry branches makes him stop, turning in place. "Hello?" There's nothing. He picks up the pace. Maybe he should go back to his van. Can he do that? Is it possible?

A low growl has him spinning around. A dark silhouette is moving toward him with a slow, dragging pace. He clenches his hands and waits. The skin is of the thing is pale and he can see the gleam of white irises within deep sockets. "It's not real." The scent of mildew assaults his nostrils and he chokes. "I've been here already, I survived this. I'm still here, still here," he chants to himself. His heart rate speeds up in spite of his mantra. "It's okay. I survived this." He takes a shaky breath, breathes out slowly. The surroundings begin to fade, the figure dissolving in a pixelated blur.

..

Martin pulled off the virtual reality head rig with hands that shook slightly and sagged back in his seat. "Ugh," he said in perfect eloquence. His shirt was sticking to him with sweat and cooling quickly.

The doctor monitoring the session smiled, her eyes on the computer readings. "Doing much better, Martin. You're coming along quite nicely with the graduated exposure approach."

"I'm glad we took it," Martin says. He pushed away the armature of the machine that delivered breezes and scent during the simulation and leaned forward, bracing elbows on his knees. "God. I never liked the smell of mildewed clothing. Is it weird that I'm almost getting used to it?"

"Part of the process, reducing potential triggers."

"That was new, though - the eyes. You added that in." Martin shivered and plucked at his shirt. "Scary."

The doctor looked up. "Considering your more recent trauma and your work environment, I thought you ought to get used to that sooner rather than later."

"Yeah," Martin agreed. "I don't want to keep freaking out over seeing PDSers in their natural state. It's… it's what they are. Can't change it, so it's not fair to them."

"Them?" She tilted her head. "Your coworkers?"

"Douglas and Arthur, sure. And the clients. And… and the untreated ones." Martin shrugged. "All of them."

The doctor nodded in approval. "You are coming along," she said.

..

.

Fitton

Douglas wiped the last of the cover-up from the tricky spot under his ear and dropped the tissue in the bin with a grunt. He regarded his reflection, glum. With his brown contacts still in, he looked positively vampiric. In the other room, his mobile rang and he scowled. Damn it, he rarely got phone calls at this hour - it could only be one person. Irritated, he stalked in, snatched it up and stabbed the connect button.

"Carolyn, I'm not available for another last minute flight, I don't care what incentive you offer me! You've worked Martin and me like slaves for the last six days and it's my day off, so -"

"Daddy?" The voice on the other end was hesitant. "Is that - is that you?"

"Olivia?" Douglas dropped abruptly into a kitchen chair. "Yes. Yes, it's me."

"Daddy," Olivia said in obvious relief and Douglas covered his mouth, afraid of what noise might escape him. "I got your email and I just had to call. It's been so long! How… how are you?"

It took Douglas a few moments before he collected himself enough to manage, "All the better for hearing your voice, darling."

..

.

August, 2013, Boston, en route from Toronto to London

"Sir, I need you to come with me to a separate screening room." Arthur fidgeted under the large American security officer's stare. He wished Douglas was here with him - he didn't like doing the screenings without him. Mum and Douglas were already through the barrier with the paperwork for his and Douglas' bottles of Neurotriptyline and waiting for them impatiently on the other side.

"Sure. Um. D'you want me to bring my bag?"

"No, sir, we'll be looking through it. Leave it on the table there."

"Oh, come on," Martin said. "Do you really think he's got some kind of weapon that will inflict Partially Deceased Syndrome on helpless Americans?"

"Sir." The man turned to him. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that pawing through his bag while he's not here is… is just not on," Martin said. "Carry-on bags are supposed to be screened in the presence of their owners!" Arthur blinked at Martin. Gosh, Skip really did know all the rules! Martin went on, "I can tell you exactly what dangerous items he's got in there - about ten bags of those horrible Hershey's kisses, a volume of some weird Japanese comic called One Piece and a tube of mousse make-up!"

"If the tube is larger than three point five ounces, we have to confiscate it."

