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Interlude 10

The first flight after the fiasco in St Petersburg, Carolyn had been convinced (and it had taken a lot of convincing) to splash out just a little more than usual on accommodation for the crew; rather than the pits of the country, she had booked them into the same holiday inn that tourists used just outside the airport in Madrid, on the basis that one of the rooms was a shared room.

Deborah and Martin had been quick to agree to share and graciously allow Arthur his own room, much to his pleasure as he assumed that it was a sign that they were bestowing the best option upon him; Carolyn would be staying in Fitton, apparently to gain some well-earned rest, although they suspected that she was actually going to use the time to see Herc, who had called the porta-cabin three times since he had heard about the almost crash landing.

It was still an uncomfortable arrangement for Deborah, who had to endured Herc's smarmy remarks whenever he was around (which was growing more and more frequent), but she supposed that if Carolyn was happy, she could put on a plain face and be polite…to an extent.

While Deborah lay on her back on the bed beside the window, legs crossed at the ankle as she flicked through the channels on the television, all of which were dull, dull, dull, she watched out of the corner of her eyes as Martin went about strategically placing his most important items on and inside the bedside table while he crouched beside his open suitcase. He chewed distractedly on his bottom lip, and hummed under his breath, which might have been distracting, had Deborah been paying any attention to what she was actually doing.

"Martin, I'm bored." Deborah drawled, letting her raised hand flop onto the covers as Martin paused in his arranging and placed the travel clock in his hand onto the bedside table, raising an eyebrow expectantly, "I simply can't stay cooped up in here for any longer."

"And what do you suggest I do about that?" Martin inquired dryly, turning to perch on the edge of his own bed, resting his palms on his knees; Deborah grinned, pleased that he had so willingly fallen into her trap.

"Well, on the way here I spotted a charming little bar slash restaurant on the main road." Deborah explained, hoisting herself into a sitting position and propping herself up on her elbows as she turned to face Martin directly, "I thought we could go and while away the hours there."

"In a bar?" Martin repeated doubtfully, his eyes narrowing as he relaxed somewhat; even on the best of days, it was hard to convince him to go anywhere that he wasn't already eager to visit, "What do you want to do in a bar?"

"First and foremost, Martin, I'm hungry." Deborah replied shortly, rolling her eyes at his fondly suspicious expression; his thoughtfulness was touching, but completely unnecessary, "And I'd quite like to see something other than the inside of these four walls tonight…" after a moment of consideration she decided to tug on his heartstrings and pout dramatically, "Please come with me."

Martin sighed but as he rolled his eyes and shook his head despairingly, his lips curled into a smile and he began to rise clumsily from the bed, stumbling a little when his knees locked; Deborah watched with her lips pressed together, waiting for definitive confirmation.

"Yeah, sure…just give me a minute to get ready." Martin told her, and without waiting for a response, strode into the small bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him; Deborah watched his back in confusion as he went, pulling herself up so that she was sitting with her legs over the side of the bed.

There was no denying that Martin had his odd habits, but really, this was bewildering; they were both still in their uniform, and reasonably tidy, so Deborah couldn't imagine how Martin could possibly be 'getting ready' for a night down the pub. She imagined fleetingly that he was dressing up for her, as one might before a date, but shook her head hastily; it was a ridiculous idea.

When Martin reappeared, looking no different from before save for a slight rosiness to his cheeks that could have come from splashing water over his face to wake himself up, Deborah took a moment to trace her eyes up and down him and appreciate the sight, aided by the cheerful demeanour that he carried with him. It was no more than what he usually did when he saw her in anything other than her uniform, and sometimes even then.

"You set to go then?" Martin asked, clapping his hands together before him as he looked down at where Deborah was still perched on the end of her bed; before he could notice that she was effectively eyeing him up, she smiled swiftly and rose to her feet.

"Absolutely," Deborah replied dramatically, as she strode past him to the door, curving her arm through the air and smirking at the light chuckle that escaped his lips while Martin adjusted the cuffs on his sleeves, "If you'd be so kind as to follow me."

