Hello! Thanks to everyone who reads, and especially to Wikketkrikket and Ashtrees for reviewing and making my day every time.
This chapter's extra long, for reading pleasure, but probably not what many people might be expecting.
Fair warning, there is some swearing of a far higher calibre than my usual, and themes of an equal nature
Ottery St Mary
The sun was shining, the flight was over by ten o'clock that morning, and Deborah was aware that she was stupidly excited for what she knew full well wasn't as thrilling as she was building it up to be in her head.
Having hired Martin's van business before, she was fully aware of what the job entailed, but there was something about the idea of the three of them going on a road trip to Devon that filled her with an anticipatory sense of joy. Perhaps it was the fact that Martin hadn't been on the flight, or simply the opportunity to play as a van man for the day on his turf; whichever mentality her brain was utilising, Deborah was looking forward to the rest of the day far more than was reasonable.
When she drove parked the van up outside of the student house in Parkside Terrace, Martin was already sitting on his doorstep, wrapped in the basic jeans and t-shirt ensemble that he seemed to have assigned to menial labour. As she turned off the engine and clambered down from the driver's side door, Martin hoisted himself to his feet, and Deborah noted with a flicker of concern that although he was wobbling slightly, there were no crutches or supports in sight.
"Hello, you." Deborah greeted him warmly as he hobbled to meet her at the van's flank, coming to stop with less than a foot of space between them; she couldn't help but brush the knuckle of her finger affectionately past the open collar on Martin's shirt as she smiled up at him, "Are you sure you should be up and about?"
"Yeah, I'm fine; it just stings a bit when I walk." Martin replied in a facsimile of mournfulness, biting the corner of his lip and ducking his head as he waggled the offending ankle; Deborah's eyes followed his as he talked, and she hung on his words even as he glanced around the van, eyebrows dipping in the centre, "Where's Arthur?"
"Oh," Deborah startled back into alertness, and rocked back on her heels, passing the van keys from hand to hand as she shrugged nonchalantly; normally keys went straight into her right pocket, but her house keys were there, so she had to keep them in her hands lest she forget them, "He's driving my car here for me."
"You're letting Arthur drive your expensive sports car?" Martin hissed through his teeth, the corner of his lips tugging into his cheeks; he leant against the side of the van, slipping his hands into his pockets.
Deborah almost bridged the space between them to place a steadying hand on Martin's arm when he shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, barred by the pain caused by the one at an unnaturally stiff angle, but thought the better of it. Martin was petulant and proud, and wouldn't appreciate her help for what it was.
"It's necessary for my overarching plan." Deborah replied wryly, folding her arms over her chest to prevent herself from giving in to the inappropriate impulse to touch the flesh of his lower arms that was left uncovered by his short sleeves, "When we come back, we can drop Arthur back at his house, and then I can drive home from here."
"Wow!" Martin exclaimed sarcastically, eyes widening in mock surprise as she shook his head and relaxed into the van, the tension leaving his shoulders, "That must be the most forward thinking you've ever done."
"Oh, shush, Martin!" Deborah drawled, giving in and swatting his about the elbow; she raised the other hand to briefly cover the bright smile that was dredged up by the light chuckle that escaped from her lungs, even as Martin laughed unabashedly, shifting to accommodate each movement.
At that moment the familiar growl punctuated the air, and the two of them turned to see Deborah's purple Lexus growing larger as it trundled down the street and pulled up behind Martin's van; Arthur was obviously taking Deborah's words of warning to heart, and driving as carefully as was humanly possible.
As Arthur locked the doors and wandered over to the van, Martin clapped his hands together and morphed into the strange concoction of extremely competent yet not quite Captain like authoritarianism that Deborah had come to associate with Van Man Martin.
"Alright chaps," he addressed them, hobbling away from the van's support so that he could stand apart like the giver of a magnificent speech addressing the masses; Arthur nodded and listened, rapt with attention, but Deborah merely listened half-heartedly as she fondly admired the stilted arcs that Martin's limbs made and the serious set of his expression, "This is the plan: we drive to the Laurel's, we load their piano, then we drive to Devon, unload the piano, and drive back. Nothing more, no detours, and definitely no reason for this to go wrong."
"You make it sound as if you have no faith in us Martin." Deborah drawled, quirking her eyebrows salaciously at him, grinning at the pointed pout that he sent her way as he took the few painful steps back to the van's side, "Anyone would think that as a team we hadn't overcome far greater problems than a simple van delivery."
"Hmm, yes…" Martin replied, grimacing faintly and sidling up beside her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back just a little to be able to meet his cheerful gaze, "The thing is, having worked with you for as long as I have, there's a part of me that's suspecting everything will go horribly wrong."
"Don't worry Skip, everything will go brilliantly!" Arthur assured him, smiling encouragingly over his shoulder; but Martin didn't turn, the only acknowledgement that Arthur had spoken a scoff of agreement, as Martin remained rested against the van, propped up on an arm as he raised an expectant eyebrow at Deborah, his cheeks flushing lightly as he smirked.
When no verbal reply came, Arthur apparently sighed in acceptance and reached up to yank open the van's door; or Deborah though that was what he was doing. She only caught him opening the door from the corner of her eye, and paid him little heed, as she held Martin's gaze and hummed deep in her throat.
"You're forgetting Captain, that I have phenomenal luck." Deborah drawled, rocking ever so slightly on her heels, aware that it brought her face just that inch closer to his; Martin's eyes followed hers and the warm edge to his features never wavered, "That's sure to balance out any mess that you cause until we reach a pleasant equilibrium."
