Hello - thank you to my reviewers, who are always fantastic
This chapter is super long, and I'm not posting at 11:30 at night for once, so I'm feeling okay about it in the grand scheme of things
Edinburgh
It was fair to say that Martin did not like Mr Birling. In all honesty, Deborah didn't particularly like Mr Birling, but over the years she had developed a sort of resistance to his brashness, much like one would to a bigoted, highly opinionated grandfather who was likely to bequeath unto one very large amounts of money should the wind blow in the right direction.
And it was nice to see a familiar face once a year, to have some sort of routine. At the very least, Birling day ensured that Deborah was out of the house during the Six Nation's Final. Harry would always sit down to watch it, taking up the sofa and cheering at the top of his voice.
It was distracting at best, and meant that boredom was at the top of the menu for the day; there was no point even trying to engage Harry when the rugby was on. He seemed to think that she wouldn't be interested and rather ignored her.
So Deborah had been looking forward to introducing Martin to the traditions of Birling Day. She hadn't expected him to stoop and toady to him; no, the Supreme Commander would never deign to subordinate himself in such a way.
Martin would inevitably make a fuss, adopting his prissy shrillness and talk down his nose, but it would be fun to watch. She didn't tell him about the tips at first, willing to reveal all once he had made just a little bit of a fool of himself.
Then she would tell him, and he would be able to patch things up before Mr Birling realised that Captain Crieff wasn't showing him the respect that he demanded.
Except…Martin hadn't just been prissy. He was being downright snappish, replying waspishly to each jesting remark that Deborah made in an attempt to cheer him up.
At which point she decided that if he was going to be rude, he couldn't find out about the tips at all.
Over the past few months she had gone above and beyond the call of duty to be nice, to try and get along with him, to try and set up some sort of friendly working relationship, and every time Martin would play along for a while, give her a slither of hope, and then slash the very slither with a sudden U-turn.
Why should she do anything nice for him, when all he ever did was take each and every opportunity to demean and insult her, making fun of the slightest deviation from her perfected façade and clamping down on any show of free-will or innovation on the flight-deck.
No, if Martin wasn't going to play nice, she and Arthur could reap the benefits without him.
As they wandered across the airfield towards GERTI, Martin strode ahead, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders held stiffly; Deborah was sure that if she could see his face, he would be pouting petulantly.
Meanwhile, Deborah maintained a steady pace beside Arthur, who was making animated hand movements as he divulged all his troubles, clearly taking advantage of the opportunity provided by her thoughtful silence as she watched Martin's retreating back.
"Arthur, you don't have to learn a list of sporting trivia just to impress Mr Birling," Deborah sighed, taking her eyes from Martin to meet Arthur's single-minded gaze, "He's only here once a year, and all he actually cares about is whether you can serve him his drinks; there's no point."
"Yeah…but maybe if I know more about rugby, he'll like me more, and he won't make fun of me so much." Arthur reasoned, shrugging as if he had no other option in the world.
Deborah rolled her eyes and drew her arms loosely around her chest against the slight breeze.
"Not everyone likes everyone else Arthur, and it's not important that Mr Birling likes you." She told him.
"But you don't like a lot of people, but you like me." Arthur replied, smiling encouragingly, turning as he walked so that he could face her as he talked.
Ahead of them, the door to the cabin cracked open and Martin disappeared inside its shell without a backwards look. As they followed him up the steps, Deborah tipped her head back and groaned.
"I suppose so…" Deborah drawled; she took another look at Arthur's face and found that she couldn't deny him, "Oh, go on, run your newly learnt facts by me."
"Brilliant! Well, I've never been good at remembering the teams and things," Arthur clapped his hands together, and Deborah smirked faintly at his enthusiasm as she entered the cabin, to see Martin slumped tensely in the aisle seat of Row A, "but now I've got a new way of remembering, because Ireland wear green, 'cause shamrocks are green; Scotland wear blue, 'cause it's cold in Scotland; England wear red 'cause the flag's red, white and blue."
"England wear white." Deborah corrected him, turning away to approach Martin, standing before him. He didn't look up, when her shadow fell over him, and Arthur kept talking in the background, seemingly unaware of her preoccupation.
