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Here's the next chapter

Interlude 7

That line needed straightening up, but the only way to do that would be to make the line thinker, then she would need to make the other lines thicker so that it matched all the way around; Deborah mused detachedly that she should probably invest in pencils if pens were going to continue proving such pests.

Quick doodles and abstract pictures were fine, if they were covered in stray marks then that could be interpreted as really intense attention to detail; the cartoon style that she was attempting didn't lend itself to such bold faced deception. It shouldn't have been so important, but Deborah found that she did get depressingly attached to her scribbles…and distressingly proud of them.

If she wasn't proud of them, she wouldn't draw at such regular intervals…or in such obvious places…such as the inside of Martin's work journal…after slipping it from under his elbow. He hadn't been pleased about that.

Deborah hunched over her desk; she probably could have found something to do that was relevant to work, but Martin normally handled the paperwork, and she simply filled in whatever was put in front of her when the time came. Hunting down things to do seemed like an awful lot of hard work, and if it was important, then no one was going to sit around and wait for her to realise that it needed doing.

She had been sociable for the first few hours of the day; standby always dragged on, and it was only after a week that everyone became tired of finding things to discuss, and instead went about their own business. Carolyn and Arthur were on GERTI, doing some sort of training exercise that Deborah couldn't be bothered to inquire about (she was sure to hear the whole story from Arthur anyway), and she and Martin had been left to entertain themselves in the porta-cabin.

Martin, of course, was sitting primly at his desk, hat at his elbow, scratching away at a book of notes that was half-full and tagged here and there; Deborah lifted her head and gazed across the room at him. It was surprising how pleasant he looked when at ease, lips curling upwards ever so slightly as he hummed a tripping tune under his breath, finishing each sentence with a little flourish of his wrist.

She wouldn't mind chatting with him, sharing in his good mood, but there was little to talk about that hadn't been discussed already.

So instead, Deborah turned back to her drawing. One arm laid against the table, hooked over the paper like a fence keeping it secure, and she tapped her pen against her nose as she thought of what scribble next.

Sometimes she could jot down intricate portraits of the crew, and then send it flying to them folded into an aeroplane, taking an odd joy from the crinkled bewilderment and annoyance (or in Arthur's case, thrilled delight at seeing himself as a mottled caricature), but drawing purely to provide her hands with something to do.

The wall behind Martin's desk was partially filled with pictures draw on strips of lined paper, pinned to the corkboard that he had inherited when he took the job. He had protested at first, but conceded to allow such a display of unprofessional décor when she had knocked out a quick sketch of an Avro Vulcan on Fitton's runway.

Deborah had known that he'd like it. He pretended that he was simply enduring the products of her boredom, but his pleased smile had told a different story.

But when she was really bored, and needed genuine entertainment, all that she could produce were variations of the letters MJN, a multitude of imagined company logos, and what could only be called mock-ups of posters for the company.

Deborah supposed that if Carolyn weren't so disinterested, and if she herself had the energy, they might start up some actual advertisement for the company; but the chances of that dream coming to fruition were hardly perceivable.

There had been a few moments in which Deborah had considered the dullness that that revealed in her mentality; of all the things that she could use to vent her creative repression, there was something truly sad about such subliminal promotion of their ramshackle company. She had loved media studies at school, and supposed that this was merely a reflection of that; the completion of a poster, even if it was crumpled and thrown away, still instilled in her a sense of pride.

Then again, it kept her happy.

Today, it was block letters, the word MJN curled into the left hand corner of a sheet of paper like a bold balloon. Yesterday during the monotony of the lunch break, she had tried her hand at cursive, but the style didn't quite suit the feel of MJN; too fancy, not quite robust enough.

Deborah stroked her pen across the page once again, tipping her head so that it rest against her raised arm; perhaps if she made the corners rounder, the lines wouldn't look so silly?

A shadow fell over the desk, and Deborah looked up to find Martin standing on the other side, two notebooks clutched in his hands as he turned his head to try and see what she was drawing. She plastered on a smile and pushed the paper and pen to one side, straightening her back and stretching her wrists out until they clicked.

"Did you need me Captain?" Deborah inquired, batting her eyelashes for added effect. If he were in a bad mood, Martin would have just dropped whatever paperwork he had onto her desk and expect her to complete it; the deviation from the norm, and his light smile, made her think twice about ignoring whatever request he was likely to make.

Martin jolted slightly, arms hunching in for a moment as he blushed at being caught peeking at her doodles, but he laughed stiltedly and shook his head.

