Chapter Summary: Douglas hits his limit. Arthur literally wins at The Game of Life. Carolyn signs MJN up for a course at Ipswich involving quiches and being shouted at by an ex-RAF man. Martin finds there's a border he'd rather not cross with PDSers, even if Douglas thinks it's for his own good.
Trigger warning for mild scene of a 'danger night'. Scroll to the bottom notes for more information.
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April, 2013, Port-au-Prince
"Nearly ten hours of flying may not be physically exhausting, but damned if the jetlag doesn't induce brain-death, sleep notwithstanding," Douglas grumbled. Rolled eyes and a ha, ha, very funny was Martin's only response to the morbid jest. "Heigh ho, homeward we go." He flicked on the intercom. "Good morning, this is your First Officer speaking. On behalf of Zed-Air and the warm-blooded Captain Crieff, we hope that our Arthur is all snugged into his seat and ready to fly into the great undiscovered country in the sky." A cheer was his reply and he switched off the intercom with snap. He was in a foul mood, having had to drag himself from his hotel bed after his third alarm had gone off. Not that it mattered if he missed breakfast with Martin and Arthur. He derived no sustenance from the meal anyway, neither nutritionally or intellectually.
"I don't know," Martin said. "I find it funnier that we were chartered to fly PDSers to Haiti, home of the ...well it's not a myth anymore, is it? The legend of zombies."
"At least Haiti welcomes them with open arms," Douglas said.
Martin wrinkled his nose. "True. It's not that I miss it, but I wonder if I'll ever get to fly to China. I mean, America's fanatical about their screening and Russia won't allow any PDSers to immigrate, but China? We can't even land there."
"Sod the so-called Land of the Free," Douglas said with vehemence. "You got to stay in a hotel. Arthur and I weren't allowed beyond quarantine and had to kip on some cots." The air of suspicion and open prejudice had made Douglas very glad to return home, even if his flat was far from palatial.
"It wasn't a nice hotel," Martin said. "The mattress felt like it was full of old socks. Smelled like it, too." But he had the grace to look shamefaced. "I hear they're loosening up on the regs now, though."
"Forgive my lack of sympathy," Douglas said. "But being a PDSer is rubbish. You don't have to live it. I do, if living is the right phrase."
Martin surprised him by not shrinking under his bitter words but looked at him with a crease between his brows. "No, I don't - I mean, I'm not… not like you. But if working with you and Arthur and having a dad with the syndrome isn't living with it, what is?"
"I'll present you with a tube of my mousse cover-up and a medal forthwith, then," Douglas sniped. "You're practically one of us, I see that now."
"Only in the sense that I'll die one day myself," Martin shot back.
"How philosophical of you."
Martin squinted at him. "You're really at the top of your game today, aren't you? I'll have to save up some of your witticisms for my dad."
Douglas eyed him. "Your dad? See much of him nowadays, then?" After Martin's reaction upon hearing his father was ready to be released from the Centre, he had assumed that Martin would cut off contact with his undead parent.
"Yes," Martin drawled with some sarcasm. "I happen to be his son. I drive down to Wokingham when I can. We've got lots of catching up to do. At least I can see him. I mean, I sort of pity the families that fled the UK after the Rising - to Russia or China, at least. They're never going to see their PDS relations again, not unless they come back for a visit."
Douglas lifted a brow, taken aback at Martin's reasoning. "Maybe not all those families want to see them again."
"Yes… but they're missing out, and it's not fair to the PDSer, is it?" Martin said. "Second chances, like Arthur said. I - I wasn't sure at first, but… but I got one with my dad."
"So you have," Douglas said. The world had turned upside down without him noticing - fearful little Martin Crieff had turned into a PDS rights defender? When had that happened? He was certainly leaving Douglas in the dust conversationally today. "You really are okay with him being…?"
"It was never that," Martin said, eyes dropping to the yoke as he guided G-ERTI to the standby position in line behind another plane waiting for take-off.
"Hm." Ambiguous statement, that. Douglas supposed there could be lots of reasons a person might not be glad if a person came back from the dead - actual criminals or abusers being just a few examples. Or maybe Mr Crieff and Martin had just never gotten on. His conjecture was partially confirmed by Martin's next statement.
"We're getting the chance now to… to mend some fences." A pained smiled crossed Martin's face. "It's… it's been hard. But not many people get that, especially if the other person died."
Yes, Martin was right - not many people got the chance. The fact that Martin was willing to grasp the opportunity in spite of his continued discomfort with PDSers had something twisting unpleasantly inside Douglas' chest.