"Oh yeah: England wear white 'cause the flag's red, white and blue; France …" Arthur reeled off.
"Yes, jolly good." Deborah waved a dismissive hand in Arthur's direction, shutting him up efficiently, before putting on the sweetest tone she could manage, "Er, Martin, Mr. B's all settled and I've got the weather for you."
As annoyed as she was with Martin, his current mood was the wrong type of irritable; there was ruffled and spluttering before bowing to the inevitable defeat, and then there was obnoxious and caustic. The latter was thoroughly uncomfortable to endure.
At the sound of her voice directed at him, Martin's head snapped up, and his eyes bored into hers as he sneered unpleasantly, one hand shooting upwards to scratch defensively at the side of his head.
"Never mind the weather. What was all that?!" he demanded waspishly, his eyes flickering up and down her form once, as if summing her up and revaluating the summation.
"All what?" Deborah retorted, raising her hands in a lame surrender; she had thought that he was upset about what Mr Birling had 'implied' about him, but apparently not.
"That astonishing display of synchronised sycophancy." Martin replied in a clipped tone; he folded both his arms and his legs fitfully, and even pressed his hat down on his head like a child would hug their comfort blanket.
"Oh, very good. Have you been working on that for a while?" Deborah drawled, putting on her best smile, which was more of a smirk; she wasn't going to let Martin ruin Birling day for her, and if that meant forcing the frivolity she was willing to endure, "It really was impressive."
Martin sighed in exasperation and shook his head, glaring sternly into her eyes, as if she had somehow broken his trust; she couldn't help but feel indignant at the implication.
"You said he was a nice old boy." Martin implored, cheeks flushing lightly with discontent, "He's a horrible old boy."
"What, Mr. B? No!" Arthur interjected; he crossed the cabin to stand beside Deborah, but she held him back with a raised arm, as Martin rolled his eyes.
"It's just his way, Martin – a little harmless joshing." Deborah explained, shrugging nonchalantly; she stepped over to drop lightly into the seat beside Martin, crossing one leg over the other and turning to face him.
Martin shifted in tandem, and held her gaze, effectively cutting Arthur from the conversation, although the steward continued to hover on the periphery, hands in pockets.
"He called you a failed criminal, and Arthur a repulsive half-wit." Martin retorted in a measured tone, as if he were presenting a perfectly reasonable argument, trying to win her over.
Deborah didn't respond immediately; it occurred to her, along with a tepid tingle in her chest, that perhaps Martin was simply trying to resurrect his colleagues to the degree of respect that they deserved, affronted on their behalves.
He hadn't even flinched over the criminal comment; he had only shot a covert glance at her expression the first time that Mr Birling had mentioned it.
Deborah could only feel gratitude for that, and that fact shifted her perception of the Captain ever so slightly. She had been very careful about revealing too much of that aspect of her life, afraid that it might set Martin against her for good. However, he didn't seem to be affected at all.
Martin hadn't scorned her or treated her any differently, save for the atrocious mood that he was in…perhaps she was being a bit hard on him.
"And you …" Arthur began, trying to be helpful as always.
"I know what he called me. Now how is that 'harmless joshing'?" Martin interrupted; he slouched further in his seat, in an act of defiant resignation.
"Well, I think for someone from his background, it's …" Deborah clarified; she understood how one's upbringing could skew one's behaviour. It didn't make it right, but it meant that she could experience the onslaught while realising that he didn't really mean to be mean.
"Oh, I see." Martin sighed disdainfully, "I know what this is. It doesn't matter how nasty he is, so long as he went to a jolly good public school, like you two. Tell me Deborah, do they teach you how to be entitled in these posh girl's schools?"
And there it was, Martin's fall back onto the person attack. It wasn't her fault he didn't get the magical upbringing he desired; if anything, he was more of a classist than she ever had been. Any affection she had been regaining vaporised.
"Oh, now, that's not fair at all! You have no frame of reference from which to form that accusation." Deborah insisted, making sure to mask her insulted almost-whine; she took a breath and reasserted her suavity, laying her hands down and open in the air, "Besides, Arthur went to a ghastly public school."