Once they had both bustled into the hall, and Deborah had pulled the door shut behind them, she turned back to Martin and began the slow and steady trek through the hotel; Martin stuck his elbow out imperceptibly as they walked side by side, and Deborah, after stalling momentarily and wetting her lips, took the bait and slipped her arm through his, glancing up at the same moment that he glanced down and smiled, his cheeks flushing slightly.

It was only when they were in the lift that Deborah noticed the warm, rather nice rustic smell that had followed them into the confined space; she had assumed that the halls just smelled like that, but now she wasn't so sure.

Trying to sniff as inconspicuously as possible, as Martin was preoccupied reading a poster that was tacked to the wall, Deborah glanced around the small metal box, before telling herself that it was ridiculous, and leaning back against Martin, looking forward. Then she turned her face ever so slightly into his shoulder and inhaled deeply.

It was. Leaning in a little further, curling her arm more securely around his, Deborah shifted her head back so that she could turn subtly into his neck, and inhaled again; by this point Martin had noticed her apparent surge of affection, and was tilting his head away from her, his forehead furrowed in confusion.

"Martin, are you wearing cologne?" Deborah asked in befuddled disbelief, swallowing awkwardly to brush under the carpet the fact that she had pretty much been smelling him; if it was cologne, then it was very good at its job, she thought as little shivers of arousal crept up her spine.

"What? No, just uh- just aftershave." Martin blushed and cleared his throat, his eyes flittering away from her and towards the thin line at the door of the lift, as his hands shifted and clenched twitchily, "Why, do…you…like it?"

"Oh, yes; it's enthralling." Deborah drawled, bringing her other hand to curl around Martin's arm as she blinked heavily and dragged her eyes up the curve of his neck, even though she knew that it was completely inappropriate given their agreement, and that there was no chance that he would miss the motion; then a thought occurred, and she leaned back, nose wrinkling, "Wait – you went in the bathroom to shave…at this time of night?"

This was blatantly untrue, as a cursory inspection showed that Martin was neither shaved nor in immediate need of one, even though, now she thought about it, Deborah could see that he had combed his hair.

"Um, no, I mean – uhh…" Martin spluttered, rubbing at the back of his neck, growing more and more red, but before he could carry on, the lift door swished open with a ping, and his eyes grew desperately wide, "Oh look! Here we are, let's get moving before the pub closes."

With that Martin very nearly dragged her from the lift, through the hotel lobby, and most of the way down the street before he realised that he had no idea where they were going.

oOoOoOo

Carolyn's generosity hadn't extended to the company card, so upon reaching the pub (which was showing no signs of closing any time soon, regardless of Martin's exaggerated show of relief) Deborah had gone about ordering them the cheapest item on the menu, and they had tucked themselves into the table nearest to the back wall.

"Okay, I have a new game which I think you might actually stand a chance at." Deborah announced, stealing a chip from the shared basket as she slipped further around the extended bench to sit beside Martin until their arms were brushing, facing the rest of the customers, "It's a bit like people watching, but instead of trying to work out who they are, you have to guess what their superpowers would be if they had them."

"How do you mean?" Martin asked, leaning against her as if to compound the idea of covertly observing the other punters, and peering into the crowd, his nose wrinkling as his eyebrows dipped in the middle.

"Well, for example…" Deborah replied, resting one elbow in the table between them so that she could surreptitiously angle her finger through the mass of people, before she fixed her sights on one person, and smirked, nudging Martin to draw his attention, "That man there – he has huge feet, so, if he were a superhero, his superpower could be that his huge feet help him to bounce across large distances."

"Oh, okay!" Martin exclaimed, chuckling from deep within his chest and grinning as he too hoisted his elbows onto the table so that he could inspect the people around them; Deborah watched his face rather than the path that his fingers were making through the air, and cherished the contented blush that stretched across his freckled cheeks, "I've got one!"

"Go on then." Deborah prompted him, eager to discover which of the many customers that Martin had chosen; there was quite a range after all.

