Thank you all for reading, and reviewers for reviewing : )
Here is the next chapter, which was a lot of fun to write.
Kuala Lumpur
As usual, the bar was loud and rowdy during the lunchtime flurry of activity, with everyone from the fire crew, engineering, and the grounds men…everyone save Karl from ATC flocking to the abandoned fuselage. It provided a jolly atmosphere, not an unpleasant one, however steeped in testosterone it might have been.
Deborah was couched in the corner of the bar that she had claimed as her own, and that the crews were courteous enough let her have. Normally Carolyn would be there with her, to provide some sort of conversation not centred around sports or women, and they would simply chip in from the side, keeping one eye on the activities.
It wasn't that Deborah minded, quite the contrary. She was perfectly content to join in with such discussions; Deborah was quite adept at all things sporting and laddish conversation (a wonderfully skewed upbringing and years in a male dominated industry would provide such a disposition). And the crew actually seemed to want her there; the novelty of having a her play one of the lads had never quite worn off, and whenever she was absent for a while, Terry or George would catch her on the airfield and invite her back.
It was a nice place to be.
However, Deborah was ever aware that she was the sort that enjoyed more intellectual pursuits; word games and literature were the tip of the iceberg, and a thrilling debate with Martin or Carolyn was easier to bear than chants and boisterous impressions in a bar. It might have been more fun had she been allowed to drink, but she supposed that some things were left alone.
And recently…recently the antics of the bar, that had bolstered her spirits when she had no desire to stay in the porta-cabin any longer than need be, during the long washing in and out of ridiculous and vile Captains, were beginning to lose their charm.
Recently she had started to feel a twinge of guilt whenever she disappeared off and left Martin and Arthur on their own. Well, Arthur could very well entertain himself, and got on splendidly with the grounds staff. Martin was another matter.
Deborah knew full well that Martin and the grounds staff were two entirely different breeds of men, and although Martin would soak up the attention should it be given, the others would be unwilling to give it.
Hell, the only reason they were so fond of her was because if they closed their eyes and she had a different voice, she could easily pass for a bloke-y bloke…so long as she didn't allow herself to become too articulate of her political views, her critical analyses of fictional matters, and her interest in her job.
Which was why she was tapping her nails against the metal bar, watching the men loudly shout over one another with a muted amusement, wondering all the while what was taking Carolyn so long.
Deborah shook her head and smirked decidedly as Dirk tried to lure her into whatever bet that they had going; something centred around who could imitate the most convincing fruit, an activity that was growing in volume.
It was a relief then when she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. Deborah pulled it out and answered swiftly, placing the speaker against her ear with a little more force than necessary; she removed enough from the group that she only had to cup her hand over the device to decipher the voice at the other end.
"Are you not joining me today Carolyn?" Deborah inquired curtly, inspecting her nail for something to focus on while her conversational partner remained invisible.
"I'm afraid you're on your own today." Carolyn informed her, having the decency to sound just a fraction apologetic.
"Oh, what a shame," Deborah replied flippantly, letting her gaze trace over the men at the other end of the bar, "I suppose there's nothing wrong with watching whatever competition the lads have started up – it holds the promise of entertainment I suppose."
"Yes well, you have fun with your drinking buddies; lord knows they like having you around." Carolyn sighed, and the eye roll was almost tangible; Deborah almost retorted that though sober now, years of drinking had taught her that drinking buddies were no 'buddies' at all in the real world, as liking the bar persona was a far cry from liking the person, but decided against it at the last moment, "Anyway, that's not why I called."
"Oh?" Deborah feigned surprise, "Then to what do I owe the pleasure?"
A loud cheer erupted from the group, and Deborah had to turn her back to the rest of the room, hunching her back and covering both ears with her hands.
"There's a chance that Martin might stumble into the bar." Carolyn explained dryly, "I told him that if he wanted a lounge, he would have to go and find a clear space…it only occurred to me after the event that he and Arthur are bound to find the one free space we don't want them to know about."
