Here is the next chapter - thank you, thank you, thank you for reviewing, it is as always, much appreciated and the greatest motivation
Fitton
Everything was alright.
Everything would be alright.
Of course, it was positively tipping it down outside, like the clouds had thrown a tantrum and were punishing the Earth with a torrent of all the grimy drops that they had stolen from the seas below. Even the sky was a murky grey, trying to persuade her that today was a bad day, that nothing would succeed despite all of her efforts.
But Deborah took this all in with a determined smirk as she surveyed the scene through the kitchen window, spattered as it was with the remnants of the weather's ammunition.
Harry was pattering about the sitting room, sunk into the sofa with a bowl of cereals on his lap while he lounged in his pyjamas. The past week he had been off of work with a frankly appalling bout of flu, and though he had been adamant that he was fine, Deborah had insisted that he stay at home one more day to ensure that the virus was clear of his system.
The last thing that she needed was for him to return home that evening grumpy and discontented because he had overexerted himself.
Far better for her plans was a well-rested husband who had nothing to distract him from the fact that he missed his wife and couldn't wait to see her.
As Deborah systematically ran last night's dishes through the sink, she ran her plans through her mind one more time, checking every inch of them and filling in any holes.
Harry's sick week had fortunately (although it hadn't felt like it at the time) coincided with a slump in MJN's activity. They had been contracted by a Mr Goddard, whose prolonged absence had meant that she was allowed to leave work at a sensible time every day.
The end result was the somewhat overdue realisation that the intimacy between the two of them had all but disappeared. Sure, Deborah wasn't expecting the heat of passion every night, or even the alluring pull of their first few months – hell, she wasn't even expecting the original lightness that they had had to begin with.
All she wanted was for some kind of connection with her husband. There was one there, she knew it, that kind of thing didn't just go away…she just needed to reassert some kind of…pleasure in each other's company, some desire to spend time together.
They practically lived separate lives, and she understood that, it would be impractical not to. But when push came to shove, they were a married couple, and no matter what else happened, they came home to each other.
They just needed a little push was all.
Which was why she had the perfect gift waiting for her to pick up later; a gift that would prompt in Harry a swell of affection, the likes of which he hadn't shown for a while, and that surety that he loved her would be back in place, and they could enjoy each other's company like they hadn't for too long.
Deborah would have jumped at the hands that fell on her shoulders had she not heard Harry padding through the kitchen, coming to a cheerful stop at her back, a solid mass that dragged her from her musings and back into reality.
"Shouldn't you be at work soon?" Harry inquired, peering around her head to take in her expression; with his hands he swept the hair that fell over her face and threatened to get splashed, behind her shoulders, tutting as if he had performed a holy chore that he was so daily burdened with.
Deborah could tell him with a degree of certainty that it had been well over a month since he had paid close enough attention to try and save her hair from a soaking, or even noticed that it was now long enough to actually be at risk.
She had stopped dyeing it as well; unlike the abandoning of the shorter crop, this decision hadn't been made with the intention of catching Harry's eye. No, she had done it because she preferred her own, naturally more chestnut shade.
If that had been compounded by Martin's mockery last Birling day, then no one was any the wiser.
"I'll go to work when I've done the dishes…unless you'd rather do it?" Deborah retorted, glancing over her shoulder; at the wrinkling of Harry's nose and the shaking of his head, she continued, "I didn't think so. I don't know when I'll be home, whether it'll be early or not, Mr Goddard's been messing us around."
"Well don't rush if you've got things to do." Harry instructed her, squeezing her shoulders lightly; Deborah placed the final plate delicately on the draining board and flicking her hands to remove the last of the water, turned so that her back was against the sink.
Harry readjusted his hands so that they were once again on her shoulders, and smiled briefly at the movement; it wasn't quite an embrace, but if Deborah was honest, she wasn't in the mood for Harry in a cuddly phase, so it suited her quite well. Rather than place her hands on his waist, she folded her arms over her chest, settling into a relaxed state.
"Even if I am let out early, the lads might ask me stay behind, you know…clear up and chat, that sort of thing." Deborah explained; she had been working particularly hard to befriend Martin, to get some sort of relationship running that didn't need to be forced, and she was actually quite proud of the time that they could spend together without bickering –proud enough that it was one of the few things that she wanted Harry to know about, to be impressed with, "I've been getting on really well with Martin lately; I reckon he might actually stick around. I wouldn't mind-"
"Yeah, that's great, dear." Harry interrupted; Deborah thought for a moment that he looked disappointed, but that was eclipsed by her own feeling of disdain as he dismissed the first piece of exciting news she had shared in weeks, "Look, if you'd rather spend time with your friends, that's okay."