"You better hope so." Martin retorted in a low tone of voice that sent shivers through the mass of moths that had claimed Deborah's chest as their own; then he reached up to push the loose waves of hair behind her ear, the backs of his knuckles brushing against her cheeks, before stepping back and adopting his usual twitchy fluidity of movement, with a little more stumble than usual, "Come on, everyone in the van! Chop chop!"
Yes, today promised to be very interesting indeed; if only there weren't so much actual 'job' to distract them.
oOoOoOo
So far the trip hadn't been quite as much of a jolly road trip as Deborah had been expecting, but overall, she was in a rather good mood; that might have been helped by the fact that Martin was similarly jovial, and relaxed to the point of warm contentment that practically radiated from him, enough that she could bask in the rays.
The van was one in which the front contained a row of padded seats that could fit three people, four at a push (if said people were good friends), so it hadn't been a problem piling inside and completing their pre driving to Devon check list.
While Deborah sat in the driver's position, Martin had taken the space beside her, far nearer to the right of the van than the centre; he had one arm slung over the back of the extended seat, so that it rested behind Deborah's head, and though she wasn't sure whether that was intended, or simply comfortable, Deborah chose not to ask, merely enjoying having Martin's full attention as he was turned slightly towards her for the entirety of the drive.
Once he had calmed down and stopped worrying about her skills as a driver, Martin seemed to enjoy himself as much as she was.
Arthur, for his part, had apparently grown bored or something similar, as he sat, head rested against the opposite door, staring out of the window, watching for more yellow cars Deborah assumed. A part of her had felt a pang of guilt for ignoring him for the most part, but that thought had been swept away in the flurry of pleasure that Martin's gaze brought.
It was a little distracting, feeling the heat of his gaze flittering between her and the road, but Deborah couldn't deny that she rather liked it; all the more reason to show off, as for once, her embellished words and showy behaviour seemed to be working.
"Okay: so as long as we average at least eleven miles an hour, we should get to Ottery St Mary by six." Martin remarked thoughtfully; when Deborah snuck a glance at his face, it was to see him chewing on his bottom lip, gazing into the middle distance, still folded towards her as his fingers rapped distractedly on the back of the seat.
"Well, it's a punishing pace but I think I'm up to it." Deborah drawled, rolling her eyes and gripping the wheel. She batted her eyelashes and rolled her shoulders back, preening under Martin's gaze as he smirked, letting out an imperceptible silent laugh, just a sharp exhale.
"Why's it called that, then, Skip?" Arthur inquired, looking away from the window to peer at Martin; he had one arm bent and rested on the ridge below the pane, and the other draped across his lap. Deborah supposed that he was probably itching to be doing something active, but then again, she hadn't been paying him enough attention to make an educated guess.
"What?" Martin replied, expression scrunching in confusion; at the sound of Arthur's voice he jolted slightly, and turned in his seat, though his arm remained laid out behind her head, and Deborah could read the distraction in his posture. That alone sent another shiver of contentment through the space beneath her flesh.
"Ottery St Mary." Arthur reiterated, waiting patiently for a response, face open and honest.
"I've no idea." Martin replied dryly, raising his eyebrows and shrugging in a universal sign of 'how should I know', before shifting so that his back was once more turned ever so slightly away from their steward, glancing out at the road.
Even though Deborah recognised the gesture for what it was, and met Martin's gaze again, smiling faintly, letting the gesture appear on his face as well, she couldn't help but hear the little niggle in the back of her mind telling her that Arthur was sitting just a few feet away from them, and that as his friends, they really shouldn't be neglecting him so. Again, the musing didn't last long, as Deborah was paying far too much attention to the desire to lay her head back or shuffle forwards so that Martin could slip his arm down behind her, though she did neither.
"Do you know, Deborah?" Arthur continued to question them, now peering around Martin as if he weren't there, addressing her directly; once again, Deborah inwardly cursed herself, as Arthur's voice felt like an unexpected annoyance, even though she knew full well that he was there.
But then she changed her mind, and felt a surge of playfulness wash through her; she was still looking into Martin's eyes (for far longer than she was looking at the road when her eyes flickered across), just as he was smiling wanly down at her, only an inch or two between them within the confines of the van, and a wonderful idea danced across her mind.
There was no reason that she couldn't indulge Arthur while showing off just a little bit for Martin; if she was lucky, Martin would smirk and smile that wicked smile that he adopted when he was impressed, or laugh that lovely chuckle that he had.
At the very least he might relax a little further and keep himself wrapped where he was, curled imperceptibly towards her.
"Yes." Deborah answered brightly, straightening her back and glancing briefly at Arthur, a jaunty smile on her lips; this promised to be a lot of fun.
"Do you?" Martin asked; his eyebrows leapt upwards in surprise, but he didn't seem as if he didn't believe her.
"Certainly I do." Deborah drawled daringly, smirk turning into a grin as she gazed into Martin's eyes; though she addressed Arthur, Deborah was speaking to Martin, watching his every reaction, "You see, St Mary is the patron saint of Devon and she, of course, was famously martyred by being eaten alive by otters."
"Really?" Arthur exclaimed; Martin rolled his eyes and sighed, shaking his head, but he relaxed further, stretching his legs out and settling just a fraction more against her side, tracing her features as the shadow of a smile leeched onto his lips.
Every inch of her felt alight with triumph; Deborah couldn't help but relish how fantastic it felt to have Martin look so fondly at her.
"Oh yes – rabid otters." Deborah described in the dramatic tone of a fairy tale, forcing herself to look away from Martin lest she veer them from the road by accident; that didn't make her any less aware of his attentiveness, "So she's always portrayed in pictures absolutely covered in otters."
"What, eating her?" Arthur asked, clearly oblivious to the fact that Deborah's focus was anywhere but on him.