"Oh, Carolyn…" Deborah groaned, squeezing her eyes shut in frustration; the idea of Martin finding her there made her stomach perform odd, uncomfortable cartwheels, not because she was afraid he might shut them down, but because suddenly the idea of him realising she had abandoned him to sit in a fake bar and entertain people that she barely communicated with on a normal day was horrible. He might even hate her again, or worse, make that terrible, lost puppy face that he was so masterful at presenting.
"Look, I'm sorry, but you've dealt with worse." Carolyn remarked, not sounding sorry at all, "Sort it out without shutting the bar, and without Martin becoming involved."
"Yes, sure, I'll try-" Deborah promised unhappily; then she straightened up as another issue flew to the front of her mind, "What do you mean, lounge? Why does Martin think we're getting a lounge?"
"The ridiculous man wants a Pilot's Lounge-" Carolyn explained, tone laced with exasperation.
"But there are only two pilots." Deborah interjected plaintively, frowning as she tried to rationalise Martin's train of thought.
"I know; prepare to be terrified. Martin wants a lounge for the two of you, so that you can present areas of aviation that take your interest." Carolyn stated curtly, "I did tell him that you were unlikely to go for the idea, but he's very eager."
Deborah nodded, unable to reply with any haste, before she remembered that Carolyn couldn't see her, or know that she was processing the idea.
"So he wants a room…just for he and I…so that we can talk about planes?" she repeated, waiting tensely for the response.
"That's about the gist of it." Carolyn remarked, evidently hoping that she and Deborah could have a good laugh over it.
Except Deborah wasn't laughing, and she wasn't 'terrified', although the sluggishness in her chest told her that she probably should have been. The tender guilt that she had been feeling for abandoning Martin during her breaks returned three-fold, and she swallowed against the onslaught.
Martin just wanted to spend time with her talking about things that he liked. Because that was what friends do…wasn't it? But rather than go about it the normal way, the man was approaching the matter as a professional, turning the event into a work related project that she would have little choice in if his plans went ahead.
And Deborah had been neglecting him…for all that she had tried to ensure that they got along, and that their relationship remained pleasant, the effort that she had been putting in had petered after her divorce (partly due to Martin's promise to try as well).
Which was going to make it even worse when he found out that she had been spending time in the bar instead of with him. It might have been better if she had been joining in the frivolities, but she wasn't! She almost always sat to the side and surveyed the madness, only joining in so far as conversation was concerned. No games, no personal discussions, only the occasional bets. It was pitiful.
And all that Martin would see is that she had chosen that over him.
Deborah knew that she didn't owe him anything…but…they spent all day in close proximity, surely that counted for something?
"Look, Carolyn, I'll deal with it," Deborah assured her, regaining her composure and clearing her head with a light palm over her eyes, "Just don't let on that you know about the bar."
"I didn't plan to." Carolyn replied, "Good luck."
With that the crackling of the speaker was replaced by the droning dial tone. Deborah slipped her phone back into her pocket and turned back to the rest of the bar.
The men were still gathered in a clumpy group at the other end of the bar, making more noise than Deborah thought was ever necessary. She wrapped her arms around her chest and closed her eyes in concentration, letting her head droop just a little.
There had to be some way to keep the grounds men happy, and to keep Martin happy. Unfortunately, there wasn't time to think about it, as another uproar of cheering filled the air, followed by a shrill demand that made Deborah's eyes snap open, and forced her to her feet.
"Can someone please tell me what the hell's going on in here?" Martin demanded; his cheeks were flushed with indignant confusion, and his shoulders and jaw were squared in the way that they did before Martin attempted to pull rank.
Deborah scurried as gracefully as she could across the fuselage, glad that for once, Martin was so distracted that he didn't see her approach until she had run her fingers through her hair to make it curl away from her face, and put on a welcoming smile. She had one chance to make things alright, and it was a long shot, she appreciated that, but it was worth a shot.
Martin's head snapped to the side when he felt her tap gently at his elbow.