"Right, you see that woman there, with the blonde hair and the green dress?" Martin pointed into the crowd, and it took Deborah barely a second to spot who he was talking about; of course naughty Captain Crieff's eyes had been drawn in that direction Deborah mused with a fond sigh, nodding as he waited eagerly for his time to shine, "Okay…so, if she were a superhero, she would be able to blind villains with the dazzling brightness of her bleached hair."
Deborah couldn't help the giggle that escaped her lips, and she had to glance down at her hands so that she didn't do something drastic when she saw the proud grin that curled Martin's lips and made his face glow with self-satisfaction.

"Fantastic Martin," Deborah drawled, unable to muster any real heat as the smile refused to fade from her lips, and she had to look up through the loose strands of her hair to address him, as she kept her hands firmly secured and extended over the table top, "It sounds like you've got the hang of this one."

"I have." Martin chirped, far too pleased with himself for it to be healthy, though Deborah couldn't deny him that; without warning, he lifted his hand to carefully tuck the loose strands of hair behind her ear, and even as she startled and turned her head to follow the movement in surprise, he didn't seem to notice, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, "So…how do we know who wins this game?"

"Well obviously the winner is the one who can invent the most interesting superheroes." Deborah answered, swallowing hard and smiling wanly across at him as he hand moved slowly back to its original position; she may have accepted the existence of her feelings regarding Martin, but that didn't make them any less awkward to deal with when he insisted upon being so handsy with her. Not that she was going to complain.

Martin nodded and pursed his lips, staring unabashedly into the crowd with a determined glint in his eyes; if she had had a camera Deborah would have captured the picture for posterity, just so that she could whip it out the next time Martin tried to insist that he wasn't at all competitive.

They continued playing until the food was gone from their plates and an hour had passed, both of them propped up on their elbows and picking random people from the crowd around the bar. Martin was particularly good at this game, Deborah discovered, and as she tried to temper down a giggle that hadn't quite stopped bubbling for a good twenty minutes, she simply smiled and allowed him to steam ahead, taking the reins and filling the night with his own imaginings, all of which were witty in a way that only Martin could manage (only just within the lines of political correctness).

As she allowed her eyes to linger on the brightness of his smile and the red glow of his cheeks as he chuckled lightly, Deborah let herself giggle and smile attentively, and mused as the fluttering in her chest reached a fiery crescendo that she would give anything to remain this happy with Martin, just to keep having this much fun with him forever.

Since the fiasco at St Petersburg, Deborah had spent far too much time reconsidering her shocked decision about her feelings towards him, but all that that had achieved was to compound the fact that she loved him.

Deborah loved Martin, but now, watching him laugh and glance to her for confirmation of his comical genius, she thought that she loved him enough that she would be happy to stay just friends, so long as they kept having fun like this.

"What?" Martin asked, pausing in his litany to stare back at her; Deborah jolted back to reality, and raised an eyebrow inquisitively in response, earning a playfully suspicious glare from Martin, "You're staring."

"I was just thinking that we could move to the bar and let someone who needs the table have it." Deborah suggested, nodding towards the bar which, around which the crowd had thinned a bit over the past hour; she was somewhat relieved that Martin just accepted that she was telling the truth.

"Oh, good idea." Martin remarked, and immediately began stacking their plates to make it easier for the staff to clear away later; Deborah waited for him to carry out his routine (having sat through it many a time in the past), and then rose to her feet without a word, knowing that he would follow on her heels as she crossed the room, weaving between the occasional straggler to reach the bar.

Once there, Deborah ordered her customary apple juice, but was surprised when Martin did the same, thanking the barman and batting his hand away when Deborah tried to pay for their drinks.

"You know Martin, just because I'm not drinking doesn't mean you can't." Deborah noted nonchalantly, curling her fingers around the coolness of the glass and peering up at him through her eyelashes as Martin mirrored her posture, leaning back against the bar and turning so that they were facing each other.

"I know…" Martin replied, trailing off into his drink, making a show of gulping as if to draw attention away from himself, but failing dismally; Deborah quirked an eyebrow, and he sighed, lowering his hand, "I'm just, being a supportive friend, that's all."

"Yes…well…thank you." Deborah murmured, dropping her gaze; feeling Martin's eyes prickling at the back of her neck, she smiled and raised her glass in a facsimile of a toast, snorting at the cheerful and clumsy mess that Martin made when he clinked his against hers, sloshing apple juice over his hand.