"Sometimes, in the more fire and brimstone churches." Deborah continued, grinning and trying to balance the rush of bashfulness with the pride that she was feeling as Martin rubbed his curled fist over his mouth, probably to try and maintain his disapproval, "Elsewhere, the assumption is they're all in heaven now and have made up, so they're just shown milling about her, nuzzling her affectionately and offering her ottery kisses and gifts of haddock."
"Deborah…" Martin sighed fondly; there was something in his voice that made Deborah's cheeks prickle ever so slightly, and she glanced across the small space between them at the sensation of his arm shifting behind her head, to find that his eyes were filled with warmth and fixed firmly on her face, without any sign of sheepishness or shyness.
She highly doubted that he was going to look away either. So why not keep showing off, just to make sure that he didn't.
"Why would the otters go to heaven if they ate a saint?" Arthur asked, spotting the small issue in her otherwise wonderful story; even though Deborah loved Arthur to bits, and she really did, in that moment, she couldn't help but think of him like one of those dogs that specialised in demanding attention when the humans wanted nothing more than to lock it in the garden and bask in each other.
"You've put your finger, Arthur, as is so often your way, on the crux of a thorny theological problem." Deborah explained, pursing her lips and adjusting her hold on the steering wheel as she thought quickly, "So far, our best guess is simply that St Peter's got a real soft spot for otters. He looks into those whiskery faces and goes … "You guys! I can't stay mad at you!" and lets them into heaven."
"So heaven is full of otters!" Arthur exclaimed, a wide smile of understanding stretching into his cheeks as he folded his arms and slumped back into the seat.
"More than you can possibly imagine." Deborah drawled dramatically, tilting her head back to trace her eyes along the loose set of Martins' jaw, sharing a conspiratorial look; he smirked and shifted again, but had stopped shaking his head as he ought to do as the responsible Captain that he was.
"So, in your case, Arthur, probably be about twelve." Martin remarked, quirking his eyebrows, but not even bothering to turn to face Arthur as he addressed him; instead widening his eyes imperceptibly, pointedly.
Deborah had to swallow hard and yank her gaze away from his, tensing her hands against the steering wheel; there was no doubt that Martin was playing now, showing off for her sake, and it made her want to leap on him, regardless of her better judgement. Only Arthur's presence, and a slither of self-preservation stopped her from doing so.
"Hey, I can imagine loads of otters!" Arthur retorted indignantly; Martin spared him a sideways glance, and shifted so that he wasn't quite as directed at her, but simply watched, wearing an open expression. And Deborah was willing to provide.
"Really?" she inquired wryly, pursing her leaning forwards to inspect the decisive set of Arthur's face as he glared demurely back at her, "How many?"
"A million!" Arthur insisted, nodding emphatically at the disbelieving cock of Martin's head.
"You see, I don't think you can." Deborah replied, wincing falsely and shrugging helplessly as she glanced away from the road, tapping her fingers fleetingly against the top of the wheel; this was more like it, the usual back and forth of the flight-deck, "I don't think anyone can."
"I can." Arthur argued; he tipped his head back and thinned his lips determinedly, pressing his hands together, "I'm doing it now!...Wow!"
"No, you're just imagining a lot of otters and then saying that's a million." Deborah laughed, turning the wheel to slip into the next lane, "I don't think anyone can actually genuinely imagine more than about twenty otters at a time."
"Oh, come on." Martin remarked, tugging at her far shoulder with the tip of his fingers to get her attention, before resting his hand back with it had lain, only an inch away, "I mean, I can definitely imagine a hundred otters."
"Mmm, me too," Arthur interjected, slumping and staring out of the window, "yellow car."
Deborah hummed her acknowledgement, but otherwise ignored him, instead formulating how best to challenge Martin; he may not have been gazing down at her any more, but they always got on best when competing. It incited a different kind of heat between them; not the glowing, lingering warmth that came with proximity and affection, making it hard to look away, but bursts that ignited, making it hard to move away.
Turning it into a game just made the daunting truth easier to swallow.
"All right. How much space do they take up?" Deborah asked, opening her palm up and offering the question out; Martin made the thoughtful noise that always made her think of a computer buffering, so she took pity, giving him a little nudge, "Could you, for instance, get a hundred otters on board GERTI?"
Martin was quick to allocate the imaginary otters places to stay, and verily dominated the conversation, apparently forgetting (or knowing otherwise) that the challenge was meant to be for Arthur's entertainment. Deborah couldn't say she minded, as it meant that Martin became engaged entirely in her, verifying every decision with her before he made it; he became so engrossed that his arm slipped from the back of the seat to drape around her shoulders.
"Er, four on the floor, two on the worktops?" Martin suggested, tapping his lips with the ends of his unoccupied fingers, his expression pinching in thought, "Well, it depends – are we carrying Carolyn and Arthur?"
"To wait on the otters?" Deborah inquired sardonically, raising an eyebrow, and beaming when Martin rolled his eyes in defeat; he was lovely when being so typically Martin, "I think that would be an indulgence, frankly. I think we'd be better off replacing them with more otters."
"Might be better off replacing Arthur with an otter anyway!" Martin murmured, dipping his head down to talk into her ear; she fought a shiver at the motion, as his lips were barely away from her skin. He was definitely doing it on purpose now.
"Hey!" Arthur exclaimed indignantly; Martin sat back and ran a hand sheepishly through his hair, while Deborah frowned apologetically. Perhaps that might have been a tad cruel. Best to move on swiftly.
"So, thirty-two in the seats, sixteen in the overhead lockers, sixteen under the seats, six in the galley …" Deborah recapped, making sure to glance between both men when she had the chance to look away from the road.