"It's true, I did. I mean, once, I was top in my year." Arthur admitted, rubbing bashfully at the back of his neck and leaning against the opposite row of chairs, "Me!"
Martin inhaled deeply, and then blew out through his nose, pinching his eyes as if steadying himself to resignation. At that point, Deborah wasn't even sure how she was feeling about him.
Unhappy…but she wasn't yet at the point where she no longer liked him…though even that was tenuous.
"Well, for the duration of the trip, can we all please try to have a little professional dignity and not go all gooey just because a man in an embroidered waistcoat calls us 'dear boys'?" Martin instructed; Deborah thought he sounded as if he were making one last attempt at imposing his authority over them, despite suspecting that it wouldn't work.
He couldn't be allowed to think that he had won.
"He didn't call you a 'dear boy'; he called you a 'little man'." Deborah remarked, making absolutely sure that Martin's attention was on her as she ran her eyes from his toes to the tip of his hat, as if to emphasise Mr Birling's prior judgement.
Martin's eyes narrowed, and he returned a sort of sardonic half-smirk, huffing as he maintained eye contact, peering across at her from beneath the hat which had slipped forward until the flap was covering his eyebrows in a debonair manner.
For a brief moment Deborah mused that it looked rather dashing on him, with his ginger hair poking out from beneath it and a completely confident epitome of petulance painting his expression. Then she caught herself, and looked away.
"Martin, you don't understand, though …" Arthur stated, catching Martin's attention successfully this time.
"He understands perfectly, Arthur." Deborah cut him off, raising an eyebrow and thinning her lips in warning. She cursed inwardly as it didn't work, and Martin turned his back to her fully, addressing Arthur instead.
"Hang on. Hang on. I know that tone of voice." Martin interrogated; Deborah felt a surge of insult as Martin bypassed her completely, as if she weren't worth asking herself, "What's she trying to stop you from telling me?"
"I wouldn't dream of trying …" Deborah gritted through her teeth, but Martin merely waved a hand behind him.
"Arthur?"
"Well, I was just gonna say: what about the tips?" Arthur replied, grinning until the point in which he spotted Deborah's stormy stare over Martin's shoulder; his eyes fell and he looked sheepishly about the cabin floor.
"Ohhhh, I see…" Martin said sarcastically, returning to his former position to glare disdainfully at Deborah.
She noted how he left one arm hanging over the top of the seat; probably another subconscious attempt to highlight how he was the Captain, the one in charge, asserting his dominance…they were all the bloody same.
Deborah didn't care, she sat a little straighter and kept her expression as plain as his; he may be the Captain but she could damn well talk him under the table. She had changed her mind; Martin didn't deserve to get the big tip.
"Now, look …" she began to explain, though she made no effort to stop him from talking over her.
"Now it begins to make sense. Big tipper, is he?" Martin exclaimed, putting on a tone of awed suspense, his eyes widening sardonically as his arms motioned with his words, "How nice! So he can treat you how he likes, so long as he pays you off at the end of it. How very dignified."
"As if it's any of your business how dignified I am." Deborah couldn't stop herself from sneering, taking her eyes from his until she restarted her deception, "Regardless, it's not like that …"
"How much does he give you, then? Go on." Martin sat back and made circling motions with his hand; he sounded as if he had it all figured out, Deborah inwardly scoffed, reminding herself not to stare too furiously at his face or the blush on his cheeks.
"It's not … it's not a question of how mu…" she couldn't manage a full-on stutter, that would have been absurd, but she was certain that he didn't pay enough attention to her to be able to spot the inconsistencies in her personality in that moment, even as she played with a stray curl of hair to add to the illusion.
"Come on!" Martin repeated; the damn bugger actually thought that he was succeeding in pulling rank.
Deborah traced her eyes up the lock of hair twirling between her fingers, before sighing dramatically and blinking up at Martin with a small, forced grimace on her lips.
"Well, if you must know, last year he gave us five hundred pounds each, Captain." She admitted; she took pleasure in the way Martin's blue eyes widened in surprise, and his eyebrows flitted up to meet his hairline.