"No, I – well, yes." He lifted the books that he held into the air between them, and then placed them onto the desk, using the now vacant fist to cover his mouth as he cleared his throat, "I'd like it if you filled out your log book."

Deborah hummed under her breath, and turned her attention to the books in front of her, which she now recognised (and it really had been a long time), as her and Martin's log books. Resting her elbows on the desk and slouching forward a fraction, she plucked them from the desk top and inspected them, forehead furrowing in bemused disinterest.

Martin's was neat of course, but hers exuded little clouds of dust when she opened and shut the pages; in retrospect, that probably wasn't a good thing.

"But Martin, you know I don't do that." Deborah protested in as bored a tone as she could muster, placing the book back down and lacing her fingers together, resting her chin on them and looking back up at Martin, "And besides, I can't even remember half of the flights we've been on in the past month…let alone the ones before that."

"That's why I've given you mine." Martin remarked, reaching out to tap the books, lips pursed; it was an expression that Deborah recognised as the one he used when enforcing his will without there being any real emotion behind it, "You can copy what I've written across to yours. You can finish…drawing…when you're finished."

"Oh, Martin, I'll do it eventually." Deborah groaned, rolling her eyes, but Martin shook his head and folded his arms at his front.

"You need to do it as soon as possible, in case the CAA turn up and decide to check your logs." He explained, rocking back on his heels and tracing his eyes over the contents of her desk; Deborah caught his gaze, but he looked away, and she suspected with a pang of affectionate mirth that he was probably trying to avoid being swayed, "You might as well do it now, because I'm not going to back down over this."

His tone was prim and proper and Martin knew that he was pushing his limits, which only made Deborah smirk and chuckle lightly; she quirked an eyebrow and trained her eyes on his face, revelling in the way that the flush made the freckles on his cheeks a little lighter.

"Oh aren't you?" Deborah drawled; Martin drew his bottom lip through his teeth, and shook his head decisively, so Deborah exhaled a long-suffering sigh, and took the books in her hands once more, "I suppose I could make a start."

Martin's face split into a glittering smile, his blue eyes lighting up with the effort; much like she had a lot recently, Deborah was able to appreciate the benefits of just doing what Martin asked. Nothing that he requested was unreasonable (not of late) and it was nothing that would inconvenience her, so it was becoming harder for her to think of reasons not to earn such silent, but endearing praise.

"Thank you." Martin stated briefly; his eyes took a final trip across her face, and then, under Deborah's watchful gaze, he strode back to his own desk, fidgeting and patting down the documents atop it.

Deborah continued to observe for a few moments, and to her pleasure, Martin glanced up at her; whether he was alerted by her own stare, or just sneaking looks at her, she didn't know, but there was something grand about catching him in the act.

She smiled warmly, and Martin cleared his throat, returning a small smile, just a twitch of his lips, before looking pointedly down at his desk. Counting that as a victory, Deborah decided that she might as well do as she was told, and began flicking through her log book, rubbing her fingers together to remove the dust that clung to them as she searched for the last entry.

Copying Martin's log book turned out to be a lot more difficult than Deborah had anticipated. His handwriting was normally questionable, but in his attempt to fit everything that he had to say into the small lined spaces, the letters had devolved into minuscule reflections of a spider's inky tip-toes.

She struggled in vain, managing to fill out at least half a page per page of his, regretting her decision more every moment, before giving up and pushing her chair back. With a sigh, Deborah picked up Martin's log book, and abled across the room.

Martin glanced up as he heard her approaching, but Deborah kept her eyes on the illegible scrawl, holding the book an inch from her nose in the hopes that she might decipher its meaning before she rounded his desk and hunched over. She placed the book open in front of him, and pointed at ne area in particular.

"What does that say?" Deborah asked without further ado; Martin placed his pen down on the desk, and gave her a puzzled look but nodded quickly when she stared back, unimpressed, taking a moment to gnaw at his bottom lip while he squinted at the otherwise regimented page.

"It says seven hundred and thirty." Martin replied picking the book back up and placing it back into her hands, going so far as to curl her fingers over it for her; Deborah frowned, even as Martin smiled wanly.

"That was a number?" She muttered, shaking her head, but Deborah wandered back to her own desk without waiting for Martin's response; she heard a small humorous scoff, but a quick inspection once she was seated showed that Martin had his head down again.