"… fifteen in the hold?" Martin suggested brightly.
"Oh, twenty easily; and six or seven in the aisle." Deborah added, already feeling quite proud of herself; it occurred to her that perhaps she had lost sight of the point of this particular venture, but nevertheless, she had become quite invested in this particular game.
"Call it seven." Martin remarked, shrugging nonchalantly; Deborah could have kissed him for how seriously he was taking something that she had pulled from her head.
"That's, what, ninety-seven; and three in the flight deck. A hundred!" Deborah declared proudly, patting the top of the thrumming steering wheel in victory and glancing over her shoulder to take in Martin's indulgent smile as Arthur announced that she was 'Brilliant!'
Except Martin was no longer surveying her, but had straightened up (though his arm stayed where it was) and his lips were pursed as he squared his jaw and peered ever so slightly more down his nose; Deborah could have identified that look from five miles away.
"No." Martin said decisively, raising one hand into the air and shaking his head, "Not in the flight deck."
"Hypothetically, though …" Deborah insisted tentatively, smiling in bewilderment at him, hoping detachedly that he might see the enticingly open look on her face and come around to her way of thinking, or more importantly, laugh along with her.
"I don't care how hypothetical it is, I'm not flying with a live otter in the flight deck." Martin insisted, shaking his head even more vehemently, and adopting his Captain voice, as if that ever actually worked on anyone.
"I don't see why not." Deborah retorted, "Historically, very few hijackings have been carried out by otters."
"Well, I'm sorry, but I don't think the Civil Aviation Authority would be too keen on the idea." Martin stressed emphatically, though for all his prim and prissy attitude, Deborah was sure that he was simply playing up the side of himself that he knew grated the most (but that she was also rather fond of).
So Deborah rolled her eyes as was expected, and settled back into the seat, letting her head rest against the arm that was still somewhat draped over her shoulders, and took her eyes from the road long enough to bat her eyes as Martin's stoic demeanour.
"To be quite honest with you, Captain, I don't think there's a whole lot about this plane full of unsupervised otters the CAA is going to love."
oOoOoOo
Deborah heaved herself to her feet just as the pub owner began checking over the piano; she had collapsed onto the patch of grass outside the pub the moment that Martin had hobbled over to meet the man, chest heaving as she tried to decide whether it constituted as a good or bad end to the day.
On the one hand, they had had some fun, and stolen the plane, and delivering the piano felt like an oasis after a trek through the desert. On the other hand, they had stolen the plane, and pushed the bloody instrument from the airport.
While Martin leaned against the side of the piano, watching the pub owner like a hawk, Arthur hooked an arm under Deborah's elbow and hoisted her upright, earning a small grateful smile and a pat on the hand as he released her, just in time for the owner's face to scrunch, and for him to reach across and close his hand around something that she couldn't quite see.
"What are these doing on the keys?" he asked in his thick Devonshire accent, peering down at whatever he had found, then extending his hand for Martin to take a look. At Martin's exasperated sigh, and the odd roll of his eyes as he folded his arms over his chest and squared his jaw as if he were biting down on his tongue, Deborah's interest was piqued.
"What?" Deborah inquired faintly, bringing her hands together and wandering to stand beside Martin at the piano, Arthur following on her heels.
The pub owner let the subject of their inspection dangle from his outstretch hand, and Deborah felt as if someone had taken the remote and switched off the usual humming that took place in her brain, replacing it with a solid blank at the sight of the van keys glinting in what little light was left of the evening.
Logically she understood exactly what that meant, but she couldn't for the life of her remember such events taking place; wrapping her arms around her chest and placing one finger sheepishly against her lips, Deborah slowly lifted her eyes, and then dropped them again at the look on Martin's face.
"Oh. Deborah." Arthur breathed, shaking his head and looking down at her as one might a top grade student that had dismally failed their final exams; he was too kind hearted to lord it over her for more than about twenty minutes, but Deborah supposed that in light of how curt she had been with over the course of the day (which wasn't entirely his fault), Arthur deserved these few moments to rip into her, "The van keys!"
"Ah yes." Deborah noted, keeping her sights securely trained on the edge of the piano as Martin took the keys from the owner, who disappeared into his pub muttering something about a trolley; she knew when to bow out gracefully, and if she was honest, Deborah was still running every possible scenario through her head to try and identify when the keys could have possibly entered and then left her possession, "Well, that's good."
"You must have closed the lid on them, Deborah, when you finished playing to Mum." Arthur continued; when she snuck a quick glance at his face, she discovered that Arthur seemed to be having some sort of epiphany, marred by the irritable exhaustion that their little trek had wrought upon even him.
And yet, the one thing that was making Deborah want to curl in on herself was the prickling sensation that she felt as she tried not to think about the fact that Martin was standing beside her, shaking his head with pursed lips and a deviously apologetic smirk on his face. All of her showing off had been for nothing. More than that, he was now getting to relish her fallibility from nice and up close; the only consolation was that he was enjoying it…just not the way she had intended.
"So it seems." Deborah agreed, then in a last attempt at regaining her dignity and pushing the matter aside, perhaps to laugh at another day, "Still …"
"After Arthur gave them back to you." Martin interjected pointedly, fanning the flames; Deborah glared at the smug curl of his features, and the lazy slouch against the piano.
Of course he couldn't pass up a chance to tease her mercilessly; even better, he'd let Arthur return all the little sideways remarks over the day. And yet, even with that in mind, Deborah couldn't help but he rather attracted to the daring competitiveness that Martin was demonstrating; there was no point denying it, even as she inwardly cursed herself, and him.