"Hallo, Martin." Deborah drawled, sounding for all the world as if she had never been so glad to see anyone. It wasn't entirely a lie, despite the stiffness of her wide smile. She wasn't unhappy to see him at all, she never was, merely biting down waves of anxiousness in the face of very probably offense.
"Deborah!" Martin exclaimed in shock; to her chagrin, an understanding shadowed his eyes, and Martin's forehead pinched in realisation, and wounded pride, as he brought his curled hands to rest at his waist.
"Welcome to the Flap and Throttle." Deborah declared in a latch ditch attempt at joviality, lifting her hands into the air; she let her shoulders sag when the grounds crew cheered as one, ruining whatever moment of understanding that she and Martin had created.
oOoOoOo
Trying to explain to Martin what was going on without upsetting him was hard work. And unsuccessful.
He was upset that the bar had been kept from him for so long; Deborah couldn't have mistaken the waver in his voice when he remarked that it was a secret club for everyone except him, even if she had tried.
The guilt only intensified when she realised that Martin's life had always been like that. He had always been the one person left out of everything.
Unlike the grounds crew, who she knew looked down on him, and would have laughed at the knowledge that yes, Martin wasn't a 'cooler kid' as he called it, Deborah sympathised greatly, she really did, even more so because it was Martin, and for all of her harmless japes, she couldn't imagine deliberately not being friends with him.
Besides, she was well versed in how Martin felt. She had never had trouble with people herself, but that was more…camouflage than anything else. On their own, drama club, a passion for the English language, far too much emotional investment in all things fictional, and a voice that shone in song and prose, would have left her alone at school; she had seen other members of her clubs alienated for less.
However, together, Deborah was able to mesh with any group of people she wanted… which was what made it so easy to slip into the bar for some company, without getting too attached to any of them.
The only problem was, she was rather attached to Martin…and he wasn't happy with her at all.
As soon as the day was over, and he had filled in all of his paperwork, he was going to march into the bar and order it shut, and she couldn't allow that. Deborah had spent the entire afternoon pondering the best way to appease both the grounds crew, who would turn on her if her colleague closed their pub, and Martin, who would probably never forgive her if she took their side over his.
Inevitably, she supposed, she came to the conclusion that the only thing she could do was to get them to cooperate, and invite Martin to join them.
A difficult task no doubt. Oh, Martin would be easily swayed by flattery, eager for the smallest scraps of attention. It was the lads she was worried about. They didn't like him; not even a little bit.
Deborah was just going to have to bribe them, because she couldn't stand the idea of letting them upset Martin. It might even be nice to have him at the bar. He wanted a lounge, she felt guilty for abandoning him; it was the best of both worlds really.
There were already a few people in the fuselage when Deborah arrived, and in order to make sure that her plan worked, she chatted amiably about the possibility of tickets to the football world cup that year, making sure to impress upon each of them the importance of not going anywhere.
Conversation was too difficult to maintain for a long period of time, as more people arrived, each of them helping themselves to a drink, and telling her to stop being so serious; Deborah's only response had been to smile pleasantly and continue pacing back and forth until she could identify most of the regulars gathered around the end of the bar.
It was fair to say, that nobody was impressed with her plan. Which was saying something, considering that most of them were usually quite amused by everything that she had to say.
"Look, I realise that you're never going to be bosom buddies." Deborah reasoned, hands outstretched in a show of measurement meant to convince them; standing facing a collation of men, all with similar imperious expressions on their faces wasn't as intimidating as it might had sounded, but their potential for disregarding her every word simply on mass was nerve wracking to say the least, "But regardless of how you feel about Martin, could you please, please, just be nice to him."
"But why?" Terry moaned, pausing to throw back a mouthful of ale, "The bloke's got a right stick up his arse!"
There was a chorus of approval, and Deborah rolled her eyes. Dave and George were most likely to play along, as they were more friendly with she and Arthur, but even they were reluctant to bother with Martin. They weren't bad people, they just worked tiring jobs and didn't want to endure Martin's particular brand of enthusiasm.