In an attempt to regain the feeling of being steady and decidedly not shaky on her metaphorical feet, Deborah smirked salaciously and batted her eyelashes.
"It's more that they'd like to spend more time around me." She drawled; Harry merely chuckled, and gave her shoulders another squeeze, shaking his head.
"Hey, you may be Captain, but we both know that deep down, under all that swagger, you're just a bit silly." He retorted, grinning as if they were both in on some fantastic joke.
Deborah knew that he wasn't being deliberately unkind; she knew him well enough to know that he genuinely thought that he was being funny and affectionate.
"Good silly?" she replied, trying not to purse her lips though her arms tightened around her chest; she made sure to maintain eye contact lest he think that the slight dip in her voice was down to an injured ego, "As in, that's why you like me?"
"Of course that's what I mean." Harry leaned back as if to survey her again, making a show of looking her over and double checking, "What else?" he assured her, "You wouldn't be you if you weren't not-so-secretly silly."
Deborah held her tongue. He loved her. That was all that mattered. She hated to sound like Martin, even in her own head, but she wasn't silly; she had an image to maintain, and silly was not a Deborah Richardson trait.
Clearing her throat, and rolling her eyes, Deborah released one hand from its shelter, reaching over to tap Harry on the elbow before retracting it, and smiling wanly. He nodded and raised his eyebrows, letting her know that he was listening.
"Harry… I thought that perhaps, when I get back, we could…have a little fun." Deborah suggested, lowering her tone and adding just the right amount of allure to her voice as she shifted her body in just the right way, subtly, "You know, make an evening of it…spend some proper time together…"
Now he looked interested; excellent.
"That sounds perfect; it's been a while since we had a proper heart to heart." Harry agreed, stoking the backs of his fingers down her upper arms; then he grinned again and stepped over to the sink, sweeping an arm around her back and manoeuvring her towards the sitting room, "Now – you need to go to work, you silly pilot."
Deborah allowed herself to be swept along, snatching her jacket and flight-bag into her arms as she stepped away from Harry's guiding hand and made her own way through the rooms. She wasn't sure how she felt about the abrupt change of subject, disgruntled she supposed, but she also wasn't sure what else she would have had to say.
"I'll see you later then." She called when she was standing by the door, knowing that she should leave of face Carolyn's wrath, "don't do anything too taxing."
"I won't." Harry promised, already back on the sofa, dragging his computer onto his lap; Deborah was pleased to see that he looked up long enough to treat her to one last smile, "Have a nice day."
"You too." She replied; she made a movement as if to blow a kiss, but stopped herself.
Without another word, she swung the door open, wincing at the torrent of rain that buffeted her clothes and hair to the point that she might as well have not washed either the previous night.
It didn't matter though; if everything went to plan, it was going to be a good day.
oOoOoOo
The rain didn't let up for the entirety of the drive to the airfield; in fact, Deborah was pretty sure that the buckets of water turned into bathtubs that thudded obnoxiously against her windshield.
By the time she forced her way into the porta-cabin, her thin raincoat was so saturated that when she looked down to evaluate why she was so cold, she discovered that it was transparent to the point that she could identify even the buttons on her jacket.
"God, the rain's horrible outside." Deborah lamented as she removed her coat, throwing it over the hook on the back of the door and leaving it to drip before turning to survey the rest of the crew, "…and inside…."
The scene that met her eyes was by far one of the most interesting that she had seen on her time at MJN, and yet peculiarly, it seemed just about right.
Carolyn was huffing as she filled out paperwork, on Deborah's desk no less (at least it was getting some use), while Martin was slouched behind his desk, elbows supporting his weight as he chewed on the end of his pen; he looked up at the sound of Deborah's voice, smiling briefly before going back to work.
Arthur, it seemed, was attempting to find the source of the water that was trickling through the ceiling, a preoccupied expression on his face as he dragged the knee-high foot ladder around behind him.
"Deborah, you are forty-five minutes late." Carolyn scolded without even looking up, "How many times do I have to tell you?"
Deborah smirked and rolled her eyes, wandering with her arms loosely folded to Arthur's heels, observing his quest through curious eyes; difficult start aside, today promised to be amusing if nothing else.