To Deborah's chagrin, this process went on for about an hour. Every few pages, she would have to get up, walk over to Martin's desk, lean over it, arms outstretched and supporting her weight, as Martin unravelled the mystery that was his log book. Then she would return to her own desk, continue copying the details across, and have to repeat the routine when another illegible scrawl blocked the rhythm of the progress.

After the eighteenth time that Deborah rose to her feet, Martin dropped his pen down with a clatter, and slouched back in his chair, pushing a hand through his hair and glaring across at her; Deborah paused, and raised her eyebrows questioningly, shifting the log book so that she was holding it in both hands, supporting it between her fingers.

"You know, it might be easier if you just came and sat over here." Martin announced, extending his arm in a wide arc so that he could gesture to his whole desk at once; if Deborah didn't know any better she'd have said that he wanted nothing less than to have her sidle up beside him.

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I bothering you?" Deborah inquired sardonically, cocking her head to the side for emphasis, relishing the way Martin rolled his eyes as if he hadn't expected any less, "It's just that I thought you wanted me to fill out my log book."

"I do!" Martin insisted, eyes widening as he gestured as if clawing the air, "It's just in doing do, you're putting me off. Just bring your chair over here and we can go over everything that you can't read without you having to get up and down all the time."

Deborah rolled her eyes, and exhaled sharply, just so that Martin could hear the monotony of his request, but she threw the log book down regardless, and turned her back to him, placing her curled fists on his hips and surveying her desk. Behind her she heard Martin hum affirmatively, and she couldn't help but scoff.

She wasn't going to go and perch on the edge of Martin's desk; if she was moving, she was moving completely. True, a part of Deborah just wanted to catch him off guard, or possibly just annoy him, but there was a fraction of self interest in her next actions, future laziness being the most imperative.

Without a word, Deborah pushed her chair to a safe distance, and stepped around the end of her desk; she noted inwardly that she probably should have removed the contents first, but shrugged and decided that it wasn't worth the extra effort.

Hooking her hands underneath the edge of the desk, Deborah bent at the knees, and lifted, tripping backwards as best she could whilst maintaining her balance. After moving all of six inches, she dropping the end back down with a thud, and let out a breath that she hadn't realised she had been holding.

It was a lot heavier than it looked…and now all her things had rolled to one side in a messy pile, she noted with a pout. Deborah folded her arms over her chest and glared at the desk; well, now she had started, she had to finish.

"What are you doing?" Deborah jolted as Martin appeared at her side, his eyes wide, mouth threatening to contort in preparation for a scolding as his cheeks went red, "I said bring your chair, not the whole desk!"

"I need my desk." Deborah replied shortly; then she turned back to Martin, who was still shaking his head, one hand raking into his fringe, and a thought occurred, "Martin?"

"Yes?" Martin answered dubiously, his motions stilling as he looked suspiciously down at her; Deborah merely smirked at the shift, and nudged his arm gently with the back of her hand.

"You're a big…strong, van man…" Deborah drawled, making sure to glance pointedly over his form, and even lift her hand to trace her fingers fleetingly over the length of his upper arm, an action to which he managed to simultaneously freeze and judder in confusion, "How about you help me out by taking the other end of my desk and helping me put it next to yours?"

Martin spluttered a bit at the request, but he was already standing at the opposite side of the desk by the time he formulated a decent retort.

"But why does your desk need to be next to mine?" he asked, and if Deborah didn't know better, she'd have said he looked, not quite defensive, but withdrawn, eyes following her as if she might pounce at any moment; she hadn't realised quite how protective he was of his personal space.

"Because it'll make our lives easier in the long run." Deborah explained, placing her palms down on the desk, and smiling dryly in the hopes of lifting his spirits into the midst of cooperation, "Having our workspaces close to each other will make it easier to cross check things, as I have been doing today…and you never know, it might make it easier to talk if I'm not on the other side of the room."

"Okay…" Martin nodded slowly, and then smiled tentatively, the sort of little smile that Martin would pull out every now and again that made the air in Deborah's lungs try and escape and sent little flutters throughout her chest, "I suppose that's okay."

With a reflexive grin, Deborah mirrored Martin's actions as he wrapped his hands underneath the other side of her desk, hooking one arm up to the elbow (she supposed that that was proper practice for someone accustomed to heavy lifting). She let out a small sound of surprise when his end rose into the air at thrice the speed that hers did, and told him to shut up when he scoffed and chuckled, making half of her stationery roll onto the floor when he tried to stifle his grin by rubbing at the lower half of his face.