Martin rolled his eyes at the man's zealotry and Arthur bit his lip. It was great of Skip to stand up to this man, but Arthur wasn't sure it was the time for it. He could see his mum through the plexiglass, mouthing What's going on? at him. He shrugged and gestured to Martin. He could almost hear her exasperated sigh. He definitely saw her cover her face with her palm.

The security man glared at Martin. "And what, may I ask, is wrong with Hershey's kisses?"

"Nothing, besides tasting like cheesy chocolate vomit," Martin said. "Why do Americans like them so much?"

"I'm afraid I don't care for your assertion, sir," the man growled.

"But by all means, take them if you like them!" Martin said. "Confiscate the whole lot. Eat them in front of him! It's not like you need to treat him with respect, do you? You're the almighty TSA, and Arthur's just a Partially Deceased, but I - I'm his captain! And his friend. And I'm telling you, if you think Arthur's some kind of threat, you are seriously wide of the mark!"

"Um, Skip…" Arthur began. He didn't actually want the man to eat his chocolates, those were souvenirs for friends! But he kind of wanted to give Skip a hug for saying he was Arthur's friend. "Don't worry about it, I'll just go and get checked -"

"You shouldn't have to," Martin said, but he was winding down. "It's wrong, the way they treat you like, like some kind of bio-terrorist. It's prejudice, plain and simple."

"Right." The man picked up the clipboard, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Crieff, Martin. Captain with MJN, specialty charter for PDS sufferers?"

"Yes, well spotted," Martin said.

"And you've been in close proximity with undead since…?"

"November of last year."

The man's smile was thin. "I'm afraid we'll need to you to go to Quarantine for a thorough check."

"What?" Martin yelped. "What for?"

"New TSA regulations, sir. You've been exposed for over six months to Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferers, some of them untreated." The man's tone was mock virtuous. "We need to be certain of your health. Sir."

"Are you joking?" It was kind of cool, Arthur thought, how Skip's freckles disappeared when he got red like that. Martin went on, voice rising, "You do know you can't catch Partially Deceased Syndrome, don't you? That in order for me to be one of them, I'd have to have died four years back? Would that suit you, getting to use the full weight of the TSA's ridiculous iron hand on me? But only if it's wearing a latex glove coated with cooty spray!"

"Um, Skip." Mum was making throat-cutting gestures at Arthur through the glass, but Martin was on a roll.

"Even if Arthur bit you, you won't catch deadness! God!"

"Have you ever been in a situation where an undead bit you or caused you to come in contact with any form of undead bodily liquids?" the security man said.

"Well, yes, and I don't see how that's any of your - oof!" The iron hand of the TSA descended on Martin in the form of an overly eager and annoyed agent.

"Sir, I'm afraid you definitely have to go to Quarantine now," the man cheerfully boomed over Martin's squawks. "Come along with me! Sir. You, too," he added to Arthur.

Oh, dear. Arthur gave his mother a helpless look, scooped up his flight bag and followed the man as he frog-marched Martin away.

..

.

Later

"Well," Arthur said from his cot, staring into the darkness. "This is kind of fun. I mean, the last time Douglas and I did this, he was awfully grumpy and just went to sleep. But now Martin and Mum are with us! It's like summer camp." He sighed happily. "Can we sing a campfire song?"

"Best not. Your mother and Martin are both grumpy this time," Douglas said from somewhere to his left.

"You're not, are you?" Arthur asked.

"No," Douglas said dryly. "I'm not. Rather pleased and amused that it's not anything I did or am that landed us in quarantine quarters for twenty-four hours."

"It's not my fault," Martin said. He sounded sulky. "That man was overbearing and officious and had an over-inflated sense of his own importance and -"

"Sounds like a certain captain I know," Douglas remarked.

"Shut up!"

"Skip was kind of brilliant, though!" Arthur said. "Except maybe at the end. He was really standing up for us PDSers!"

"Thank you, Arthur." Martin was mollified by this.

"As much as I appreciate your stalwart defense of my son, Martin," Carolyn said from across the room. "I'll ask you to refrain in the future when dealing with airport security. I'm too old to be spending my night in accommodations as lacking as these and if it happens again..." She shifted, the rickety cot groaning. "I'll end you."

There was a brief silence. Then Martin spoke up. "If you do, I'll… I'll come back and haunt you."