"Oh dear, how terribly remiss of me." She replied insincerely, sending a pleasant smirk in Carolyn's direction, "And Mr Goddard is, of course, so famously punctual. I do hope I haven't kept him waiting."
"It's a job, Deborah, a job for which you are being paid like any other and I expect you to be on time." Carolyn said sternly, pointing a pencil threateningly.
Deborah knew that her pinched expression was only masking a mild despair, so she merely shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She was certain that she had heard Martin scoff, but when she glanced over, his face was as smooth and focused as before.
"I am chastened and ashamed." Deborah sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her chest and fluttering her eyes; once Carolyn had rolled her eyes and decided to ignore her, Deborah caught Arthur just before he stepped up his ladder, and patted him affectionately on the back, "Arthur, tea."
Arthur paused in his task, hammer still held slightly aloft, and nodded dutifully, acknowledging Deborah's greeting with a pleased smile of his own. It wasn't quite as glittery as usual, and Deborah assumed that even Arthur was finding taking care of the turbulent weather tedious.
"Uh, yep, will do, Deborah," Arthur replied, tapping her lightly on the head with his hammer, "Just trying to fix this leak first."
"Oh well, in that case: Arthur, tea?" Deborah offered, brushing him away with a flap of her hand; she was feeling generous today, and it would hardly put her out to be nice.
"Wow!" Arthur exulted; it was definitely worth it, Deborah thought, as she watched Arthur's face light up, grinning a grin full of teeth and joy, "You're making me tea?"
Deborah was already by the kettle, listening to it click and gurgle by her elbow as she turned to lean against the desk-turned-counter.
"I know. It's a topsy-turvy day of misrule, isn't it?" she drawled, as she watched Arthur clamber onto the ladder and begin tapping away at the ceiling, eyes still on her.
"Cracking! Loads of milk, four sugars, please!" he requested; Deborah nodded in response, and watched him, biting the corner of her lips. She wasn't entirely sure that Arthur's efforts weren't going to cause more damage than good, given the aimless nature of his search for the source of the leak, but she decided to let him try.
As Arthur started to hum an awkward jumbled tune under his breath, and then proceed to interrogate her about a tune that she had been singing god knows how long ago. She answered his questions with only half a mind on what he was saying; Deborah was more concerned with watching Martin work.
He looked so much calmer than he had only weeks before, more relaxed in himself. She briefly entertained the thought that it was down to the ease with which he was now interacting with her, but in truth, she knew that it was probably the belief that he wasn't going to be ousted from his post.
Martin's hand swept across the page, and his tongue poked through his lips in concentration. It was when she saw his eyes flicker towards her for the second time, retreating the next second, that she decided to retrieve another mug from the desktop.
As Deborah poured out the drinks, leaving Arthur's tea on the side for him to find later, she took the remaining two in her hands, relishing the heat after her dreary journey, and sauntered over to Martin's desk.
He looked up from his work, which she didn't even want to ponder, as her shadow coloured the white, sitting back in his chair and stretching his hands out before him, letting his shoulders click as one hand pressed to the top of the hat on the edge of the desk, as if checking that it was still there.
"Here you go." Deborah said warmly, placing the mug of steaming coffee beside Martin's hand, nudging it closer when he raised an eyebrow, "Fresh coffee…just how you like it."
"Hmmm, thank you…" Martin drew out his thanks in a rolling moan, "Coffee with nothing in it?"
"As I said, just how you like it." Deborah drawled, batting her eyelashes sarcastically, and balancing her weight on one arm, settling comfortably on the stiff plastic top of the desk.
While Martin plucked up the coffee, inhaling the wafting scent with a groan, Deborah lifted her own tea to her lips and hoisted herself as elegantly as she could onto his desk, letting her legs swing fractionally as she watched with a small smile gracing her lips.
She was growing quite fond of Martin's little quirks; his overly compensated reactions to the simplest of pleasures was one of them, his willingness to express his enjoyment of such pleasures without the self-consciousness that shadowed his every other move was another.
Mid sip, Martin's eyes widened, his eyebrows leaping up to his hairline, and he sat forward quickly, addressing her directly; he glanced unhappily at her choice in seating arrangement, but visibly held back the temptation to criticise her for it.
"I thought of another one this morning." Martin remarked matter-of-factly, his pride evident in his tone and serious expression; Deborah had to agree, her games were of the utmost importance.