"… Oh. Very nice." Martin said guardedly, placing his hands together over his knee and nodding slowly, as if digesting the information.
"Yeah, but that was unusual …" Arthur chipped in, stepping forwards to re-join the discussion, as he was wont to do when he felt that he possessed information that no one else was privy too; there came a point when helpfulness became unhelpful.
"True. That was because England won." Deborah continued his train of thought; she was sure that he would accept her next words as they were technically true, but sent him a pointed glare anyway, just in case, "We can't expect that to happen this year."
"Oh. Aren't England good any more?" Arthur inquired; he frowned a bit at the stare, forehead crinkling in confusion as Deborah shook her head, communicating silently her supposed intent.
"Not good enough to win a match between Wales and France, certainly." She concluded; Deborah hoped that that would be the end of things. Her mood had soured tremendously since leaving Mr Birling, and it hadn't even been bright then.
Deborah expected someone to say something to fill the awkward pause that stretched out within the porta-cabin, but minutes passed and she still found herself inspecting her nail buds, leaning unconsciously towards the window so that she was not as close to Martin as the seats forced them to be.
When she glanced up, it was to see Martin also watching his intertwined fingers as if they held many secrets, and Arthur looking unusually pensive as his eyes moved between the two pilots. He met her gaze and suddenly he was awash with the inability to stand still.
"I should probably…go and sort out the Galley." Arthur announced, clapping his hands together and swaying slightly, before striding down the cabin and disappearing behind the chain curtain.
Deborah watched his back as he left, wishing for once in her life that Arthur would come back and be in the room; she wasn't entirely sure why, she just didn't want to be left alone with a sulking Martin.
"So, is there a reason that you weren't going to tell me about the tips?" Martin inquired in a clipped, withheld tone; Deborah sat back in her seat and looked calmly back to his face, taking in the stubborn, indignant contortion with a strange feeling of guilt that he had no right to instil in her, "Or have I done something to upset you?"
Deborah opened her mouth in a cut off scoff, staring at him in disbelief. After all the sniping that he put her through, with little to no explanation, he honestly couldn't see it.
"You can't think of any reasons?" she replied, shaking her head imperceptibly, tightening the arms around her chest and gripping the fabric of the inside of her elbows between her fingers to temper her desire to lean forward and shake the man.
"No more than the usual." Martin scoffed bitterly, boring his sights onto the Galley door, avoiding making any connection with her as his elbow came to sit on the armrest and he dropped his chin onto his clenched fist.
Deborah didn't know how to react; she was struck by the unfamiliar need to defend herself, to wrap her hands around Martin's neck in a fit of rage, and to fall back into her seat and curl her arms around her knees, hiding her face from the light.
She couldn't even conjure a snappy response.
"Martin, I can say with the utmost sincerity that I have no idea what you seem to think I have done," she remarked tensely, holding herself stiffly, her voice pitched softer yet more grating than its normal timbre, "but if something about me is offending you so much, then you should damn well speak up."
Deborah didn't wait for Martin to reply. She rose to her feet, glancing over the Captain long enough to take in the way his cheeks both paled and flushed while he suddenly looked very sad, or so she supposed; without a backwards look, she strode towards the flight-deck and set to work getting GERTI ready.
oOoOoOo
It was with a sluggish, weary temper that Deborah repacked her flight-bag in the porta-cabin. Mr Birling had been sent home, and the lads were waiting for her so that they could all take a taxi back to their respective homes…yet, even the prospect of her own bed couldn't lighten her mood.
It wasn't just the fact that Carolyn had made Philip search through her bag again, unsettling all of her possessions; the entire day had been a disaster.
Sure, she had had some fun trying to get her hands on the Talisker (she would be leaving that part of the story out when she told Harry about it – he wouldn't approve), and she had even found some fleeting joy in baiting Martin over his sudden decision to toady to Mr Birling's every whim, but overall, it had been a miserable Birling day.
The loss of the tip didn't sting as much as she had thought it might, she mused as she pulled out her nail varnish to retighten the cap, which Philip had left wonky. No, that was just Martin being Martin, and she could never be truly irritated with him for that; he wouldn't be Martin if he didn't have that peculiar ability to mess things up in such an entertaining way.