With much gritting of teeth, and bundles of fussing from Martin, who kept leaning over the desk to check that she wasn't at risk of dropping it on her feet, making her pause and place it on the ground to stretch out her arms and back, they managed to manoeuvre the desk across the room with little hassle; Martin said that he was only worrying over her health, but Deborah was sure that that was only an excuse to fuss and make sure that they performed such a menial action 'by the book'.

She even said so, much to his chagrin, but Martin merely scrunched up his nose and made a dismissive 'yeah, yeah' sort of face at her, which only prompted more teasing; Deborah couldn't help herself, really, it was like a compulsion.

By the time that they had finished, Deborah, to her disdain, was breathing a little heavily where Martin was not, and their desks were joined in a sort of obtuse triangle, facing the door to the porta-cabin in a way that reminded her of the work stations in Star Trek.

She glanced behind her, and took a moment to appreciate the sight of Martin bending over to retrieve the pens and papers that had been lost during the move; Deborah had to admit, it wasn't a bad sight, not at all. Then Martin straightened up, turning to hand her the stationery, and Deborah looked away quickly, coughing awkwardly and taking the pens from his hands without raising her head, placing them ritualistically on her desk. She could hear Martin shuffling around behind her, so turned, putting on a winning smile, and leant against their now joined desks, arms pinned behind her for support.

Martin's hands were in his pockets, and the look on his face could only be called bewildered and innocent as he surveyed the results, his lips pursed.

"Well," Deborah started, gaining his attention and suddenly feeling all the more wrong-footed for doing so, despite how pleased she was that she had got her own way in this particular arrangement, "I think it looks rather good this way."

oOoOoOo

Bringing the desks together had been one of the best decisions Deborah had made in a very long time, of that she was sure. It was odd, but somehow, being side by side shifted the atmosphere in the porta-cabin infinitesimally; even though she was still working her way through the log books, Deborah couldn't say that she was unhappy.

Before, it seemed, the gulf across the porta-cabin had created a similar sort of gulf between them, allowing them to sink into their own little worlds. Now, Deborah (and Martin too if his sideways glances could be believed) was peripherally aware of what was going on beside her, but not in any way that made it uncomfortable.

If anything, she might have said that she was more attuned to Martin, as if even though bouts of silence stretched between them, the conversation hadn't quite ended.

Whenever Deborah came across something that she couldn't read, she could simply scoot her chair a foot or two, and peer over Martin's shoulder as he took his log book from her and squinted down at it.

And Martin could roll across to her if he saw her procrastinating, sidle up behind her and tap her on the shoulder, reaching around her to remove the distraction of the moment; at one point that had ended with Deborah's arms pinned against her chest as she leant down, forehead on the desk as Martin's arms snaked around her to try and retrieve his phone after she had discovered that, unlike her newer model, it still contained the 'snake' game, laughing the whole while.

"No, no – that bit!" Deborah corrected, reaching across Martin's desk to jab at the side of the page; she had pulled her chair up behind his, and was perched right on the edge, leaning into the back of Martin's shoulder until she could feel the warmth from his back pressed against her chest, her arms wound around the one of his, beneath, resting on the desk, and the other over the top, hand curling ever so slightly over his lower arm once she finished pointing.

Martin didn't seem to mind, as he was far too busy inspecting his own handwriting, his eyebrows knitted and his lips pursed thoughtfully, tapping his pen stiltedly against the desk top.

"That's my signature." Martin remarked, tipping his head back slightly so that he could look her in the eyes; she shifted back a fraction so that their noses were no longer under threat of knocking together, "It's on every other page – how can you not recognise it?"

"Well what's it doing on the side of the page?" Deborah demanded without any real heat, slipping her hand from his wrist to tap pull the book back towards her across the desk, "That's not where the signature's supposed to go!"

"Well I couldn't fit it on the dotted line." Martin insisted, his lips curling into a flickering smile as his cheeks lit up, his chest juddering just a fraction, "It had to go somewhere!"

"Maybe if you didn't write so much-" Deborah chuckled, conceding to sit back and return her arms to their previous position, wrapped around his dominant, and rest her chin on his shoulder, but Martin interjected, shaking his head vehemently.

"Just because you do the minimal amount of work doesn't mean that I shouldn't record whatever comments that I had in regards to the flight!" Martin argued, his smile growing as he tried to remain stoic, but couldn't stop the fond sparkle in his expression as his eyes shone happily.