"Oh yes?" she replied; leaning forward with a quirked eyebrow, holding Martin's gaze.
He smirked straight back, so proud of himself that Deborah couldn't help but enjoy the competitive tingle that rippled up her spine.
"What are you doing this time?" Carolyn interjected, just as Martin was about to answer.
Deborah glanced over her shoulder and smirked with a silent chuckle; she had known that the older woman wasn't really working. Carolyn was just listening in, interested in what her crew were doing despite her protests.
Then again, she had been watching the two of them more closely since they had called a truce, wrinkling her nose and trying to work out when her pilots had stopped trying to bite each other's heads off.
"Books That Sound More Interesting With The Final Letter Knocked Off." Deborah explained, taking another sip of coffee.
As she had expected, Carolyn abandoned her stationary and clasped her hands together over the elbows that she balanced atop the desk, turning Deborah's chair so that she was better facing she and Martin.
"Oh, right. Er, what have you got so far?" Carolyn inquired, failing to sound anything other than part of their game, despite her efforts to the contrary.
"Of Mice and Me; and Three Men in a Boa." Deborah said, enunciating each title carefully; she was rather pleased with how well her game was being received. She had spent most of an evening with Harry thinking it up in an attempt to make their next flight more bearable.
"Oh. Ah, ah! Far From The Madding Crow." Carolyn suggested, nodding as if to subliminally convince her that hers was a good suggestion.
"Oh, very good!" Deborah congratulated her; she turned swiftly back to Martin; he had been so eager to put forward his idea that she couldn't let him wait too long, "We'll have that. And what's your new one, Martin?"
She thought about placing an encouraging hand on the wrist that lay on the desk beside her, but aborted the gesture before it could be properly executed, dropping her hand down onto the desk; despite her efforts, the back of her fingers still brushed the cuff of his sleeve.
Martin's cheeks tinged red, but it seemed to be more from anticipation than any acknowledgment of Deborah's attentions. He splayed his hands into the air and leant back in his chair, biting his bottom lip as if prepping himself for a big reveal.
"The Hound of the Baskerville!" Martin declared excitedly, beaming expectantly at Deborah until he realised that she wasn't replying with the praise he so obviously expected, "I've taken the 's' off!"
Oh Martin, the words flitted across Deborah's mind, and she slipped an arm around her stomach to temper the warm tingle that took root there; he couldn't be useless in a useless way could he – no, he had to be useless in such an endearingly Martin way.
"Almost good." Deborah remarked through her teeth, not quite a lie; Martin's smile brightened where it had begun to dim, although she wasn't sure that she could let the opportunity pass without a pinch, to make Martin fluster, "Certainly better than when you took the 's' off The Mill on the Floss to make The Mill on the Flos."
With a sigh, Martin rolled his eyes and nodded, conceding defeat; his forehead crinkled in such a way that Deborah just knew he would try to win at some point later in the day.
Before she could retort though, there was an almighty crash, and a sizeable chunk of the ceiling crumbled to the floor, releasing a gush of murky rainwater onto Arthur's head as he shielded his head with his arms, stumbling down from the ladder, providing an inopportune distraction.
oOoOoOo
Martin's safety procedures were so very, very dull. Deborah didn't know why she was listening to them at all. Probably the same reason that he had managed to convince her to come out to sit on GERTI, where the rain pounded even louder on the metal shell of the cabin.
Probably the same gut reaction to his miserable face when she had called his Ops rotten, and then proceeded to encourage him that they actually would like to hear them. It turned out that didn't like it when Martin adopted his sad puppy dog face and drooped like an under-watered dandelion.
Which was, she supposed, how she ended up perched on the end of Row C, one leg crossed lazily across the other, the elbow of one arm wedged atop her knee as the same hand curled and supported her chin.
Then Martin had made a typically Martin-ish comment about Captain's donning their caps, and she and Carolyn had had a good old laugh at his expense.
Deborah had thought that Martin would take it in his stride; they had been working on that after all, the harmless joshing, the friendly banter, and the understanding that not everything was meant as a serious barb.
But Martin had stormed off to mope in the flight-deck on his own, and Deborah had been left feeling, of all things, guilty for upsetting him. It seemed that she had struck a nerve. She knew how much being professional meant to him, that it was a matter of personal pride rather than a desire to be better than everyone else; Martin genuinely couldn't help it.