They stayed in the bar for a while, chatting and continuing their game, bumping elbows as they went through another round of apple juice; if Deborah had been keeping count, she might have said that it was one of the most pleasant evenings that they had spent together in a while.

That was until Martin stiffened, and his expression turned dire, like a terrier freezing in the middle of a run; Deborah turned her head to see what had caught his attention, only to find that a group of three men, all in expensive looking pilot's uniforms, entering the pub.

"Oh, Martin," she scoffed, rolling her eyes and him and prodding his wrist with the back of her knuckles, taking in the grimace that contorted his face, "They're only pilots, not the mafia."

"But you know what I'm like with other pilots!" Martin hissed, gripping his glass tightly and shifting closer to her; then he blanched, and rapped his free hand at her upper arm, "Oh no, they're coming over here…"

True to his word, the three pilots were making their way across the room; Deborah smiled politely as their Captain, a man with black hair and a haggard face that made her place him somewhere in his mid-forties, nodded in greeting, and pulled up to the bar beside them.

"Hello there," the Captain announced in a northern English accent as he reached out to shake Martin's hand, jovially, taking no notice of the shaky and clumsy way that Martin received him, his cheeks flushing red, "Which company are you two with then?"

"Um, we're with MJN – you probably haven't heard of it." Martin replied, trailing off with a truncated awkward laugh; when the other pilots just blinked expectantly, Martin swung an arm around Deborah's back to bring her forwards and more into the group, "I'm Martin – uh, Captain, Martin Crieff, and this is um, this is Deborah, my First Officer."

Deborah smiled thinly again, extending her hand towards the Captain, but retracted it when he, and his buddies, merely nodded in response to Martin's words and scanned their eyes from her head to her toes; only the youngest, blonde haired and ruddy cheeked made a move to shake her hand, but fell back when the more elderly gentleman in front of him impeded his way as he nudged the Captain's elbow with his own.

"Is she really?" The Captain inquired through the corner of his mouth, slipping his hands into his pockets and rocking on his heels in a way that made his chest puff out; he winked at Deborah, and smirked, "Well, good for you."

Deborah bit her tongue to stop herself from retorting, lest she embarrass Martin more than he already was purely from existing where the other pilots could see him, and folded her arms tightly over her chest, leaning back until she could feel Martin's arm, secure and safe at her back.

"Isn't it just." She drawled, and then peered around the group, making sure to sound snide, superior, and dismissive, as Carolyn would in such a situation; there was a gnawing in her guts that warned Deborah of what kind of gathering this would be, and she planned to cut that short before she time to find out, "And you are?"

"Oh, how rude of me." The Captain exclaimed apologetically; he pressed a hand to his chest, "I'm Steve," gestured to the elder man, "This is Mike, the First Officer," and then to the younger man, who smiled fleetingly and ducked his head at the notice, "and this is Luke, the relief pilot."

"So you've come off a long flight then?" Martin inquired, embarrassment gone with the flood of interest in other pilots that hadn't turned away after a few words with him; he kept his arm around Deborah's back, forgetting that it was there, but the tension in his limbs eased, "Where from?"

"All the way from Japan," Steve answered, sighing and shaking his head as if sharing some sort of in joke; he glanced back to Mike and nudged nodded pointedly, "Hell of a way to come only to slam her half-exhausted down in the crosswind, wasn't it Mike?"

"Oh, yeah, it had us there for a minute," Mike chuckled dryly, and both pilots turned to laugh while the young Luke looked on bashfully, and Martin blinked cluelessly, wearing that on edge, wide-eyed look that he wore when he thought that he was being included (it brought back sour memories of trying to integrate him with the grounds workers), "Luke here got a real fright."

Martin giggled nervously as Luke smiled wanly at the men's guffaws, neither of them looking as if their hearts were in it; Deborah imagined that young Luke was as nervous and jumpy as Martin had been in the first few weeks that he had been at MJN, before his rank had gone to his head of course.

"Um, what type of plane are you flying?" Martin asked in an attempt to move the conversation onwards in the only way that he knew how; Deborah felt a swell of affection for him, but that dimmed slightly when the conversation actually progressed.