"But what about you, Douglas? You must have all your old Air England mates to see. And didn't you say you were married before?"
Douglas swallowed bile and tried for an even tone. "Three times, as a matter of fact. But alas, my third moved on to greener pastures whilst I lay beneath them. I don't hold it against her - we were on the rocks anyway."
"Oh. Sorry to hear it." Martin blinked. "Three times? Wow. I can't even get a date! Do you have any children?"
Douglas' neck was stiff but he nodded. "A daughter, with my second wife. Olivia. She… she'd be thirteen this year."
"That's great!" Martin said, oblivious to Douglas' darkening expression. "It - it must have been hard for her, losing you at such a young age. She must be thrilled to have you back."
"I wouldn't know. I haven't seen her."
"Douglas!" Martin was aghast. "Why not? Don't you think you should?"
"No," Douglas said. "As it happens, I don't."
Martin pushed on, a missionary suddenly determined to fix all family relations. "I mean, it might be rather rough for her with her friends, telling them that her dad is a Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer…"
Douglas' patience was fraying, threads snapping away with every word Martin babbled. He tried to cut him short. "Martin…"
"But I'm sure she still loves you -"
Douglas turned on him. "Oh, yes, a bit rough. I divorced her mother, I didn't have the decency to exercise my rights to see her often enough when I was living, and then - then I died and started eating people. So, no, I haven't seen her. I'm not going to see her again."
Martin had shrunk away from Douglas' outburst. He swallowed but then had the temerity to whisper, "I - I still think you should try."
"Martin, shut up. Just - shut up," Douglas said. No more was spoken between them other than what was needed to pilot G-ERTI.
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Fitton
He's running, limping and it's dark. His gasping shouts for help fade to nothing in the night's stillness. Oh god, oh god, what if he's still behind him, what if he can't outrun him? He glances behind frequently and the terrible dread keeps him stumbling forward.
Martin woke with a gasp, heart pounding. Oh. Oh, that had been bad. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing until his heart slowed. He hated that dream, that endless stretch of time when he'd been praying for help and no one had been there. He groaned. He'd thought he'd get better after he'd talked with his dad, that the nightmares would stop. Apparently not.
Flopping back on his pillow, he reached for his phone. He couldn't go back to sleep immediately after a dream like that, and he had a PDF of flight ops he could read. Might as well try to relax. Perhaps his brain could be tricked into dreams of work, as hilariously mundane as that might be. He squinted into the glare of his phone screen and began to review.
Douglas trudged along the street under grey skies, carrier bag swinging from one hand. Thank goodness his old skills in bartering were as good as they'd ever been. Mr Massoud, the owner of a local shop had been too suspicious to deal with a PDSer. His teenage son, however, had been amenable to suggestion in the form of a roll of bills and had finally come through. The soft package wrapped in butcher's paper nestled on top of several rolls of paper towels and other cleaning supplies with a newspaper covering the lot.
As he passed a small playground noisy with the shouts of children, he kept his eyes on the pavement. But a small voice piped up.
"You're him. That Rotter that lives in the same building with Tommy?"
Douglas looked at the source of the question. A boy of about ten or eleven was looking at him with the bravado of the typical young male. It was the stone-throwing brat of the other day, Douglas saw.
Douglas stopped. "What makes you say that?"
"Saw you, didn't I. With my own eyes. All grey and pin-eyed and everything." The brat scanned him from head to foot. "Yeah. It's you. Like Tommy said."
"Is Tommy the asthmatic charmer who keeps scrawling messages on my door in Sharpie?" Douglas enquired, half-amused.
The boy's expression turned shifty. "Might be."
"Tell him I'm horribly offended."
His pint-sized interlocutor made a scornful noise. "Yeah?"
Douglas put on his best superior expression, as wasted as it was on this unequal match. "Yes. 'Rotter' has two T's, 'die' shouldn't have a Y and 'Munster' is actually a type of cheese. His spelling is atrocious."
The boy was less than impressed with this slight upon his wheezy friend. In a conversational tone he gave Douglas a few choice observations. "My Mum says your type is an unnatural abomination. She says you'll burn in hell."
"She says that, does she?" Douglas said, stung in spite of himself. "She might not be wrong. Tell me, is she a doctor of theology?"
The sarcasm, unsurprisingly, passed over the brat's head. "You should be dead. All of you Rotters!"