So now, in an attempt to make things right, because for some reason the thought of Martin being truly unhappy because of something she had said made unpleasant worms somersault in her guts, Deborah was hovering outside the flight-deck door.
Out of sight from the rest of the crew, she had no qualms about wrapping her arms around her chest and treading back and forth in the small space, wondering whether she should even bother going in to see Martin. She wasn't nervous, she just…wasn't sure what to say.
She knew what she should say, or what would make him feel better, at the very least.
With a sigh, Deborah decided that that was the best course of action, so pushed the door to the flight-deck open quietly, and lingered in the doorway, stepping in far enough that she could be seen when Martin turned in his seat to see who had entered.
"Erm, Martin?" she asked tentatively, hands clasping together at her front; she watched Martin's shoulders sag as he slouched in his chair, refusing to meet her eyes, leaving only the top of his hat in sight.
"What do you want?" Martin sulked; it wasn't a dismissal, so Deborah tread lightly to her seat, and slipped calmly into it, turning to the side with her legs through the gap under the arm so that she could address him properly, "Come to laugh at me again?"
"Apologies, Martin. That was very childish of us."
"Yes it ruddy well was." Martin replied, trying to sound waspish but coming across more miserable as he conceded, and turned to face Deborah, a frown marring the light flush on his cheeks.
"Yes. Perfectly reasonable emergency procedure." Deborah agreed; this was what he wanted. Martin just wanted them to agree to his procedures; it wasn't too difficult to give him that, not if it made him happier.
She may have liked it when he was flustered or irritated, but this was the wrong kind of irritated. Martin must not have understood though, or perhaps he still suspected that anything nice that came from her mouth was a trap, as his eyebrows knitted and he straightened up defensively, the tension in his limbs paramount.
"Are you being funny again?" he demanded suspiciously, narrowing his eyes to search her face.
Deborah raised her hands in surrender and tried to put on a genuine smile, which ended up being more of a twisted and wavering frown.
"No! No, I mean it." She emphasised, gesturing to the hat atop his head, spurred on as Martin sat back in his seat, nodding imperceptibly even as his hand shot to his hat, pressing it down ever so slightly, "The hat makes it clear to confused, frightened passengers that you are in charge. Absolutely."
"Exactly!" Martin exclaimed, arms extending dramatically; it was amazing how quickly he believed that she was on his side.
"Entirely sensible." Deborah agreed, nodding encouragingly. She felt…wrong-footed, not quite sure where to take the conversation. As Martin was sagging ever more in his seat, she found that although she wanted to talk to him, wanted to continue their prevailing pleasantries, all that came to mind was to poke and prod at each other…and it wasn't really the time for that.
Martin shook his head, and in a sweeping movement, took the hat from his head and plopped it on the control panel. Deborah leant forward and folded her arms to rest over the arm of her seat, listening patiently.
"It's nothing to do with showing off about being the captain." Martin insisted drearily, quirking his eyebrows sardonically; it was odd, really, as all that he had even expressed any concern about was being the Captain.
"No." Deborah wasn't sure what else to say; for once, she was at a loss. All that she could find it in herself to do was trace her eyes over Martin's features and listen to what he was saying; surely something would make itself apparent if she gazed long enough.
"I mean, God knows I could write "Captain" on my forehead in lipstick and people still wouldn't get it." Martin exclaimed, snorting a little at his own self-inflicted jab.
Deborah snorted with laughter, unable to stop herself, and before she realised, she had to raise her hand to hide her trembling lips behind, fighting back a smile and a giggle; god, she didn't giggle.
"What? What have I done now?" Martin demanded, shifting closer to peer at her face; Deborah thought that he looked more bewildered than he ever had, as if he was seeing a unicorn or the like. At least he was acknowledging that he was partly to blame for the shenanigans that took place aboard GERTI.
"No, no, noth-nothing. I mean, not you." Deborah insisted, looking down at the controls so that Martin wouldn't see the soppy humour in her eyes; the image was just too funny; she was always telling people that Martin was funny, every time they questioned her decision to put up with him…that didn't mean it wasn't embarrassing, to be shattering her stoic image so – then again, for all her concealed smirks, he had never made her laugh quite like this…it was nice, "I was – I was just hoping you weren't thinking of putting that in the Operating Procedure."
Martin's face contorted into a brighter, redder, grin that he too was clearly trying to hold back, as he chuckled in a rolling, low timbre, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. Deborah supposed that she had wanted to be friends…perhaps they weren't doing as disastrously as she had thought.