It turned out that while Martin was doing well, managing to maintain a discussion about flying and this and that with Steve and Mike, Deborah was completely ignored by the both of them, despite Martin's attempts to involve her in his stories. She tried not to pout as she let their words wash into inconsequential waffle and she pulled away from Martin's embrace (though he put up little fight where that was concerned), but she couldn't help but feel a little petulant.

The only saving grace was that the young Luke was standing slightly to the side, watching the conversation with a small hopeless frown as he worried his hat between his hands and pushed a hand through his blonde hair; now that she looked again, Deborah didn't think he could be more than twenty-five. When he saw her looking, he blushed and smiled shyly, rocking nervously on his feet.

"Have you been flying long?" Deborah inquired politely, quietly enough that it wouldn't disturb the men's discussion even if they had been listening; Martin spared her a sideways glance as she turned away from the group, arms loosely looped over her chest, but other than that, there was zero acknowledgment.

"Just a month." Luke replied lightly, his smile wavering and widening with nerves as he licked his lips and looked about the room; Deborah waited patiently for him to make his way back to her, "Have you…been flying long?"

"Oh, years and years and years." Deborah told him, smirking as his eyes widened, impressed; it was almost possible to see his ears pricking like a puppy that had caught a scent.

"Really?" Luke exclaimed softly, his hands stilling as he clenched his hat between his hands and gazed at her in something akin to amazement, "So, you must be really good at it if you've stuck with flying for such a long time?"

"Well, yes, I am very good at flying." Deborah admitted, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly and pursing her lips; she could recognise post-training jitters anywhere, and the droop of the lad's limbs screamed dejection, "However, time is not a good way to judge skill. Just because a pilot might be clumsy to begin with doesn't mean that in ten years they won't be a pro."

"Yeah, but, if the tricky runways scare me now…" Luke started, but Deborah cut him off, leaning in conspiratorially and gesturing for him to come closer, as if she were divulging a long held secret.

"Let me tell you, if they didn't scare you now, then you'd never learn, would you?" Deborah explained in a hushed tone, watching the young man's forehead furrow in helpless confusion; she took pity, and smiled encouragingly, "Look at it this way – are you familiar with Narsarsuaq Airport in Greenland?" he nodded hastily, and Deborah continued, "It's one of the trickiest in the world, and in my first ever week flying, years and years ago, my Captain told me to land there. I almost dipped the nose into the lake at the end of the damn thing." Luke's eyes grew wide and he very nearly gasped, "But now, because I learned from that, I'm able to land perfectly in all sorts of places. You see?"

"Yeah, I do." Luke replied, stepping back and gazing into the distance as if he had seen the light of god; he beamed anxiously at Deborah, and she felt the charming glow of a job well done, "Thank you."

"So is she any good then?" Deborah's head snapped up at the sound of Steve's voice rising as he nodded in her direction, and found that Martin was glancing towards her, rubbing at the back of his neck as opened and closed his mouth a few times; she clenched her mouth shut to avoid snapping that she was there.

"Deborah's a very good pilot, yes." Martin answered, reaching his arm out as if to motion for her to come back to his side and talk herself up; she shook her head imperceptibly, staring holes into the Captain's cheeks, though he wasn't paying a lick of attention to her, "She's very talented."

"She must be good on the flight-deck." Mike leered, nudging Steve, who chuckled along with him; Martin's eyes narrowed, perplexed, but Deborah had enough, and huffed, scowling slightly.

She didn't want to ruin Martin's evening, and she knew that it was insignificant really, so she stepped back to Martin's side and placed her hand on his arm, smiling weakly to get his attention as the other two muttered amongst themselves.

"I'm just going to pop to the bathroom," Deborah told him, patting Martin on the back and nodded demonstratively at the other pilots, "I'll be back in a minute, just enjoy yourself."

Deborah stayed in the pub's bathroom for longer than was probably necessary, but in her defence, she didn't think she could stand not to tear into the other pilots without a few more minutes to calm down and make peace with the fact that they were going to ignore and demean her. There was nothing she could do about that, but she could make sure that she didn't get removed from the premises for slapping someone.