"Yet here I am," Douglas said. "Funny old world, isn't it?"
"Harry, come on!" The high-pitched shout came from a younger girl running up to the boy. "You said you'd play on the tyre swing with me." Her voice was plaintive and coaxing.
Harry scowled at her. Siblings, definitely, Douglas thought to himself. "You can swing yourself."
"But you're the best at pushing, come on!" She pulled on his jacket sleeve, half-dragging him around until he laughed and gave in.
"Okay, okay, I'm coming." With a grin she was off and running to the swings. Harry looked at Douglas, the affectionate smile twisting into a smirk. "See you 'round, Rotty." He shoved hands in his pockets and turned away.
Douglas looked past him at the girl, bundled in a vivid red coat against the April chill, her brown plait bouncing as she hopped on her toes waiting for her brother. Douglas turned his head away and walked on.
He hadn't taken more than ten paces before he abruptly leant against a post, head down and eyes closed.
The process of returning to his flat was as blank as his time as a rabid, but Douglas found himself sitting in his kitchen. The carrier bag sagged on the table in front of him, the wrapped package just visible under the newspaper. Douglas stared at it for several minutes before fumbling his phone from his pocket.
He found himself calling Arthur, of all people. The screen of his phone blurred. He frowned at his trembling hand and braced it against the tabletop to find the number. After a short exchange he pulled his laptop over and flipped it open, effectively blocking his view of the shopping bag.
After about half an hour, a knock sounded. "Come in," Douglas said. "The door's not locked."
Arthur clattered into his flat, thumped several bags on the floor and hung his coat neatly, chattering all the while. "Thanks for inviting me over, Douglas! Wow, so this is your place? It's brilliant. I love kitchenettes, they're like little doll-house kitchens, except big! I hope you don't mind, I didn't know what DVDs you might have so I brought some of mine. And a bunch of puzzles and some board games! What do you want to do first?"
Douglas shook himself from the usual bemusement that a talkative Arthur induced and replied. "Actually, I had meant to tidy up a bit for company. Well, I say company, but I mean you."
"Aw! Really?" Arthur beamed. "That's nice, but you don't have to go to the trouble for me. Hey, I have an idea. We can have a cleaning party! D'you have any good music?"
Douglas considered his digital collection of classical music and opera and Arthur's likely musical tastes. "No, I don't."
Arthur was undeterred. "That's all right! We can put a DVD on… oh." Arthur had noticed the lack of a TV. Douglas began to wonder if he'd done the right thing, asking Arthur to come. With an effort he thrust his decimated house-pride down and lifted his chin.
"I didn't see the point of buying a telly," he said.
"Well, yeah!" Arthur agreed. "Waste of money if you just use your PC to watch stuff online all the time. I do that loads. We can put one of the films I brought on your computer and just listen to it. Well, we'd be mostly just listening to it anyway if we're going to be doing some cleaning. Where should I start?"
Ah, that was the question - and there was only one good answer. "There's one thing that needs to go right away, if you don't mind, Arthur. In the carrier bag - that small package?"
Arthur withdrew it and hefted it. "What is it?"
"Sheep's brains," Douglas said.
"Brains? From a sheep?" Arthur looked at the innocuous package as if he'd been asked to accept a dead rat. "Eurgh! Why on earth would you have that?"
"It was a mistake," Douglas said with perfect truth. If Arthur didn't know that it was one of the few things that PDSers could consume in order to experience a high, he wasn't going to enlighten him. "Never mind, it's just something that needs to go."
"Shall I put it in the trash?" Arthur asked.
"No," Douglas said. "No, I think it should be flushed, if you please. And wash your hands afterwards."
"No worries about that!" Arthur wrinkled his nose and went to the small bathroom. Douglas heard rustling. "Oh, yuck!" Arthur exclaimed and Douglas had to smile. The toilet flushed and his shoulders relaxed.
And that was the lovely thing about Arthur - he didn't question Douglas' odd request or worry about why he'd got a phone call to come to Douglas' flat out of the blue. Arthur pulled out one of his favorite films and loaded it into Douglas' PC. Together they listened to the story of a little fish taken far away from his family and trying to find his way home while the daddy fish searched for his son. After all the surfaces of the flat were dusted and polished, Douglas submitted to a round of The Game of Life.
Arthur beat him soundly, but Douglas decided he wouldn't ponder the significance of his loss too deeply, smiling at Arthur's obvious pleasure.
"Another round? Or a different game?"