"What, you mean, "First Officer leaves through nearest exit. Captain writes 'Captain' on forehead with lipstick, dons cap, enters cabin." Martin tried to carry on the joke, empowered by his success.
"In unlikely event of captain non-recognition, captain doffs cap, gestures to lipstick inscription …" Deborah continued, unable to supress her mirth any longer.
When she was able to raise her head from her hand, which was still admirably covering her mouth, it was to take in Martin's contented, genuinely happy expression. He really did look nice when he was happy, Deborah mused distractedly, not bad at all.
There was a moment more, where Deborah felt that she might say something, but was too caught off guard by the unreadable, but not unpleasant light in Martin's eyes as he watched her.
"What?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow suggestively.
Martin shrugged, but he didn't take his eyes from her.
"It's just…I've never, uh, I've never seen you smile like that." He explained weakly, clearing his throat awkwardly when he was met with no response other than a curious pursing of Deborah's lips, "It's…um, nice, you know…it makes you whole face…light up."
Unsure of how to respond to that, and feeling to her horror, a little bit self-conscious, as if she wanted to suddenly curl in on herself, and hide her face, Deborah simply nodded, looking away.
There was another pause, this time Deborah was far more aware of the fact that Martin was beside her. To her relief, Martin changed the subject.
"Why do they always think you're the captain?" Martin asked, sounding world weary and lost, looking across the flight-deck for words of wisdom, "I mean, you're smaller than me, and – and this isn't a sexist remark, it's just…there aren't many female Captains, and you're definitely….that."
Deborah waved away the uncertainty on Martin's face, the newly acquired look of someone who was trying desperately to reform their ways and not insult their colleague, and shrugged lazily, raising a hand to inspect her fingernails.
"Oh, that's easy. 'Cause I don't care." She explained, nodding definitely at Martin to drive home the point, "Captains don't care. I've been a first officer, been a captain, been a first officer again. All the same to me. So long as you're happy, who gives a toss how many rings there are on your sleeve?"
The hypocrisy of her gung-ho statement dug tiny nail-marks into her chest, but Deborah told herself that it was entirely different. Martin didn't need real advice, he needed advice that would make him feel better about himself.
"Whereas you always look like you want to be the captain, so people assume you can't be one. You've gotta lose that look." She concluded.
Don't lose that look, she was saying inwardly, gazing sadly at Martin as he digested that information, playing with his epaulets in the absence of his hat, Don't ever, ever, lose that look, Martin Crieff.
She wasn't even sure why she wanted that at all.
"But I have always wanted to be an airline captain." Martin insisted, meeting Deborah's gaze as if that were a point of great importance.
"Really?" Deborah inquired; this was interesting, he didn't often talk about his personal life. This burst of honesty was as remarkable as it was fascinating.
"Yes, ever since I was six." Martin continued, the height of seriousness written across his face, not a lick of a blush on his cheeks. Deborah had to admit, her heart did go out to him, just a fraction.
"Ah. And before that?" she replied, returning to her position, leaning in with her elbows on the arm of her seat. It was more comfortable to talk to him face to face like that, it allowed them a way to communicate without the carrier of necessity between them.
At this, Martin did blush, his fingers lacing together for something to do as he drew his bottom lip through his teeth and shrugged helplessly.
"I wanted to be an aeroplane." He said sheepishly, a half-whisper, as if it were a well-kept secret that he had chosen to divulge to her and only here, the height of trust and companionship.
Oh, Martin, Honey… Deborah felt the tickling of warmth in her chest swell to the point of overflowing, and she was filled with the urge to throw her arms around his neck and squeeze; it was horrible, like a rush of affection tempered with a hatred of what Martin's words were making her think.
Now it all made sense; it wasn't about being Captain at all. Everything Martin was, was the product of some childhood dream that had never been allowed to flutter free; it was horrifically endearing, and she wanted it to stop…Oh, darling…you utter sod…
"I see." Was all that Deborah could think to say, nodding with a controlled smile on the tip of her lips as the conversation moved on, and Arthur joined them a few minutes later.
oOoOoOo
The day passed from there in a slow dredge of hours, in which Deborah relaxed into the most rewarding train of conversation she and Martin had ever had; if it hadn't been for the content of the conversations, she might have forgotten entirely about her anxiousness regarding Harry.