No…it was everything else.
The two of them had had many fits of bickering, which sometimes devolved into cheap shots, but this was the first time that Deborah had come away feeling genuinely…upset.
Upset right to the pit of her stomach.
She didn't even know why…Martin's opinion of her was hardly tantamount to anything…yet she was inexplicably depressed by the turn sharpness of his dismissal of her today.
She didn't think he had been any ruder than normal…but it still stung, which made it all the worse.
Deborah paused, dropping the toiletries bag back into its larger counterpart, and lifted her hand to rub her curled fingers against her eyes.
She was just so tired of the day already, and the sun was still up.
With a swish and a clunk, the porta-cabin swung open on the second attempt, and Martin stepped in; Deborah watched as he pushed it shut, having to put in just a fraction more effort than he would have a few weeks beforehand.
"I won't be long, just let me get this closed up." Deborah informed Martin when he tread lightly towards her desk, hands linked in front of him, as if he were nervous, or considering further action.
"Good, that's ah…that's good." Martin acknowledged, nodding systematically and drawing his bottom lip through his teeth as Deborah had learnt he did when he was anxious or deep in thought, "Um…Deborah?"
"Hmm?" she responded, raising an eyebrow for him to continue; she wasn't in the mood for Martin in that moment.
Martin nodded awkwardly another couple of times, and then jolting as if remembering that he was meant to be speaking, he ploughed on in a typical example of his stuttering avalanche-like style of speech.
"I just wanted to ask – well, I wanted to say that today…today's been pretty rotten, for both of us." Deborah remained silent as Martin inhaled deeply, his chest heaving as he prepared to continue; then he sighed, his shoulders sagging, and he met her gaze directly, as if the nerves had fled from him, chased away by the same exhaustion that she felt, "In light of that…look, Deborah…I don't actually like fighting with you, it's just-" Martin sighed again, shaking his head as if he doubted his own words, "would it be so difficult for you to show me even a shred of respect as your Captain?"
"Me?" Deborah demanded, unable to quite comprehend what she had just heard.
How dare he. She was so tired, far too tired to put up with Martin's self-important twaddle. But that was alright…if Martin wanted to talk, they would talk, and he would damn well listen to what she had to say.
No sarcasm, no jesting, no letting it go because 'it's Martin'; no, Martin was going to stand there and endure every watt of raw honesty that Deborah could throw at him, and he was going to hear her for once.
There was too much going on in her life, too much that she wanted to scream at, and though she wasn't going to let herself reach the point of screaming, there was nothing to stop her taking it out on Martin now that he had offered the opportunity of a golden laced plate.
Martin looked ready to defend himself, flushing indignantly, but she cut him off before he even started.
"Why should I show you any respect as Captain when you won't even show me the slightest respect as a person?" Deborah demanded, slamming her hands onto her flight-bag and clenching the fabric in her hands to ground her as best as possible.
"I – I – I-" Martin spluttered, freezing, arms ceasing to swing, eyes widening in confusion; he didn't get any further than that.
"You insult me over insignificant things whenever you're feeling insecure as a Captain, you criticise every idea I put to you, even when they're perfectly sound, you mock me when you spot any kind of flaw in my personality, and you're perfectly willing to show me up and dump me when someone better, like a passenger or a pretty lady catches your eye," Deborah listed every stray complaint that suddenly appeared in her mind, as if waiting for the chance to see the light; her chest was heaving, and Martin looked shocked, but she couldn't stop, "I'll admit, I like a joke, but you take every little thing as a personal attack, and you turn it into a personal attack!"
"Deborah I-" Martin tried to interrupt, raising a hand to halt her litany, but he dropped it at the fiery glare that she sent at him.
"In all the time we've known each other, I have I never disobeyed a direct order, it would be more than my job's worth, and god knows that I am trying – I am trying to get along with you Martin, but you just won't let me." Deborah continued, and she tampered down the flare of self-hatred that flared out of nowhere, telling her to shut up and stop talking, though she didn't listen to it, "Sometimes I think we're getting along fine, but then you just flip, and we're back to square one."