"Like I said I gave them back to you." Arthur elaborated; if she hadn't known any better she would have said that he was charging himself up, expanding with realisation.
"…Yes." Deborah acknowledged, with a small nod, biting her lip and staring at the patch of grass beneath Arthur's feet; her head was stiff buffering, and for all the sheepishness that she was undergoing, she still couldn't remember doing anything. Which was rather the problem actually.
"Oh, Deborah!" Arthur said dramatically, and Deborah sighed, rolling her eyes and letting her head droop in acceptance, glancing momentarily to Martin, who was no help whatsoever, as he simply frowned unsympathetically, "You CLOT!"
While Martin chuckled beside her, Deborah inhaled deeply, and nodded, taking care to meet Arthur's indignant glare.
"Thank you Arthur, an apt analysis, but I don't remember doing it." Deborah excused herself, making sure to balance guilt with defensiveness; she turned back to Martin, and threw out her hand, waggling her fingers into her palm expectantly, "Give me the keys."
Martin did as he was asked, and Deborah pointedly ignored him as she put her arms out, passed the keys from hand to hand, practically acted out her movements at the airfield; she could almost feel Martin repressing a snort, but that was eclipsed by the flash of memory, and the swan dive that her chest performed.
Letting out an extended groan, feeling her face flush hot, Deborah slammed her eyes shut, blocking out her colleagues' smug faces as she covered her face with her closed fists; giving in to the temptation to curl in and implode, she allowed her upper half to bend slowly, then sprawl over the piano top, effectively burying her face.
"Oh, bloody buggering fucking hell!" Deborah groaned, her voice muffled by the limbs that she kept tightly wrapped around herself, even as she heard Martin's laughter spike, and felt his hand pat companionably at her back, then rubbing small comforting circles; with one last inwardly aimed curse, Deborah straightened up, pushing her hair behind her shoulders and taking a deep breath, centring herself, meeting the men's eyes, " Bollocks…I'm sorry. I suppose I'm taking full responsibility for this then?"
"No, don't worry," Arthur shrugged, batting a hand through the air; his expression became forgiving in under a second, and it was only her current disdain for her own mottled memory that stopped her from doing much more than sighing, "I actually had a lot of fun."
Deborah shook her head, and wrapped her arms around her chest; as much as she hated being teased, a part of her wished that he and Martin (who was still smirking to himself) would just get on with it and exhaust any self-irritation that she was feeling. She smiled wanly at Arthur, and then looked up to Martin, frowning pitiably.
Martin rolled his eyes, but smiled indulgently, pushing away from the piano, and hobbling until he could rest his weight on her, one arm over her shoulder.
"Come on," he remarked, nodding instructively at Arthur, who obediently started walking, "Let's go before Carolyn realises we stole her plane."
Deborah smiled weakly in response, but started walking slowly, allowing Martin to bumble along beside her with the minimum of fuss; there was no doubt that she was going to suffer for her failure for weeks, but she had to admit, she was beginning to appreciate the fond sort of look that Martin would sometimes adopt when he was being teased. It was rather nice, like a little connection.
"I have to say Captain," Deborah drawled, "I could never have imagined you taking part in such a devilish scheme."
"Oh, are you impressed now?" Martin retorted sarcastically, increasing his grip as they started heading up the main road towards the airport; Arthur seemed to know where they were going, so it was acceptable to take their time.
"I've never loved you more." She replied wryly, smirking when Martin tugged at her shoulders in retaliation, the bridge of his nose wrinkling as his cheeks flushed pink. It wasn't much, but the natural order was being restored.
oOoOoOo
Martin was being stubborn again, but Deborah had to admit that under normal circumstances, she wouldn't even be allowed to follow him up the stairs to his attic while keeping a hand in the air in case he topple backwards, let alone see inside the student house.
They had dropped Arthur back at his house and then vanished before Carolyn could come out to see the guilt scrawled across their faces. The atmosphere had relaxed somewhat on the flight and then drive home, and Deborah, still dejected and embarrassed, had allowed herself to stop showing off; being honest and letting Martin tease her seemed to make him happier anyway.
From the way that he had described it, Deborah had assumed that they would have to enter Martin's abode via a ladder and hatch, but in actuality there was a set of stairs, and even a small hall area outside of the door to the attic, in which Martin slumped against the wall so that he could search for his keys.
"Oh dear Martin, are you having trouble finding your keys?" Deborah drawled playfully, pouting across at him and leaning against the opposite wall in the otherwise cramped hall, "I hear that's rather a common affliction, nothing to be ashamed of."
"Hmmm, nope, you're not getting out of it that easily." Martin replied, shaking his head and biting his bottom lip, and retracting his hand from an inner pocket of the coat that he had taken from the back of the van when it had begun to rain a few hours prior, and jangling his keys in the air, "I think I'm going to give it a week before I stop reminding you."
Deborah rolled her eyes, but followed Martin into his home once he had unlocked the door, and then stood back against it to wave her in, only grumbling the necessary amount, taking a moment to look around, inspecting the room while monitoring her expression lest Martin withdraw and ask her to leave. He was far too proud, and she was well aware that this was a sore spot.
"It's not a lot," Martin started as he hobbled to her side, hands coming together at his front as he blushed and is eyes skirted the room's contents; Deborah cut him off with one quirk glare and a quirk of her eyebrow.
"It's nice," she corrected him, folding her arms across her chest to feel less like she was filling the room, "I like it."
It was nice, cosy; Deborah may have become used to slightly more grandeur, but she had grown up lower middle class at best, and spent seven years at private school, in a dormitory that could just about fit her and a bed, so it wasn't difficult to admire the quaintness of Martin's abode; especially as it was so evidently stamped with Martin's personality.