"Oh, of course not, Captain!" Deborah drawled, pouting her lips playfully and widening her eyes in a pantomime show of sarcastic pity as she rose up, hands sliding around his bicep so that she could bat her eyes at him properly while remaining mostly rested upon him.

Martin shifted and rotated in his seat to balance the move, rolling his eyes as he reluctantly beamed; Deborah couldn't remember when the giddy circuits had started somewhere between her stomach and her lungs, but it was far too pleasant to think too hard about.

After a few moments, Deborah realised that Martin hadn't turned back to his desk, and was still meeting her gaze; she smiled again, though the last one hadn't faded, and Martin's eyes flickered downwards, and his cheeks flushed red. Moving without thinking, Deborah's fingers curled a little tighter around his arm, and Martin's eyes moved once again to her lips before meeting her searching gaze, his smile settling into a warmer constant.

The fluttering in her chest seemed to surge, and she wetted her lips thoughtlessly, unable to do much more than smile bashfully, watching fleetingly as Martin pursed his; she felt more than saw his hand brush the loose strands of hair from where they hung over her face behind her ear.

She wasn't sure, as her mind was unusually blank, fuzzing slightly, but as she lifted her hand to hook lightly over his raised one, Deborah was sure that Martin was leaning up ever so slightly, and she shifted forward with the movement, unable to focus on one area of his face for more than a second.

Then the porta-cabin door swung open after catching on the broken lock, and Deborah dropped back into her seat, swallowing raggedly, slipping her arms from around Martin's arm in seconds and pushing her chair back to her own desk, grappling for her own log book.

Her chest was thudding, and her brain had shuddered to a halt, like the ringing silence that was left in the wake of a halted speeding train. Deborah glanced up sharply as Martin's log book was practically hurled in front of her, to find that Martin's cheeks were scorching red, and he was staring studiously down at the paperwork under his hands, which were moving stiffly back and forth.

Deborah inhaled slowly, and then steeled herself, quirking an eyebrow as she looked up towards the door, inwardly cursing as she met the bewildered and somewhat derisory gaze of Carolyn, who was standing stock still in the middle of the open doorway, arms held stiffly where she was clutching a bursting folder.

"Dare I ask why you felt the need to redecorate?" Carolyn inquired dryly, after a pause that stretched far too long; the way that her head turned between she and Martin made Deborah's guts flip uncomfortably, and she gripped the log books even tighter.

Martin shook his head swiftly, his head still ducked as he blushed, and hunched over his desk rather than sitting energetically as he was wont to do.

"Not at all." Deborah replied smoothly; she placed her hands palm down on the desk when she realised that they were shivering almost imperceptibly; she suspected that she was the only one to notice.

Carolyn huffed at the rejection of what Deborah was sure she suspected was some scandalous conversation, but shrugged and crossed the porta-cabin nonetheless, pausing at their now joined desks to inspect the debris that was layered across both; the result of their few hours of mutually distracted work.

There was a clatter, and Arthur burst through the door in typical Arthurian fashion. At the sound, Carolyn sighed and wandered towards her office, and Martin paused in his determined silence to glance upwards and then hunch back over.

Deborah laced her fingers together and rested her elbows on the desk.

"Wow guys!" Arthur's eyes widened and he bounded over to the joined desks, placing his hands on each desk in turn as if to verify whether they were really there, "You two look like you could be judges on the X Factor, or Britain's Got Talent! You know, like on a panel."

"That we could Arthur." Deborah sighed, smiling weakly; though normally up for Arthur's sometimes disconnected fascinations, in that moment she couldn't quite dredge up the energy.

"I don't think we could." Martin argued, and Deborah thought that he sounded as dreary as she felt; she tried to meet his eye, to see what he was thinking, but Martin's attention was trained entirely upon Arthur, his chin rested on his loosely folded arms.

Deborah listened half-heartedly as Martin debated with Arthur over the legitimacy of their resemblance to various television faces; the words washed over her without making much impact.

She was far too busy rolling the flittering fizzles that still broiled in her chest over and over in her mind, trying to work out how one moment she and Martin had been sharing a pleasant beam of cheerfulness, and the next…Deborah had no idea what had happened.

All she knew was that her heart was pounding and breathing was a little too laboured, and even though she wanted to meet Martin's gaze and recapture the connection from moments before…the idea of doing so sent shivers of guilt throughout every pore.

There it is, done and dusted. It's taking me longer to write at the moment, not sure why.

I hope it's good and that you all enjoy it.

Feedback is always welcome : )