"I know he does, but he can't help it; that's just how he is." Deborah explained patiently, biting back the defensive retort that was nudging at the back of her mind, "I'm not asking you to like Martin, but if you upset him, he might have your bar shut down."
The men all turned to each other, sharing sideways glances, and a reluctant grumble rippled through the gathering.
"But Mrs Knapp-Shappey's here all the time," George argued fairly, shrugging his shoulders as if this were no real matter, "Just let him tell her, then we can pretend the bar's gone and move it somewhere else."
Deborah had already thought of that, and quickly brushed the idea away. Yes, it was easy, and the problem would be solved…but she would much rather try and ingratiate Martin into the loose community that they had. Not only would it give her someone else to talk to…but it would make his day to think that he'd been accepted into their 'club'.
"No, this is a better plan." Deborah replied, pursing her lips and controlling her expression, "You don't all need to talk to him, I just need a few of you to smile and say hello when he's around, and let him join in your conversations…George? Dave?" Deborah batted her eyelashes just a tad, a devious move she knew, but desperate times called for desperate measures, "After all the years we've known each other, you can't do this one thing for me?"
There was a collective groan, and then George dropped his head, expression falling to one of muted acceptance.
"Fine!" he groaned, "But we're going to remember this."
Deborah smiled widely, and checked her watch while the men spread out along the bar, grumbling among themselves.
"Okay, he's on his way." She announced, leaping into action, hands outstretched towards the men even as she began setting herself up to welcome Martin in and push him towards compliance, "Now, remember: we're aiming for something between the bar in Cheers and the Mess Hall in Dam Busters; and I know you'd think if you use "Captain" in every sentence he'll think you're taking the piss, but actually, he won't. Right, here he is."
The fuselage door swung open, and Deborah swallowed down a fluttering of nerves in her chest at the sight of Martin striding in, and then faltering at the sight of everyone's eyes on him.
"Welcome, Martin, to the Flap and Throttle." Deborah beamed warmly, relishing the widening of his eyes.
She smiled brightly and walked arms open to his side, slipping an arm around Martin's back to guide him towards the group. Martin's head, and subsequently his upper body, followed the motion, but he didn't resist, and allowed her to lure him into the action.
To Deborah's relief, Martin stuttered, but he lapped up the false sycophancy, his demeanour brightening as he tried to appease the stiff yet amiable engineers while simultaneously trying to refuse their flattery.
Throughout the exchange, Deborah kept her arm around him, her hand pressed against the back of his uniform jacket. This was partly a way to keep him from retreating, partly a way to encourage Martin, as despite his floundering she was there…and in part a way to reassure herself that Martin was still there, getting along with everyone, ingratiating himself despite his flaws, while her thumb rubbed unconsciously back and forth through the fabric. She wasn't sure what she would do if he messed this up.
Which was why at one point, Deborah had to take his arm in her other hand and lead him to the other end of the bar in order to convince him that playing along would benefit the company. That fact that Martin so willingly believed the lies that she spouted was touching, in a way, but it also pulled at the guilty strings in her chest.
But at the end of the day, Martin was playing along. He was trying to join in the camaraderie, and the lads were putting up with him.
Everyone was happy.
oOoOoOo
It was nearly the end of the day, and Deborah was already itching to leave. Martin was working at his desk, looking unusually pensive, but she had decided hours before that it would be better to leave him to his thoughts while she worked from the sofa, balancing the papers that he had dropped on her desk on her knees.
It wasn't the tidiest work she had ever produced, but it would do.
The door to the porta-cabin burst open, and Arthur hurried in and aimed straight for the coffee counter.
"Hi chaps, don't mind me." Arthur announced, as he snatched up a handful of mugs and stacked them in his arms.
"Hello Arthur," Deborah drawled bewilderedly, sitting up straighter so that she could watch his actions; she decided to leave it be, "How's your mystery passenger training coming along?"