The attic obviously spanned the entirety of the top floor, with plenty of light supplied by the window cut into the slant of the roof, and a hard wood floor that was clear of debris in a way that only Martin could manage. On one side a half-square counter curled around, intersected by an oven and other kitchen essentials, cupboards above them, and the other side appeared to be a cross between a sitting room and bedroom, with a bed and cabinet on one side against the wall, and a shelving unit and television aimed strategically towards it. Deborah assumed that the door at the other end led to some sort of bathroom, if the towel hanging over the door-handle was any indicator.
Deborah wandered further inside, ignoring Martin's cautious tensing to cross the room and run her eyes over the various possessions that laid interspersed across various counters; the kitchen area was sloppily organised, but organised nonetheless, and the shelving unit was covered with carefully arranged model aeroplanes that he must have owned since he was a child, some meticulously painted, others coloured as if by a shaky six year old.
"Right, well, that's good." Martin replied, swallowing awkwardly; Deborah turned back to him and smiled thinly, waiting for him to finish, "Would you like a cup of tea, I can make tea."
Martin was already hobbling to the counter, sticking the kettle under the tap, by the time Deborah could reply; musing lightly on the fluttering that happened in her chest at his bumbling, she followed him, leaning sideways against the counter beside him, close enough that his elbow brushed against her as she peered at his progress.
"Tea would be lovely, thank you." Deborah remarked gratefully, smirking as Martin nodded and reached into the cupboards above his head to find mugs, cocking her head to follow the path of his.
"Well, you deserve it for helping me out today." Martin noted, placing the mugs down and turning to mirror her posture, leaning with his hands not quite in his pockets, and smiling against the awkward blush on his cheeks as he met her gaze, "You may have messed up, but I couldn't have done it without you – you, know, I could kiss you for that."
"Go on then." Deborah shot back salaciously, smirking and batting her eyelashes; it was meant as a joke, to knock him off kilter, make his cheeks turn scarlet and his speech falter before he collected himself, and it didn't fail.
Martin spluttered, and had to cough and clear his throat with a curled hand covering his mouth before he recovered, and his eyes darted between her mouth and her eyes; she was starting to wish that she hadn't been joking.
"I – uh, um…that's not – err, no, that's not what I …." He stuttered, raising his hands defensively; then he paid attention to the smirk that curled Deborah's lips, and his hands froze, lowering slightly as his eyebrows dropped suspiciously, and his lips twitched upwards as he peered across the infinitesimal space between them, "I um…I can't tell whether you're joking or daring…"
Heat surged in her chest, and Deborah unfolded her arms so that she could prop one against the counter, and push the other through her hair; she wetted her lips at the idea that stormed through her mind at the realisation that Martin was still very much a few inches from her, and not running away.
"I was joking," Deborah drawled, letting her voice drop to an airy octave, holding his gaze, "But now I'm absolutely daring."
"I-I-I-I - " Martin's eyes widened and his cheeks were flaming, his hand moving between the back of his neck and his hair, but he didn't move away; Deborah smiled, feeling victorious as he couldn't quite keep the smile from his face, despite his frantic assertions, and allowed her eyes to drop to his lips, "I – that's inappropriate, and I-I…that's not what I meant, and I-"
"Oh, I see…" Deborah exclaimed wryly, leaning in a little further, reaching out to brush some imaginary fluff from his sleeve; Martin's tongue darted out as he continued to fluster, "So…you're either really bad at it, or you're afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid of you!" Martin retorted vehemently, regaining the haughty stature that came so easily to him when he was presenting himself aboard GERTI, but didn't carry nearly as much gravitas as he seemed to think that it did, "And I'm not bad at kissing!"
"So you're losing the dare by choice?" Deborah inquired; there was something thrillingly charming about how worked up Martin could get himself, while petering on the precipice of hilarity, and she didn't quite want to stop pushing yet, "How very noble of you Martin, I really am impress-"
She didn't get to finish as before she was truly aware of what was happening, Martin had surged forwards, stumbling slightly on his injury, and pressed his lips to hers, catching her by surprise; Deborah let out a little 'oomph' of shock, as Martin tilted his head, bringing her closer, and cupped his hands over her cheeks, and her own hands leapt up to land on his shoulders, not quite certain in their movements.
Deborah had been expecting a brief peck, if anything, so that Martin could prove himself, but this was making her head spin. The moths in her chest were aflame and whirring, and her mind was stuttering in a fashion worthy of Martin himself, and all that she could think of was Martin's lips moving against hers, and his cheek brushing hers, and his hands, which were pushing into her hair.
Then Martin began to pull away, his hands retracting, and Deborah lurched forwards, pulling him back into the kiss, her chest heaving as her hands dragged up from his shoulders to wrap around them; the frantic need to get closer still wasn't making sense, but it was definitely insistent.
Martin let out a shocked squeak, but the next moment his hands wrapped around her waist, and Deborah curled her arms around his shoulders as she was pulled against his chest. Deborah wasn't sure how long it was, she lost track of time, but she could honestly say she didn't care, as she kissed Martin for all that it was worth, lips never parting, but pressing firmly against his again and again, clinging to him, musing detachedly that this was so much better than one of his rare hugs.
Like a string on a violin snapping, Deborah broke away, eyes dropping down, drooping almost as she steadied her breathing, exhaling shakily against the thudding in her ears; Martin did the same, but he didn't do more than lean back perhaps an inch, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth as if nervous, even though his arms were settled loosely around her back.
"Well…" Deborah cleared her throat at the rasping edge to her voice, though she only spoke lowly, keeping her eyes on the dip of Martin's neck rather than meeting his eyes, letting her hands slip back until they rested lightly on his shoulders; she was already beginning to feel the tremors of doubt creeping up the back of her neck, "That…I'd say you probably won that one."