"Deborah…" Martin implored; his eyes were watery, and his jaw was squared, and she had never seen him look so openly miserable; there was something else there too, but she just wanted to finish, clenching her fingers again in her bag.
"I don't know how you can expect me to respect you, when you're so needlessly cruel to me…" Deborah's taut tone slowed, and her voice dropped; she met Martin's eyes, a wobbly frown on her lips, "…and I have no idea what I've done."
"I didn't mean to do any of that-" Martin insisted, stepping forward, hand outstretched ever so slightly, as if to meet her across the desk; he paused again as Deborah scoffed bitterly, rubbing her lower arm over her eyes.
"Don't give me that Martin," she sneered, "it's not difficult to see that you despise me."
She had expected Martin to respond indignantly, to justify his feelings, but nothing came. When she opened her eyes, it was to see Martin, cheeks paler than she had ever seen them, eyes boring into her face.
"I don't despise you." He said quietly, shaking his head imperceptibly as if the idea was a horrific, unknown entity that had never entered his psyche.
"What…?" Deborah asked, her voice lighter than she would ever wish it to be, yet so heavy.
As she watched, his eyes clouded over as if he were holding some kind of internal discussion, and his expression slackened, becoming stricken, and his hands darted up to drag down his face.
"I'm sorry…I'm so, so sorry…" Martin bemoaned; he met Deborah's gaze again, and she was momentarily thrown off guard by the heat behind his gaze, "I don't despise you, at all…god, I'm sorry, I'm sorry you think that – because I don't!"
"Then you better start explaining what your problem is, because I don't understand." Deborah replied shortly; she wasn't sure that she believed him, but he had never looked so open.
Martin gnawed at his bottom lip, and looked around as if searching for somewhere to be other than the middle of the porta-cabin, but upon failing to find an alternative, he sucked in a steadying breath.
"It's just…I should, you know – I should hate you, you, you represent everything that I'm against – you're late, you're lax about rules, in fact you openly flaunt them, you make snide remarks and snipes about things that you shouldn't be able to notice, you – you're so good at everything, you're so perfect at everything you do and you barely even try, and you definitely don't care." Martin started off cautious, but as he built up steam, Deborah could see the pent up frustration in his entire posture, as he made sharp, sweeping motions in the air, "And here I am, I'm not good at anything much, and I had to try so hard to get my licence, and now I'm Captain – and you, you just bowl right over all of that, you undermine my authority and make it seem like all my efforts were for nothing if my First Officer is ten times better than I am."
"Martin-" Deborah tried to give him an exit, raising a hand to offer him a chance to stop, but he shook his head.
"No, you wanted me to explain, so I am!" Martin told her, sounding more like a Captain than Deborah could ever recall, "I absolutely should hate you, I want so much to hate you for undermining me at every turn – but I don't, I just don't, and that's so bloody horrible, because I don't know whether you're coming or going…"
"But all of those are things that I do," Deborah said, feeling as if she were trying to bite it back; she didn't want to talk anymore, "They're not what I am."
Martin smirked sardonically, a flickering image that faded into a wavy frown that intersected his slowly flushing cheeks, turning scarlet with exertion.
"Oh, don't get me wrong, I hate the things that you do," he assured her, "But I don't, and I don't think I ever could, despise you…I don't, I really don't – I like you, I like you a lot." Martin shrugged as if he had no idea what else to do, "It's just…when we get along, I like you, I really do, but then I remember all those other things, and I start thinking that maybe it's all just a trick, that somehow you're going to use it to undermine me, or make me feel small, and then I…make sure that you can't."
"I'm not…I'm trying to be friendly." Deborah informed him, taking her eyes from his face to peer at the dented zip that ran along the length of her bag, "and even if I was, there's no need for you to be as cruel as you are sometimes."
"Am I cruel?" Martin asked; his hands moved about as if he couldn't quite decide where they should sit, at one point pushing his hat further onto his head; then in a move that seemed to remove a cloak of Captain and leave the pure Martin in its wake, he plucked his hat from his head and lobbed it the little way to fall haplessly on his own desk, "I didn't realise…I never meant to hurt you."