Arthur snorted a giggle. "Well, that would be singular," Douglas commented. "Dead Air, indeed. To infinity and beyond." He chuckled over Carolyn's grumble and Arthur grinned. He was about as happy as he'd ever been, being here with his friends and Mum. And yet… Something was missing.

"I find I'm not sleepy. Word game, anyone?" Douglas offered. "Movie titles with one letter removed. In Martin's honour - Fight Cub."

"Hey!"

"Aging Bull," Carolyn supplied.

"That's hurtful, Carolyn."

"Who said I was dedicating it to you? Though if the shoe fits…"

"Martin?"

"Wait, wait, let me think. Man of Stee… no, no."

"Ma of Steel would be your inestimable mother, Arthur."

"Douglas Richardson. I'm not sure whether that was a compliment or insult."

"Why can't it be both?"

"Oh, well done."

"Oh, hush, both of you, I'm still thinking! Um, um… Tar Trek into Darkness?"

Arthur sighed, content. That - that was it. Now everything was perfect.

..

.

Fitton

Douglas started as Carolyn jabbed him with her elbow, and focussed back on what Arthur was saying. He was relating his death-story again, and was so used to telling it that it came out inappropriately happy and entirely Arthur-esque.

"...and I was singing along to the radio, the Beatles, you know them? I guess everyone does. It was that one song, ooh, er, how does it go? 'Do you still like me, will you still see me? No, I'm sixty three!'"

"Hell of a swan-song," Douglas muttered to Carolyn. Her eyes crinkled up in amusement, before she converted it to a censorious glare.

"Shut up, shut up!" Martin hissed at him under his breath before clamping a hand over his mouth. Douglas' lips twitched as he watched Martin try and draw deep breaths in his effort to not to laugh out loud. Martin had come a long way. Before he'd started his therapy, Douglas doubted he'd have even been able to stay in the room with him and Arthur when they were sans their make-up. Now he was able to relax enough to laugh, and had even asked if they could help him out by not wearing cover-up to their sessions. They'd agreed, though both still retained their contacts. Douglas nodded at Martin and turned back to Arthur's monologue.

"And there were these bright lights coming at us from my side of the car, and this HUGE crash, like a hundred cats tipping over bins, and things went quiet and dark, bit of a relief after that noise. And then I woke up all cranky and hungry, like I'd forgot my dinner and then I pushed hard and…"

Douglas widened his eyes and cast the therapist a beseeching look. Lisa Hodges, a plump middle-aged woman was obviously wavering between firmness and exasperation at how her session had been hijacked by Arthur's babble. She took the hint and cleared her throat.

"Yes, thank you, Arthur! As it's our first session, we only needed you to share the story of how you died. We'll explore what came after and what you remember later, okay?"

Untroubled by the interruption, Arthur beamed at her. "Okay, Mrs Hodges!"

She paused. "You can call me Lisa, you know."

"Right-o, Mrs Hodges!"

Douglas managed to convert his bark of laughter into a coughing fit as Lisa looked quizzically at Carolyn, who only shook her head. He could practically hear the unspoken words. Yes, he was always like this. No, really, it's not brain damage. Just Arthur.

Martin had given up and was now openly grinning at Arthur's story, the tragedy of it worn away by Arthur's cheerful outlook. His voice was only a little strangled. "Th-thanks, Arthur. For sharing."

Lisa looked at Douglas. "Now, Douglas. Since you're the only other sufferer in our little group, would you mind telling us the story of your own death?"

Martin straightened up in his plastic seat, the smile dropping away.

Douglas cleared his throat. "Well, as I'm among friends, I suppose I can tell you the story of my demise. It's less cheerful than Arthur's, I'm afraid to say."

Martin nodded, his curiosity giving way to sympathy.

"That's okay, Douglas!" Arthur said. "It's just like all those message boards for PDSers. You'll feel loads better once you get it out, I bet."

"Thank you, Arthur." Douglas leaned forward, resting an elbow on a knee. "It happened while I was abroad. In Paris, a late flight. I was staying the night in a hotel. I'd got a call from my employer, Air England. They wanted to have me in for a meeting when I got back to London, a spot of trouble I'd landed in…"

Carolyn nodded, smug. "Smuggling," she said in a none-too-quiet aside to Martin. Martin frowned at him.