"Yes, yes I did." Martin replied thickly, nodding slowly and gripping her a little tighter; then as if overcome with a change of heart, he stepped back, his hands lingering until her was a foot away, and he ducked his head, shaking it and rubbing a hand over his frown as Deborah watched his movements in dreadful, completely expected dawning, "I uh…I'm sorry, that was inappropriate, I shouldn't have done that."
"No, no, don't apologise," Deborah assured him breathily, wafting her hand through the air and failing to smile weakly as she watched Martin shove his hands in his pockets and rock unsteadily on his heels, "I wouldn't have dared you if I minded, and I didn't…mind…"
"No, it didn't seem like you did." Martin murmured, scoffing minutely at his own words; his gaze passed over her briefly, but immediately after he was staring at the corner of his counter again.
Deborah swallowed hard, steadying herself and regaining a grip on where she was; even though a part of her wanted to just fall into him, the fluttering warmth that usually accompanied such thoughts was absent, replaced by a cold welling about her throat. It was time to walk away, before things became strained and irreversible.
"Right….well…it's getting late." Deborah remarked, putting on a forced smile that felt stiff even to her, and swinging her arms together when Martin lifted his head to blush and make eye contact, "I should probably go home now…"
"Yes!" Martin replied abruptly, then he cut himself of when he saw whatever face Deborah must have made; she wasn't sure what, she was far too busy blinking and nodding in muted acceptance, "I mean – if you want, then…that's probably a good idea."
Deborah hummed under her breath, and nodded swiftly as Martin did the same. Without another word she strode away from the counter and past him, keeping her sights set ahead of her. Then, just a few feet between Martin and the door, she stopped.
There was no use denying that she wanted Martin more than anything in that moment, and the only thing that pushed her to behave rationally was the knowledge that he was the best friend she had, and not embarrassing him, or ruining what they had for the sake of desire, was her utmost priority…but…
Turning back to glance over her shoulder, Deborah couldn't help but take in the sagged droop of his shoulders, or the dejected frown that framed his disappointed expression as Martin scuffed at the floor with his good foot, and pointedly refused to watch her leave.
Then again, as far as Martin was concerned Deborah Richardson was reckless and a risk taker…so why should she hold back for the sake of trepidation or internal conflict.
"Or I could stay a bit longer." Deborah suggested, turning slowly on her heel to gaze as openly as possible at Martin, letting her arms hang at her front and her fingers intertwine; Martin's eyebrows rose imperceptibly, and his lips parted in a silent question, "Or…a lot longer…if you wanted."
Martin's mouth opened into an 'oh', and he wetted his lips, flushing, but remaining mostly nonchalant as his eyes widened, and he rubbed at the back of his neck, while he stared intensely at first her face, only for his gaze to flicker downwards, and back up again.
Deborah knew that Martin understand completely what she meant, and now that the offer was out there, straightforward and tangible…she didn't quite feel confident, but more secure in knowing that for once they were on the same page.
"You could…if you wanted to." Martin answered, and Deborah felt something skip in her chest; she couldn't quite believe that he was looking at her the way that he was, but she rather liked it, "I mean – I'd, um…I'd be okay with that."
"Okay." Deborah replied softly, pursing her lips and rocking on her heels, feeling her cheeks heat just a little; Martin's looked down at the floor, and his face lit up as he smiled shyly, letting out a truncated laugh.
Slowly, Deborah tread back to Martin's side, and left a small gap between them; it was incredible how nerve-wracking being near to him was now, when on a normal day they could sit barely a foot from each other for hours on end.
His smile growing ever warmer, Martin lifted his hand and brushed the back of his knuckles against the curve between her neck and shoulder; the set of his jaw only just masked the shaking of the same feature. Turning her head into the movement, Deborah stepped into the gap; as he shifted to place his hands on her waist and pulled her imperceptibly closer, Deborah rested her hands above his chest and met his gaze, inhaling slowly and sucking up her confidence.
Martin cleared his throat and bumbled awkwardly, his eyes flitting across her face, and he didn't seem quite sure what he was going to do, as he ducked his head as if to brush his nose against hers, or rest their foreheads together, but didn't quite achieve either. Deborah couldn't stop a rush of affection from triggering a low giggle and a smile that she could feel crinkling her features; ideally, she would have liked to just be kissing him again, but this was enough to remind her of exactly why Martin entranced her like he did.
And then he stomach flipped, and Deborah remembered how Martin entranced her as he did, and it wasn't because he really was a very good kisser; even now she wasn't a hundred per cent sure of how she felt about him, only certain that she really did feel for him, very much so. The niggling in the back of her head began to rebel against the lurching desire to just carry on and make the most of the evening.
Apparently Martin was experiencing the same mental crisis. For a moment, Deborah thought that he was going to kiss her again, but when there was barely a breath of air between them, he froze, and he squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing at something she could only guess at.
"Deborah, this isn't a good idea." Martin muttered mournfully; Deborah leaned back slightly and inspected his face in muted surprise, completely understanding what he was saying, and why, and yet unable to comprehend it, as she was practically buzzing and deaf to everything that wasn't shifting under her hands.
"It's possible that you're right." Deborah sighed, frowning as her good mood washed away as quickly as the tide; Martin's eyes opened, and she found it was easier to try and count his eyelashes than meet the serious glint, so she picked at the fabric at his shoulder, "But would you mind elaborating?"
"I mean – this may feel like a good idea now," Martin explained; his hands drifted up to run through her hair, pushing it behind her ears but lingering to stroke at her cheeks with his thumbs; the tenderness of the gesture kept Deborah quiet, "and believe, it really does, but tomorrow, I'm absolutely certain that we'll regret it."