Arthur paused in his flurry of activity and glanced over his shoulder, the rest of him following moments later.
"Oh, it's going great." He answered, smiling intermittently; it occurred to Deborah that he might have been over exaggerating, "See, I don't normally have trouble stewarding, but this has made me see all the areas that I need to brush up on, which is brilliant, because then I can be even better."
"What sort of things have you been doing wrong?" Martin asked warily, looking up briefly from his desk, and raising an eyebrow in muted curiosity.
"Oh, nothing wrong!" Arthur assured him with a twitchy grin, as he crossed the room again, almost out of the door, "Just lots of things that I miss out."
With that Arthur was gone, leaving behind him the dragging monotony of the end of the day.
The next twenty minutes rolled sluggishly by, and Deborah spent every second of them watching the ticking hand of her watch crawling around the face, listening to Martin's pen scratch far too absently to be doing anything truly constructive.
"Five, four, three, two, one." Deborah counted down lazily; the alarm on Martin's watch bleeped the moment that the last word left her mouth, and at the sound, she hoisted herself to her feet and wandered to his desk, leaning down with her hands against the top as Martin placed the cap on his pen and sat back, "And so ends another eventful shift. Right, Martin, see you in the Flap and Throttle later?"
Over the course of the past few days, Deborah had really begun to enjoy having Martin at the bar with them. Sure, he was awkward and still didn't quite fit in, but sitting on the peripheries of events was much more fun with Martin there.
The first time he had been pulled into the group, to discuss football of all things, Martin had floundered, and Deborah had listened, head turning between he and George as he proved his complete obliviousness to sports of any kind, and lost the approval of the engineers; she had rested her hand lightly on his wrist throughout, to give him a sense of confidence, and to reassure herself that he wasn't going to dissolve into a puddle of nerves.
"Yes." Martin replied, exhaling drearily. Deborah thought that he sounded unhappy, but put on a stiff smile nonetheless as he slouched back in his chair and made no effort to move.
"Good! And don't forget to bring your shin pads. It's Skittles night!" She remarked with forced fervour.
"Why-why-why do I need shin pads for Skittles?" Martin asked, his despair no longer subtle, as his eyes widened and bored into hers imploringly, his hand rising to rub distractedly at his forehead.
"Oh, the way they play it, if you're not bowling you're a skittle." Deborah sighed, keeping up her encouraging cheer, and swaying forward slightly to bump the back of her hand against Martin's upper arm.
"Oh God." Martin groaned, covering his eyes with both hands and sinking further into his chair. For the first time, Deborah acknowledged the dull cloud of ice that had been cloying in her chest since she had first manipulated Martin into joining the bar. He had seemed pleased to be included, so she hadn't given it much thought, but now…Martin was anything but happy, and that was making her uncomfortable.
"You all right?" she asked, lifting her hand to his arm once again, but this time brushing the back of her fingers up and down soothingly, before Martin's eyes wandered to the movement and she retracted it slowly, her eyes fluttering from his.
"No." Martin replied grimly, shaking his head agitatedly, drawing his bottom lip through his teeth.
"Why not?" Deborah pushed, and was caught off guard when he seemed to surge into movement, leaning forward, his head in his hands, running through his hair as he desperately held her gaze, as if begging for understanding.
"I hate it! Deborah, I really, really, really hate it." Martin exclaimed frantically; Deborah held her composure, but couldn't allay the stab of guilt in her guts as she realised how badly her plan was working out, "I hate the drinking games and the pop quizzes and the round forfeits and the competitive farting, and the Whoops Johnnys and the bloody anchovies …"
"If it's any consolation…" Deborah started cautiously, looking at the papers on the desk rather than Martin's wide blue eyes, "I thought you coped very well with being anchovied. You had a real quiet dignity."
"I just can't stand it!" Martin stressed, shaking his head again as if he could shake away his troubles if he carried on. Deborah's heart lurched, and she decided that as much as she liked having him around, it was time to give him an out.