"Douglas!"

"Not to worry, my captain, my work record is as pure as driven snow nowadays," Douglas assured him.

"It had better be!"

"Anyway," Douglas said in a louder voice. "I had a drink in the hotel bar to both fortify and console myself, as one does in times of great personal distress."

"Drinking? Before a flight?" Martin was frowning at him again. Douglas quelled him with a glare for interrupting again.

"I went up to my room, to get the regulated amount of sleep before a flight, Captain Perfect." Martin sat back, arms crossed. Douglas dropped his voice to a sombre tone. "I was simply getting ready for bed, brushing my teeth when - it happened."

Arthur was agog. "What? Was someone waiting behind the shower curtain and leapt out to stab you?"

"No! This wasn't like some cheap horror film," Douglas said. "Though that would have been exciting."

"I'll bet on an aneurism for the next cheese tray," Martin said. Obviously the Captain Perfect shot rankled.

"No," Douglas said, expelling a disgusted breath.

"Heart attack," Carolyn guessed, looking him up and down.

Douglas pinned her with a minatory glare. "I'll have you know, I was in prime physical condition for a man my age, fondness for fine wines and cuisine aside! Now, are you done, or can I finish?"

She gestured like a grand lady. "My apologies. Please, do go on."

"Yes, sorry, Douglas." Martin did look sorry, the great softy. "You did die, after all. It must have been terrible."

"You have no idea," Douglas said. "Well. They do say it's the small things that get you in the end. I turned and my foot went out from under me. Water on the tiles. I hit my head on the lip of the toilet. One traumatic brain injury courtesy of a depressed skull fracture later, there I went. I never woke up again. Alive, anyway."

There was silence. "Wow," Arthur said. "That's too bad, Douglas." His face brightened. "Hey, it's almost what I guessed all those months back! Do I win?"

"Why not, Mr Shappey," Douglas said.

"Brilliant! Not about your dying, though, that was not-brilliant."

Douglas looked about, waiting for more expressions of sympathy. His brows snapped together when Carolyn smothered a giggle. His scowl deepened when he saw Martin's lips twitch.

"What the hell - I died, you sods! Alone on a bathroom floor in bloody Paris! What's so amusing about that?"

"Sorry! Sorry," Martin said. "You're right, absolutely right, Nothing funny about it. At all." His mouth twitched again but he clenched his jaw.

"Oh, can I ask a question?" Arthur said. "Was the toothbrush still in your mouth? Because that sounds like it might be icky. Did you Rise still tasting mint?"

Martin immediately bit his bottom lip but a strange whining noise escaped him.

"No, it's not the toothbrush that's important," Carolyn corrected her son. A gurgle of laughter muddled her words. "It's the toilet. Done in by the - by the bog!" The only word Douglas could best use to describe what came next from her evil mouth next was cackle.

"Towel about his middle," Martin suggested and then clapped a hand over his traitorous mouth, eyes swimming. Arthur was confused, looking from them to Douglas but beginning to smile.

Miffed, Douglas snapped, "Well, lovely. I'm so glad my death by cranial hemorrhaging amuses you!"

"No, no, it's tragic. Tragic," Carolyn managed, trying to control herself.

"For want of a bathmat," Martin said.

"The great Douglas Richardson was lost!" Carolyn finished and they both dissolved into whoops, Martin bent over and holding his stomach. Arthur started to giggle as their unhinged hilarity infected him.

"You horrible, horrible, unsympathetic miscreants," Douglas growled. "See if I ever tell you a touching and deeply personal story again." He sighed and let it go. He was all too aware of how ridiculous the end of his life was. Rather fitting, in its way. "Ha, ha. It's all fun and games until you find yourself staring up at the inside of a coffin."

Lisa's brows had climbed into her hairline while she watched this sideshow, but she only said, "Well, thank you for sharing, Douglas. Now, looking back on it, how does it make you feel, knowing your life was cut short -"

Carolyn's phone rang. She swallowed the rest of her laughter. "Sorry. I have to take this." She stood and moved away to talk.