"Then what did you think you were doing?" Deborah retorted dully; now she was the one itching to leave, fingers flexing individually where they were hidden from sight. She should have been heading home to hear Harry's take on the rugby, but even this was a better alternative. At least with this, she could uncover some new ground.
"That's the point – I haven't been thinking about anyone but me." Martin insisted, jabbing at his chest with both hands, "This hasn't even been about you – all I've been thinking about is how authoritative I am, and whether you're undermining me…I didn't even think about how all of this might be affecting you, I didn't think you cared."
Deborah didn't respond immediately; there was so much to take in, and she wasn't quite sure how to deal with it. But Martin was there, right there, in that moment, and he was being completely honest…he even said that he didn't hate her.
Now wasn't that something.
"Are you thinking about me now?" she inquired softly, barely able to hold Martin's gaze for more than a second, but forcing herself to endure the range of emotions that she couldn't decipher in his expression.
"Yes, yes I am, and I'm so sorry…I suppose I never realised that you might actually want to get along." Martin released a sort of truncated chuckle, and Deborah had to fight not to present a minute smirk as he continued, "Deborah…I promise, I will do whatever it takes to make you forgive me."
Even as he clasped his hands together, Deborah shook her head, wincing at the fogginess in her mind.
"Don't let it bother you, Martin; it's water under the bridge." She remarked nonchalantly; she needed to regain her composure; it wasn't okay, but Martin could think that it was, "Let's just try and maintain an amiable working relationship from here on out."
"Absolutely - I'd like that." Martin agreed, nodding hastily, a smile threatening to meet the red in his cheeks, "But I still want to make it up to you, because it's not okay if I've been upsetting you-"
"No, it's not." Deborah interjected; Martin sighed in acknowledgement.
"No…but there must be something…" his voice trailed off as he stared into the middle distance; the Martin clapped his hands together, making Deborah jump slightly in her addled state, and proclaimed, "I know – Deborah, what have I done today? I can't make up for everything I've ever said to you, but I can make up for today."
A creeping sense of trepidation wriggled in Deborah's gut, and though she released her bag from her iron grip, the tension in her shoulders never faded.
"Martin, this isn't nec-" Deborah groaned, shaking her head.
"Yes it is, now tell me what I've done wrong today." Martin insisted, striding so that he was standing on the other side of her desk, hands coming to rest on the empty folders that she had placed there years ago to make it look as if she were busy.
Deborah sighed, meeting Martin's eyes with a look that she hoped communicated her feelings on the matter. She had no desire to let Martin know what had set her on edge…and yet, she almost did want him to know.
He may not have known how to fix it, but at least he would understand. Unlike Harry, who would see the tension when she returned home, try to fix it (with a valiant effort), and yet never asked her what had caused her distress in the first place.
"I suppose…when you made that comment about me not being a 'pretty pilot'…" Deborah averted her eyes as Martin's narrowed, hoping that the tingle in her cheeks was not a blush as she suspected it might be, "I mean…I know it's a man's job more often than not, and that I don't usually put in a lot of effort, but…" she trailed off, slowly raising her eyes back to Martin's face.
He had closed his own eyes and was shaking his head as if scolding himself inwardly.
"I'm sorry…it didn't even occur to me." He muttered; Deborah nodded, thinking that that would be the end, but then he said, "Anything else?"
Deborah shrugged, but at Martin's unimpressed quirk of an eyebrow, she conceded to his efforts, though her fingers still flitted across the stationary that was always atop her desk.
"You said something about me getting on my hands and knees – when we were talking about Mr Birling." She suggested, "That was…not nice…"
Martin was once again chewing at his bottom lip, and Deborah wondered how he still had one to chew on, as she couldn't tell whether he was deep in thought, or had just become stuck in a loop.
"Do you remember all the horrible things I say to you?" Martin asked gravely after a moment.
"No." Deborah lied; she made sure not to break eye contact, to make it true, but after a while, she couldn't quite work out what she was achieving.
Martin, it seemed, had not wasted the time, as his face lit up, and he pushed away from the desk.