"Well, I suppose you could – it would be a wrench for all of us, of course – but you could stop coming in." she said pointedly, hoping that he would realise what she was offering.
"No! I can't!" Martin insisted, gnawing more desperately at his bottom lip.
"Can't you?" Deborah sighed; she took her hands from the desk and hopped up onto the very edge, so that she could relieve the twinging in her back and carry on comforting Martin, who tilted back in his seat so that he could hold her eye contact despite the shift in position.
"Of course not!" Martin declared, gesturing wildly with his whole arms, "You saw what it was like when I first arrived: they were overjoyed! They said I made it a proper club; and they said it proved I wasn't standoffish, so if I stop going now, it'll prove I am standoffish. I-I only wish I'd never found out about the wretched place. And now I know about it, I have to go! I'm trapped – I'm trapped-trapped like a …"
"… tinned anchovy?" Deborah suggested, and Martin sagged even further, his eyes fluttering closed momentarily at what was beginning to sound like a terrible headache of concerns.
Deborah empathised; she had to fix this, and the only way to do it was via more sneakiness and deception, which she had been trying to avoid altogether.
"I don't know how you do it." Martin remarked dryly; Deborah's eyebrows knitted, and she peered in confusion at him.
"What do you mean?" She asked, and Martin smirked bitterly, shaking his head and folding his hands over the edge of the desk.
"I mean, I can't even manage to get along with these people – I'm not a lad's lad, I don't like sports, or drinking in the middle of the day, or hanging out in a big group with an 'oi-oi' attitude…" Martin explained, shrugging nonchalantly as if it didn't bother him, though Deborah knew that it did, "But you, you're with them all the time apparently…I just don't understand."
"I suppose I'm just a 'lad's woman', aren't I." Deborah replied wryly, looking anywhere but at him.
Martin hummed under his breath and shook his head thoughtfully; when she dared to meet his gaze again, it was to find that he was peering concernedly at her.
"But you're not." Martin insisted firmly, calmly but with vehemence, "I know you…you're loud when you want to be, and you can get down with the blokes when you feel like it, hell, you can get along with anyone when you want to - but you're not a lad's woman…you like books and spending hours on the sofa, and you always stay in our hotel room instead of going out to clubs or bars-"
"What are you saying Martin?" Deborah interjected sharply, folding her arms over her chest; she was uncomfortable enough already, but Martin was doing that thing that he did, where he would make the conversation far more personal than she ever intended.
"I'm just saying…" Martin sighed, shrugging and opening his palms to the world, and quirking his eyebrows, "I've always thought that you were too…refined…for those men in there."
Deborah rolled her eyes, but there was no feeling behind it. Once again, she was unsettled but touched by Martin's contorted concern for her.
"Well…apparently not." She replied, slipping from the desk, "I'll see you at the bar then."
Taking a deep breath, Deborah strode from the porta-cabin. She thought that she heard Martin call some sort of response, but if it had been important, he would have chased after her. Crossing the airfield, the only thought that sat securely in Deborah's mind was the one saying that she needed to sort out how to get Martin out of his obligation to the bar without upsetting…anyone.
oOoOoOo
Things hadn't gone quite as planned, but Deborah supposed that with Martin now blissfully ignorant once more, and the bar relocated to thee fire crew's break room, the natural order had been restored.
Yet, as she sat at lunchtime across the small table from Carolyn, who was reading a cooking magazine that she had picked up at the supermarket, Deborah couldn't help but feel distinctly down-hearted. Thoughts of Martin kept wandering through her mind, and she couldn't stop thinking about him sitting on his own in the porta-cabin.
She was starting to miss him.
"You've got a right face on you." Carolyn remarked wryly, peering over her magazine. Deborah lifted her head from where she had been resting it on her arms, and shrugged flippantly.
"I don't know what you mean." She replied, turning to gaze around the room. The feeling would pass, she was sure of it.