One good thing to come out of it was that they were succeeding in getting to know each other, without the hindrance of protocols, or rules, or silly pretences. And the more they talked, the more sure Deborah became that she hadn't been wrong when she had told Harry that she might end up liking their new (though not so new anymore) Captain.
To top it all off, Martin seemed to feel the same; he actually laughed at her jokes, smiled in despair at her digs, and opened up with his real opinions. One such instance…
"There isn't, though. After the age of thirty, you just don't meet anyone new." Martin stressed, dramatic hand motions in play as he engaged Deborah's gaze seriously, as if the point he was making was a very important one that she should most definitely know about, "You're on your raft with your friends, and everyone else is on their raft. Sometimes the rafts bump into each other, but there's no raft-hopping." He made his next point with an aborted shrug, twirling his hat on the tip of his finger before hanging it on the edge of the chair, "And I've managed to get on an all-boys raft."
Deborah held her tongue rather than point out, as she had been about to, that she was in fact, not a boy, and very much on his raft. It seemed…not inappropriate…but she wasn't sure why she felt that needed pointing out at all, or why it mattered that Martin notice his mistake right away.
"Well, what about cabin crew?" she suggested, settling back in her seat, legs now rested atop the arms of their seats between them; they had over the course of the day set up a sort of cosy clubhouse arrangement, with each of them turned towards each other and propped comfortably in their seats.
"Hmm, well, for two very different reasons, I'm afraid neither Arthur nor Carolyn quite float my boat." Martin replied, wincing with mock sincerity and rolling his eyes.
Once again, Deborah didn't reply to that, though her hands did lift to motion lightly to herself; again, Martin had seemingly forgotten to acknowledge her in his headcount, and that made a nerve in her ego twitch uncomfortably.
She let it go.
oOoOoOo
Carolyn had said a resounding no to her drinks idea, so Deborah had nabbed a bottle of water and two glasses from the Galley, and carried them back to the flight-deck.
Martin was waiting patiently when she returned, offering her a warm smile of welcome, as if he had missed her in the few minutes that she had been gone, while he reached out his hand to take the glasses from her.
"No – she didn't really go for the drinks idea. Water it is." Deborah declared, pouring the water into the glasses that he held steadily as she slipped back into her seat, settling back once everything was put to the side and balanced accordingly.
She watched in silence as Martin sipped, as his expression turned thoughtful and his fingers played around the edge of his glass, wiping down the condensation from his breath.
"So…" Martin began, not even lifting his eyes to address her properly, a sharp U-turn from their new camaraderie that set Deborah's hackles on guard, "what is it exactly that's so special about … I don't even know his name."
Deborah stiffened, and gripped her glass more firmly, wishing that the cold could gather up the hardness that had flushed away the previous warmth in her chest; she didn't want to talk about Harry, didn't even want to think about him.
They had been doing so well, existing if only for the day in their own little world; it had been nice. Deborah didn't know why she didn't want to talk, he was her husband after all…but perhaps that was it. Home was one world, work was another…home Deborah could be kept nice and far away from work Deborah.
"Harry." She answered shortly, taking the chance to look away from Martin, just as she saw from the corner of her eye that he lifted his head to look at her, a strange expression on his face.
"Hmm." He made a noncommittal noise under his breath.
Deborah suddenly felt the need to defend herself, to explain to Martin exactly what it was about Harry…it shouldn't be difficult, she was seeing him tonight. They would be putting things to rights.
"Oh, I don't know." Deborah started; she realised as she said it that 'I don't know' was hardly the best way to begin, so compensated with an extra pleasant tone, "I mean, he's clever and funny and kind and handsome and so on and et cetera – you know, the standard specs. But, I think if I'm honest, what it really comes down to is, he thinks I'm terrific."
He loved her; whatever else might be going on, however far away from each other they might be…he did love her. They had that.
"Does he?" Martin replied, sounding unimpressed; she glanced sideways to see that he was observing her with something akin to sad curiosity, or cautious concern.
Deborah couldn't blame him; she barely convinced herself, and it was her damn husband.
"Yup. The bee's pyjamas; the cat's knees. Really…terrific." She attempted confident, but trailed off towards the end. It was true, it was…it just took some looking to find it.
"And that's enough to make you happy together, is it – your shared belief in the terrificness of you?" Martin asked, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head; Deborah watched, knowing that she was frowning ,that her usual content smirk was vacant, but she hadn't the energy to fight, "I mean, I'm sure he's great, but shouldn't there be, along with all the great things that he is…shouldn't there be something about how he makes you feel, or how you feel about him?"