Deborah sighed, and looked away; he was right, of course, that falling into bed together wasn't the brightest thing that they could do, but she still had to swallow down a surge of disappointment. After all the time she spent watching Martin, it would be nice to be allowed to indulge and forget being unhappy for a little while.
"Just, just let me explain." Martin insisted, as Deborah stepped back and out of his arms; his fingers curled around her wrists just above her hands, and he gazed imploringly into her eyes, "I'm not going to deny that you're attractive enough that I would very much like to have sex with you – but we're tired, and frustrated, it's been a long day and we're all…charged up from kissing…this isn't a rational decision on either of our parts, and putting aside that it would be completely unprofessional from a colleague perspective-"
"Look, Martin, I understand, I really do." Deborah interrupted, raising her hands in surrender, even as Martin's followed, still linked to hers, "I agree, this was a silly idea."
"Good, but please, just let me get all my words out, because I really don't want you to leave on a different page from me!" Martin said firmly; Deborah knew full well that he was unstoppable when on a roll, so nodded, quirking her eyebrows sardonically and lowering her hands, "Okay, thank you," he sighed, then squared his jaw, "My point is – falling into bed together may be absolutely fine for strangers, because then they can just separate sex from feelings…but we can't do that. You're my best friend, and even though I would very willingly sleep with you if I didn't know you so well, now, it's not a good idea, because even if they were just friendly feelings, they'd still get all confused with the sex feelings, and then I wouldn't be able to separate them out, and I don't think you would either-"
"And all of my sexual encounters have ended in long term relationships, marriages, or a child." Deborah concluded wryly, rolling her eyes at the hard truths that were being delivered; Martin was utterly correct.
With all the thoughts rushing through her head twenty four hours a day, and the conflicting, confusing sensations soaring through her chest when near him, there was no way that they could indulge whatever tension existed between them without it developing into something else. She didn't even know if she wanted something else.
Which meant that the rational, reasonable thing to do was to continue to exist in a state of temporal discontent.
"Exactly!" Martin agreed; he closed the gap between them, swinging his arms slightly in his joy at being understood, "As much as I care, and as much as I feel for you, and I really, really do – if we were do anything now, it wouldn't just stay now, and we're not-"
"There. We're not there." Deborah finished for him, pursing her lips and Martin nodded apologetically, and bit at the corner of his lips as he frowned; the excitement that had managed to linger throughout the whole day finally faded entirely, and Deborah just felt tired, "Our friendship's on eggshells as it is, and there's no way that we could turn it into any kind of romantic relationship, which we would definitely feel compelled to if we gave in to basic attraction."
"S-so you understand?" Martin asked, taking great pains to meet her eyes, though Deborah pointedly kept them trained just past his arm as she inhaled sharply; if she didn't know better, she'd have said that she could feel her eyes prickling, and that alone made her hate herself for opening up as she had.
"Yes, Martin, I understand." Deborah snapped, regretting how harsh it sounded as Martin dropped her wrists immediately, and rubbed his hands together, glancing around the kitchen area; a shard of guilt interrupted the washing of dejection, and Deborah reached out to take Martin's hands again, but decided at the last minute to take the sleeves of the coat that he was still wearing between her fingers instead, pleased to see that that got his attention, "How about this?...how about we move on?"
"Oh, yes of course," Martin replied hastily, his cheeks managing to get just the little bit redder, "Let's just forget this ever happened."
"No, let's not forget about it." Deborah retorted, then she sighed, taking a deep breath in an attempt to regain her usual integrity, "I don't want to forget about it, no. Let's remember, but put it behind us, learn from our mistakes, and move on as better people."
"Oh…" Martin exclaimed on a breath; the tension left his limbs, and he looked as if peace had fallen in a previously rabid warzone, "Oh, well – yes, that would be…thank you."
"No problem." Deborah remarked, smiling wanly and taking a step back, releasing him and eyeing the sheepish blush that shimmered around his face, as his eyebrows danced up and down; eager to remove herself from the cloying atmosphere, a bit like a noxious cloud, unnoticed until too late, she clapped her hands together and said jauntily, "Well…I should go now, before things become very, very awkward between us."
"Yeah, that's probably a good idea." Martin agreed quickly, he startled as if to push away from the counter, and hobble forwards; clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders professionally, "I'll see you out."
"Don't be silly Martin." Deborah scolded him lightly, stepping back from his reach and treading backwards towards the door, arms winding over her chest, "You sit down and put your feet up, and be fit and ready for work on Monday."
"God, sorry, yes, you're right!" Martin spluttered, flopping backwards against the counter, relief passing over his expression; Deborah relished in the return of the uncertainty and fluster, as Martin paused, biting on his bottom lip, and then looked up sharply, holding her gaze, "Goodbye Deborah…I'll see you later."
"Goodbye Martin." Deborah replied fondly, allowing herself that at least.
With that she let herself out, and made her way hastily through the building, not wishing to pass any students that might witness the wavering emotions that she was sure were battling across her face and stature.
It wasn't until she was sitting in her car that Deborah was able to place her hands over her eyes, and rest her forehead on the steering wheel. She should have been happy; nothing had been ruined between the two of them because of her reckless impulses.
But it felt like tears were welling up and never coming, and all that Deborah could focus on was the broiling in her guts. It was a good thing that nothing had happened, but she absolutely didn't want to go home either.
So I'm not sure whether this chapter was a risky move on my part, but I decided that it was time to shake things up and move on a bit. Hopefully this is okay
If you want, let me know what you think - good, bad?