"Okay! I've got Trouble. Or Sorry! Oh, and Chutes and Ladders. Or…" Arthur rummaged in his bags. He held up a pack of cards. "Uno?"
"Uno it is," Douglas said firmly.
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Ipswich
Martin wasn't thrilled to be going to Ipswich for a Safety and Emergency Procedures course on his day off. But Carolyn had pointed out that the CAA were watching MJN closely, due to their unusual crew and passengers and were likely to come down hard if they didn't keep strictly up to date. Douglas' glee at the catering mix-up had him eyeing his first officer with disapproval but really! Two hundred quiches for two living humans? What had they been thinking? Carolyn and Martin both rejected Arthur's suggestion that they take whatever was uneaten home. As he told Arthur, even if he managed two quiches a day for the next month and a half, he'd soon be very, very sick of them.
Dr Duncan's session for the pilots quickly descended into sniping between himself and Douglas. Douglas' insouciant air of superiority was just so, so… irritating! The more Douglas highlighted Martin's inexperience as a captain with his own splendid past at Air England, the more Martin bristled and shot out all the answers to technical questions before Douglas opened his mouth. Not that he often bothered to - it seemed that Douglas couldn't be bothered to take the course seriously. It was just so patronising, so Douglas that Martin found he was grinding his teeth.
The one-on-one session for first officers seemed to dampen Douglas' mood, which surprised Martin. He cast him a curious glance before joining Dr Duncan for his own session, wondering at what Dr Duncan had said. Was the man against PDSers holding jobs as pilots? He didn't look as if he were overly bothered by the presence of Arthur and Douglas.
No, it wasn't prejudice that had upset Douglas, Martin soon realised. Only the content of the workshop. Dr Duncan quizzed him on procedure for 'MJN's special circumstances', and was genuinely amazed at how quickly Martin was able to give detailed answers. Proper transport of rabids, what to do in cases of missed doses of Neurotriptyline, keeping the safety buffer between cabin and flight deck locked and so on. The words tripped off his tongue without a stutter. It was ops and regs. He could do those all day - so long as he didn't think too much about the subject matter. But when the topic turned to more direct interactions with PDSers, he began to get flustered.
"...and, and if the situation arises where I'm not able to get to a safe area within the plane, I must… must use my personal contact taser or the ones located fore and aft in the cabin to subdue the PDS sufferer. If they aren't wearing a collar, the catch pole should be used, putting the loop around the neck to control them. Otherwise, a, a… leash must be attached to the collar in order to return them to the enclosure or secure them to one of the ringbolts found beneath every other seat row. Then I radio for help and explain the situation."
Dr Duncan nodded. "Yes, yes, quite right." He pushed his glasses up on his nose and glanced at his notes. "Now, you work with two PDS sufferers, one of them in the flight deck. What would you do?"
Martin swallowed. "If - if Douglas…?"
"If for some reason he went rabid, yes." Dr Duncan's brows creased in sympathy at Martin's discomfort. "Sorry. I have to ask."
Martin didn't want to think about it, even though he knew what had to be done perfectly well. He didn't want to imagine facing a rabid Douglas. Douglas, black-mouthed and growling, turning his greater size and strength on Martin - no, no, don't think about it, just answer the question.
Martin went through the procedure to subdue his first officer slowly. The last step came haltingly. "In the event of any of the procedures failing - the taser, the restraints to keep Doug… to keep the copilot in his chair… If the captain's life is in extreme peril, the captain must. Must." He gulped. "The captain - he must…"
"Yes?"
"The captain must use the fire axe." Martin's stomach turned over. "In the head."
"Correct. Now, on to another topic - crew resource management…" Martin breathed relief and turned his thoughts to something somewhat more pleasant.
The simulation with the smoke-filled fuselage, amazingly, went even worse than Martin's personal session. Martin glared over the oxygen mask he held to his face at the former RAF man, Mr Sargent. The instructor was smirking over his clipboard, pleased that they'd failed the test. It hardly seemed fair - Douglas and Arthur didn't really need smoke hoods except possibly to keep their contacts clear. He silently cursed the man for choosing Arthur to lead the four of them from the fuselage. Arthur had got confused and led them in circles until Martin's inner ear problem had acted up and he'd fainted. To make things worse, he'd knocked his smoke hood off.
"Skip, you sure you're all right?" Arthur was all guilty concern.
Martin relinquished the oxygen mask to Carolyn and tried to reassure Arthur. "Yes, I'm fine now. Much better. Don't worry."