Douglas took a moment to think about the question - his life, the myriad mistakes he'd made both alive and undead, how close he'd come to wasting even the second. Remembering the precipice he'd teetered on the day he'd bought a sheep's brain, he shuddered slightly. "Well. All things considered…" He looked at Carolyn, Arthur, Martin, thought of his daughter. "It was for the best," he finished and meant it.

"Really." Lisa's brows lifted again. "That's an unexpected attitude to take. But good."

"I hate to interrupt, but we need to cut our session short today," Carolyn said, returning and slipping her phone into her bag. "The ministry calls and we must answer. Well. It's been quite enjoyable, hasn't it? My apologies, Lisa. The same time next week? Grand."

"Not a problem," Lisa said. "Arthur, Douglas, I'd like you to consider my question in the intervening time. I look forward to seeing you all again. Quite the unusual group!" She smiled. "Affirmations before you go?"

"Sure thing, Mrs Hodges!" Arthur said. He started, Douglas a reluctant beat behind. "'I am a Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer…'"

Martin joined them on the last phrase. "And what they did in their untreated state is not their fault."

"Yeah! Thanks, Skip."

"What he said," Douglas agreed.

"I don't know," Martin said. "I mean, I know it's a good phrase, but, but it makes them sound, er…"

"Pitiable?" Carolyn said.

"Well, yeah. Like they're suffering all the time. Miserable." Martin wrinkled his brow at Arthur. "You're not, are you?"

"Not me, Skip!" Arthur said. "Life's just about as brilliant now as it was before!"

Douglas tapped his lip. "You're right, Martin. It could be improved. I think we need our own version."

"Um." Arthur screwed up his face in thought. "What we did in our untreated state -"

"Jettison that," Carolyn said. "What you are, right now…"

"What… we all are? Now?" Martin caught Douglas' eyes and flushed. "Well, all of us have come a long way, we're all different now from what we were before. Even us living people."

"What and who we are now," Douglas began.

"Can only makes us stronger?" Martin suggested.

"Gives us a second chance!" Arthur said.

"Mm. Not a bad start," Douglas allowed. "Still needs work, though." As they all did, he and Arthur and Martin and Carolyn. Well, it wasn't the end of the world to understand that.

Lisa was scribbling a note. "I like this, it's very positive and productive. Good idea, Martin."

"Minions mine," Carolyn said. "Business calls."

Douglas got up from his seat with a relieved sigh. "Back to the old grind, chaps."

"Can't wait," Martin said. Douglas rolled his eyes. Of course Martin was eager to get back to his beloved flying, not that Douglas begrudged him that singular happiness.

"We'd better hurry, then," he said. "Arthur and I need to get our slap on in time to placate the warmbloods."

"Hey!" Martin bumped his shoulder as they moved towards the door. "I resemble that remark."

"I know. I'm such a rotter, aren't I?" Douglas shot back with a smirk. Martin choked a laugh.

"Douglas! You - you can't say stuff like that!"

"And yet..." Douglas drawled. "It's as if you don't even know me, Martin."

They exchanged a grin. Carolyn made an impatient noise.

"Best hurry. Sounds like a category 1 storm gusting to two," Douglas remarked.

"We're coming," Martin said, and they all left together.

..

~Fin~

..

..

Story Notes and thanks:

Presented with thanks to my beta, alltoseek, alcyone, and madnina for being champs while I dithered on this, feeding ideas and correcting the appalling typos. Also special thanks to flatmate feikoi who came up with the frame for the story when I was short on ideas.

Extra thanks as well to my older sister Kirsten, who is a funeral director and thus was able to give me very good, realistic details about body preparation in different circumstances. It's because of her the tiny details in the first chapter scene with the Rising in the graveyard are correct. Our Twitter exchange before we took it to email must have been appalling to my followers (sorry!) and the pics she sent along most useful, and non-gory as I requested. Thank you!

I guess if one wanted, you could slip on slash glasses for Douglas and Martin, but that was never the point of this fic, so squint hard. It's true that they friends, and pretty good ones at that by the end of my story.

And thanks to everyone who read, favorited or commented, it measn a lot to us ficcers!

Jessamy