Carolyn rolled her eyes, but allowed Deborah the peace of mind that she so sorely needed. The best thing about the woman, Deborah noted, was her ability to keep her mouth shut when required; although, that was mostly because she didn't really care.
A shadow fell over the table, and Deborah looked up and plastered on a small smile as Dave and Terry nodded in greeting, pints in their hands.
"Just wanted to congratulate you on getting everything sorted out." Dave remarked, taking in the bewildered shrug that Deborah responded with, "That Captain 'Skipper' was really starting to get on my nerves."
It was supposed to be friendly, a companionable comment; except, Deborah didn't dislike Martin as much as the engineers seemed to think. Or at all really. She felt herself tense, but merely folded her arms over her chest, observing from the corner of her eye how Carolyn pointedly ignored the discussion.
"He's not that bad." Deborah replied; her voice hadn't come out nearly as strong as she had hoped it would, and she sounded weak to her own ears, disconcerted by the broiling in her stomach that made the skin of her arms itch.
"Are you kidding?" Terry interjected jovially, "He's a right pain in the arse."
Again, Carolyn said nothing, but something in Deborah's head snapped, and her patience was gone. Just like that, the indecision that had been clouding her mind for weeks disappeared, and she suddenly wanted to be anywhere but there.
Deborah rose to her feet, nodding politely to Dave and Terry, and slipped her jacket back over her shoulders. Without another word, she strode from the bar, highly aware that there were eyes on her back.
Once out in the open air, she pulled her arms tighter around her chest, and inhaled as deeply as she could. Deborah glanced around the grass and concrete, and began walking before she could give it too much thought.
She didn't want to be around them anymore.
Just as Deborah had expected, Martin was alone in the porta-cabin, settled in the corner of the sofa, one leg folded over the other, a book rested on his knee. He glanced up and bent the corner of the page when she entered, and his eyes followed her as she strode across the room and dropped lightly down onto the other end, pulling her legs up after her and wrapping one arm around them.
"Hello Martin." She said warmly, feigning disinterest but failing abysmally, trying to maintain a wan smile, "What are you up to?"
"I'm reading…" Martin replied slowly, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as she closed the book completely and placed it on the coffee table; Deborah followed the action, and brushed a few stray strands of hair behind her ears, pointedly ignoring the expression on his face that was turning to concern, "Deborah…are you alright?"
"Of course I am, why wouldn't I be?" Deborah shrugged, inwardly cursing herself for sounding far too chipper. Martin would never believe it, and she didn't want to talk about the flurry of mental arguments that had carried her from the bar to here.
Martin didn't sit forward, but he tensed as if ready to, at a moment's notice.
"No reason…I just didn't think you were staying in over your lunch break." He explained, then his eyes widened and his cheeks flushed pink ever so slightly, "Not that I mind that you are – it's just…"
"I understand Martin," Deborah reassured him, lifting a hand to silence him before he could get worked up, or she could give in to the fondness that he instilled in her with the typical spluttering, "I appreciate your concern."
"Right…you're welcome…" Martin trailed off.
Deborah took her eyes from him, but could still see and hear him tap his fingers awkwardly against his knee as he looked about the room. She could only endure a minute or two of stretching silence, before she grasped at something that had been niggling at the back of her mind for days.
"Carolyn says that you want to set up a Pilot's Lounge?" she remarked, turning back to him, pulling her knees closer to her so that she could settle more comfortably on the cushions. Martin gaped for a moment, then nodded swiftly.
"Well, it was just an idea." He said, cocking his head and motioning with both hands as if it were no big deal, just a fleeting fancy; Deborah knew better, if only by the wandering path of his gaze, from the floor to her face, then back again, "I thought that if we had a room to ourselves, we could use it during breaks to discuss aviation-"
"You know, if you want to spend time with me, you only have to ask." Deborah cut him off; her tone was soft and tentative, but it shut him up as if she had shouted.
Martin flushed scarlet, and rubbed at the back of his neck, laughing soundlessly, his chest heaving with the motion.