"Oh, good!" Arthur smiled. "It was sort of brilliant, wasn't it? Not you falling down, Skip, that was definitely not brilliant. But the way Douglas carried you out was! It was like Dracula holding a swooning lady!"
Martin choked at the visual. Carolyn lifted a brow at her son. "Arthur, dear heart, did you just make a joke about Douglas? Or Martin? I can't quite tell."
"Neither! He really did look all swoony!" Arthur protested.
"Arthur," Carolyn sighed. "Oh, never mind. Go and fetch Martin some water. I have to talk to Mr Sargent about redoing the simulation."
"Right-o!"
Left alone, Martin looked at Douglas. "Th-thank you for… you know. Carrying me out. It could have got bad, what with my smoke hood getting knocked loose."
A half-smile lifted the corner of Douglas' mouth. "You're welcome. Glad to know I'm good for more than just flying and eating brains."
"Douglas!" Martin said. "That's not true. I think you're, you're better than that."
"Do you? That's some small comfort," Douglas said. "I always did fancy myself as another Biggles. Though my imagination never quite extended to carrying my limp captain in my arms bridal-style."
Martin wrinkled his nose at him. "My hero."
Douglas grinned at that, amused, handsome and… and living, just alive. It was horrible and unfair that the CAA expected Martin to just take that from Douglas if things went wrong! He had to say something. "In my session, we talked about - about flight ops. Dr Duncan asked me… You do know that the regulations say I'm supposed to, to kill you. If -"
"I know." Douglas grimaced. "If."
"I don't want to, Douglas!"
Douglas' face was sober. "Martin, if it comes down to it, you have to. Don't hesitate."
"But -"
"I won't be myself. I won't know it's you, and I won't care." Douglas held his gaze, completely serious. "It'll be a mercy."
"But you might come back! You can get better from being rabid!" Martin protested. "You'd just need another dose of Neurotriptyline!"
"But it would be too late for you." Douglas gave him a smile, lifting his brows in his typical Douglas-fashion. "Regulations, Captain Crieff."
"Bugger the regs!" Martin burst out and then clapped a hand over his mouth in mortification as Douglas roared with laughter. "Oh my god, I've turned into you," he moaned. "Stop laughing, you - you ape! How can you laugh about me using a fire axe on you?"
Douglas' shoulders shook with fresh chuckles. "No, no, stop. I can just see you fumbling about all off-balance with your hat falling over your eyes. Do you even know which is the working end?"
"Of course I do, I'm not an idiot!" Martin sputtered. "And I can't believe you have the nerve to lecture me on regulations anyway, First Officer Lay-about!"
"That's me," Douglas agreed. "A disgrace to the aviation community before, during and after." He extended a hand and without a thought Martin took it and allowed himself to be heaved to his feet. "Arthur's taking a long time to get that water. He's probably lost. Shall we find him?"
Martin began to nod but then frowned, attention caught. "Are you all right? Did you inhale some of the smoke or something? You've got…" He gestured at Douglas' face. A cold shiver went down his spine.
Douglas swiped under his nose and looked at the black stain with annoyance. "Damn. Maybe I did."
Martin passed him a tissue, proud that his hands didn't shake, though the small black seepage was unnerving him. "We ought to tell the trainers, find out what chemicals are in it! What if it affects other PDSers?"
"No, don't worry about it, it's just a nose-bleed… I mean, a runny nose." Douglas checked the tissue. "Look, it's stopped. And… ah, I see our mistress and commander is signalling us." From across the room, Carolyn was beckoning them over. Martin exchanged a look of long-suffering with Douglas. Douglas heaved a sigh. "Come on, captain. Let's go and be lectured at by the bullet-headed shouty man."
"Mr Sargent," Martin corrected but his lips twitched.
"Isn't that what I said?" said Douglas in his most innocent tone. Martin rolled his eyes and followed him.
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Story Notes: **Trigger Warning - Douglas, as an ex-alcoholic and general hedonist in life, has what might be considered an addictive personality this fic. The tendency is exacerbated by his depression over his current life. As oblivion through alcohol is no longer an option, he buys the only thing beside Blue Obivion drug seen in In The Flesh that will take him away from himself. He hits his limit when he see the little girl in the playground. Subsequently he calls Arthur for an intervention.
Also, every game Arthur brought to Douglas' place is a metaphor about losing at life, really. (Except Uno.) Poor Douglas. The 'Finding Nemo' bit was written ages before the Zurich episode aired, so that's a happy coincidence.