"I've got an idea!" he declared, the small wicked grin that he sometimes adopted making a fleeting appearance; that only made Deborah's suspicions lurch forwards, as the feeling of already being wrong-footed was still fresh, "Go sit on the sofa."
"How is that going to help you apologise?" she retorted; it would be wrong to just follow orders when she had no clue as to what Martin's intentions were.
"Just trust me, it will." Martin assured her, pointing determinedly to the decrepit sofa, "Now go and sit down."
Deborah did as she was told, keeping an eye on Martin as she walked to the sofa and sat down in the centre, flooding with a sense of undeserved relief and the comfort of the cushions beneath her.
Martin followed in her wake, and came to a stop just a foot in front of her; she watched with a delayed, trepid curiosity that overwhelmed her desire to make a smooth comment. Martin's dexterous fingers clenched at his sides, and he practically winced, pressing his eyes shut as if preparing himself for a slow death.
Then he swiftly, before he could mentally talk himself out of it, lowered himself to his knees.
Deborah was frozen in shock, her eyes she assumed were as wide as saucers, as Martin shifted his weight so that he was comfortable, and placed his hands steadily on the edge of the sofa, before raising his head to meet her eyes, as if the very act pained him.
"Okay…I am sorry that I made that comment about you getting on your hands and knees –so here I am, on my knees, because this seems like a fair way to apologise." Martin explained, his tone steely and unwilling, but he was still doing it; Deborah could only gape, unable to form coherent thoughts, "and I'm sorry for anything else that I've said that might have hurt you…I would like it – I mean, I wouldn't mind, if we could try and work together properly…maybe get to know each other without arguing…"
"That's alright," Deborah managed to utter, still analysing every inch of Martin's face for signs of insanity breaking through, perhaps even a spontaneous fever, "really, Martin, that's alright, you can get up now."
"Nope, not yet." Martin shook his head and stated plainly; he seemed to have regained some self-important confidence, as he then placed his hands on Deborah's knees, squeezing soothingly when she stiffened and stared openly, "And most importantly, I am sorry for implying that you're not pretty…my dad would murder me if he found out I'd said that to any woman." Martin smiled, and then his expression flipped, as he realised what he had said, his hands coming up defensively in front of his face, "Not that you're not actually pretty – because you are, yo-you're very pretty…I mean, you're…well you're lovely, stunning even – not that I-"
"Martin, Martin you can stop now, you can get up." Deborah said hastily, making upwards movements with her hands, unsure of what her facial expressions were doing, just trying to force away a smile, a blush, and a smirk all at the same time; she tried to shake away the thought, but she couldn't help noting that it was nice to hear someone say things like that. Harry never did.
Martin scrambled clumsily to his feet, brushing down his uniform and moving hurriedly away from her to snatch up his Captain's hat and thrust it forcefully atop his head. His cheeks were burning so brightly that his freckles were almost invisible.
Deborah hoisted herself up, but did not move so quickly towards her flight-bag. She walked slowly to her desk, watching Martin collect himself after his complete abandonment of all Captainly virtues.
"Apology accepted." Deborah remarked flippantly, getting Martin's attention as the flustering ceased.
When she slung her bag over her elbow and turned to face him, Martin shared with her a tight-lipped smile and a stunted nod, digging his hands as far into his pockets as they would go.
"You're welcome." He replied, sounding both self-assured and unsure, in a way that only Martin could achieve, "So…we're turning over a new leaf then?"
Deborah sighed, turning her eyes away from him; despite all her efforts over the past months, and the entire argument that they had just emerged from, she still felt that tiny prickle of rebellion that told her to stick his offer where he'd never find it and carry on as they were.
Thankfully, she was too mentally exhausted to listen to it.
"Of course, Captain." She answered drolly, earning another tentative smile; Deborah couldn't think of what else she might say, where else they might venture if they talked any more, so she ended the conversation the only way that she could, "Do you think that the taxi will have arrived yet?"
So here it is, the big confrontation between them - I couldn't have them stay mad at each other forever
I'm kind of amazed that I managed to get this done - I've worked out a system where I get to write a chapter of this each time I finish a chapter of my novel - the way I see it, if I have time to do the first as well as revision, I can fit fics into my evenings.
Hope you enjoyed