"That-uh, that's not what I meant-" he stuttered, and then realising what he had said, "Not that I don't want to – I do, I just meant a professional setting where we could-"
"Martin, I'm not stupid." Deborah shook her head and touched Martin's knee briefly to calm him down; his hands fell into his lap, and she felt her minute smirk threaten to slip into a thin smile, "We agreed that we were going to try and get along more easily, and try to be friends…so, like I said…if you want to spend time with me, you only have to ask."
And she meant it. If Martin asked her to stay with him every break they got, she would say yes. Every time.
She wasn't sure how to take such an inward revelation.
Martin was eyeing her warily, but there was something indecipherable in his expression, a slight softening, or affection, Deborah couldn't be sure.
"That's…we did agree to that didn't we?" Martin chuckled a truncated laugh that petered off nervously; he shifted on the sofa, leaning forward as he readjusted his legs and hunched a fraction closer.
"Yes, we did." Deborah agreed, keeping her posture but relaxing sideways into the cushions, smile still lingering as she tried to regain some of her suave confidence, "And, well, if you want to sit and talk about aviation, we don't need a lounge – the porta-cabin works perfectly."
"Yeah right," Martin snorted, raising an eyebrow and nodding with his lips pursed, "You'd be happy to sit and talk about flying with me."
"I'm a pilot." Deborah stated plainly, unsure of why the accusation raised her hackles; Martin paused in his sniggering, waiting expectantly, one arm over the back of the sofa; they were now facing each other properly, "I like flying."
"Really?" Martin asked; he didn't sound convinced, and Deborah bit the inside of her lip indignantly.
"Yes." She insisted curtly, "Well, you like flying as in the act of flying – I like planes, as in, the machines themselves."
"What?" Martin scrunched his face up in disbelief, shifting again from the dip that he had created in the sofa and moving to the denser cushions in the middle; Deborah had to move to counter the shift of weight, bringing them closer together, "Since when?"
"Since I was little!" Deborah stressed; she was close enough now that she could thump Martin lightly on the shoulder with the back of her fingers, before leaving her elbow to rest on the back of the sofa, fingers splayed for emphasis, "Both sides of my family are RAF, I've always liked planes!"
"Really?!" Martin's face lit up and his eyes widened, his lips playing into a fascinated smile that Deborah didn't think he was aware of, "How can I not know that?"
"Because…" Deborah trailed off, caught up in her train of thought and meeting Martin's gaze, unable to hide a smile herself as she pushed a hand through her hair, "This just proves my point, about us spending time together."
"How so?" Martin retorted, eyes never leaving her face, darting up and down as if searching for some warning of a lie; he drew his bottom lip through his teeth.
"My point being…that perhaps we have trouble being friends…because even after a year and a half of working together, we still don't know anything about each other." Deborah explained, with a cautiousness hovering somewhere around her chest, making breathing just a fraction more laboured than it should be, as if she were afraid Martin might contradict her; her gaze lingered on his lips for a moment where he was biting down lightly, but then snapped back to his eyes, "Perhaps if we were to spend more time together, we might talk about things other than aviation…as friends often do."
Deborah held her breath without thinking about it, watching as Martin seemed to do the same; she was close enough that she would have felt it had he been breathing as heavily as he had before. Martin was gazing into the distance searchingly, and it was only when his eyes flickered to his hands, which moved to one another for the safety of intertwining, that he spoke.
"Yes, that sounds – well, that sounds nice…" Martin remarked thoughtfully, "Where – um- what sort of thing were you thinking of?"
A rush of something filled Deborah's lungs, and she was filled with the overwhelming satisfaction of a job well done. She couldn't help the smile that curled into her cheeks, and hopped up so that she could slip her knees beneath her.
"Well, I have always wondered what your family was like to make you so obsessed with becoming a pilot." Deborah replied, regaining a sense of composure and comfort.
"Ah…" Martin nodded sagely and blushed ever so slightly, "That might take a while."
I enjoyed writing that, it gave me lots of feels
Hopefully it's done the same for you!