Deborah swallowed heavily, unable to answer straight away. He was making her think, making her think despite all her efforts to the contrary.
She and Harry were fine, she kept telling herself that, because it was true. Deborah's fingers scratched against the edge of the bottom of her seat as she let one hand fall out of sight. They were just going through a rough patch, but they'd fix it.
But in answer to Martin's question? Only an unpleasant churning in her chest that sent unnatural creepings up her arms and made her want to clench up.
Harry was smart, he was funny, he was handsome; that hadn't changed. His wit didn't impress her anymore, she didn't find his jokes funny, and there was nothing about him that made her want to stare at him all day, or jump into bed with him.
But he was her husband. He loved her…she had watched one marriage break up without her able to do anything, lost the father of her child and the child along with him…Harry loved her, and she didn't want to lose her husband. She wanted him there to come home to and grow old with even though some days, like today, she was glad that she'd spent it with Martin rather than at home.
She'd enjoyed her day with Martin…she wouldn't have enjoyed the day at home with a snuffling Harry. She'd have ended up in their room on her computer, or reading a book.
It didn't matter though. Harry loved her, and she loved him. She did. Martin didn't understand…it wasn't about feeling special, or passionate…that ended towards the beginning.
God, she just wanted to be happily married.
But she couldn't say that.
"The terrificness of me's not a bad start." Deborah remarked, finally meeting Martin's gaze with a stiff, false smirk. Martin's smile faltered, and the concern was back full force, as his hands dropped, one to tap nervously against the seat.
"But does it make you happy?" Martin asked again; Deborah didn't look away from his blue eyes, taking account of just how blue they really were instead of ruminating too much on the subject at hand, "Truly happy?"
"Oh, well, come on." Deborah insisted, shrugging and shaking her head as if it were no matter at all, "No-one's truly happy."
oOoOoOo
As Harry wandered back indoors, towards the sofa before which lay the remnants of their attempt at a romantic night, Deborah closed the door, remaining by its side, wishing so much that Martin would come back.
She didn't want him there, of course, but she would have given anything in that moment to return to the fun that they had been having, with Martin adorably drunk and shouting botched titles at her. Anything to save her from her marriage in that moment.
Everything had gone to plan. She had switched her jackets before entering the house, becoming a false Captain in under a minute, the dinner had gone well (she had forgotten the sauce, but that didn't seem to matter)…Harry was very much enamoured with her, and there was no doubt that he would eagerly sweep her off of her feet and into bed should she give him a nod.
Then Martin had turned up with the sauce, and Deborah didn't want to do that anymore. That bloody, bloody sod.
As if his interrogation earlier hadn't done enough to shake her belief in her own marriage…this…
Martin had come all the way here to drop off a gift that wouldn't affect him in the least. He had gone out of his way to be so kind, and then he hadn't said a word to Harry about who was really Captain. Sure, he had pushed his limits, but it was them, and Deborah wouldn't have expected any less.
Martin had done that…and they were barely friends…
Harry was her husband, and he wasn't even willing to listen to her when she told him about her day, about having to put Arthur in the 'First Officer's seat' to trick Mr Goddard…he looked like he was listening, but she knew he was more interested in what she had planned…he never listened.
He loved her…she wouldn't let go of that; he did love her…but she wasn't sure if he cared.
Martin cared enough to make an effort, to be there for her when he didn't need to…and he barely cared at all.
Harry couldn't manage even that some days…he was always out living his own life and going to tai chi lessons or the pub with his friends.
"Are you coming back, Love?" Harry called; Deborah turned around, putting a big smile on her lips, though she knew it wasn't working, to see Harry peering over the back of the sofa, one arm beckoning her over.
No…no…he loved her. They would be okay…she needed to tell him the truth, maybe that was it?
Maybe it was just that they didn't know what was going on in the other's life. She needed to be honest, Martin's presence had told her that much.
But not tonight…
Tonight…she wasn't going to seduce him as she had planned…no…she would try to curl up on the sofa with him, they hadn't done that in a while.
They would talk later…now, Deborah just wanted to try and be happy with her husband, just for a little while.
This has been one of those chapters that I look at while writing and think 'this looks iffy, but I don't know how else I would do it'
It's very Martin and Deborah centric, but that's all with good reason, I promise
Hope you enjoyed