Once she had taken a deep breath and pusher her hair over her shoulders, Deborah strode back into the main area…expect, she was forced to pause before she came to the bar, still out of sight, at the tableau before her.

Martin was standing apart from the other pilots, hands clenched at his side, face set and red as if he were fuming; what really made Deborah trip to a halt though was what he was saying.

" - she is a skilled and talented professional, and will be treated with the same amount of respect as any other member of my crew!" Martin demanded furiously, his voice sharp and reedy, indignant in a way that reminded her of when he tried to defend his rank, only far more decisive as he wielded his pointed finger at the group.

Well, Mike and Steve; Luke was standing a little bit apart from them, looking mortified as he stared at his hands. A thud of resignation dropped in Deborah's stomach, but she didn't move quite yet.

"Oh, I see, you haven't, but you want to." Mike remarked, ducking his head as if to murmur to Steve, though he made no efforts to lower his voice; it was no surprise. For all that Martin was fuming, he wasn't a particularly impressive view beside them.

"I can see why though." Steve noted, rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets; it was then that Deborah decided to step in, before Martin lurched forwards and punched one of them, as he looked absolutely ready to do.

"Hello boys," Deborah drawled, clapping her hands together as all four men seemed to rock back on their heels, separating imperceptibly and glancing around the bar, "How are we all getting along?"

"We're leaving." Martin declared, before anyone else could get a word in edgeways; Deborah made a noise of protest when his hand curled around her back, but upon seeing the determined set of his jaw, she allowed him to turn her away from the group and begin striding across the pub, leaving them behind without a word of farewell, "It's getting late, so we're leaving."

Neither of them said a word until they reached the hotel, and had exited the lift as it deposited them on their floor; with the steady pace that Martin was maintaining, and the murderous expression on his face, Deborah had decided that it was best to just leave him to stew and concentrate on the moths turning happy little circles in her chest.

When they reached the door to their room, Martin made no move to find his key, but turned to lean stormily against the wall, glaring at a patch of carpet across the hall. Deborah paused, wrapping her arms over her chest, and tread lightly to stand beside him.

"You know Martin, we didn't have to leave." Deborah suggested brightly, attempting to smile and cheer him up; Martin scowled and his eyes flickered up to meet hers.

"Yes we did, you're my friend." Martin insisted decisively, cheeks flushing in indignation, and his hands continued to worm at his sides, "You deserve respect, and I wasn't going to let you stay there to be insulted."

Sighing, Deborah moved to rest against the wall beside him, and brushed the back of her hand against his arm; Martin glanced down to watch the movement, but didn't say a word.

"Did they ask if you'd slept with me yet?" she asked tentatively; it wasn't hard to tell from the direction that the conversation had taken what had riled Martin up so badly, but that didn't explain why he was in such a mood about it.

"Wha – yes, yes they did." Martin retorted bitterly, pouting his lips and scowling as he watched her fingers make another journey up his arm; then he shook his head and bit at his bottom lip, throwing his other arm into the air, "I just- it's completely inappropriate! You're far too good a pilot, and a person to be demeaned and insulted like that, a-as if by being a woman I-I-I, whichever pilot y-you're flying with is instantly entitled to do with you what they please!" Martin huffed and gritted his teeth, "You're worth so much more than that, and I won't stand for it!"

"Martin, as sweet a thought as that might be, I don't need you to defend my honour." Deborah remarked quietly, focusing on his shoulder and ignoring the rush of resigned joy that the thought brought her.

"Yes I do!" Martin insisted, in a tone that allowed no argument; he turned to stare at her directly, "If you're not there to do it yourself, then I'm not going to let people talk about you behind your back."

Unsure of what to say, caught off guard by the sincerity that Martin was exuding as he gazed into her eyes, Deborah stilled, her hand pausing in its path up and down his arm. Then, coming to a decision without really thinking about it, her hand slipped from Martin's arm up to where the fabric of his collar sat stiffly, while her other hand rose to brush the tips of her fingers firmly against the side of his chin.

Martin's eyebrows pinched in the middle, but he turned his head at the light pressure at his chin. Taking that as a positive sign, Deborah splayed her fingers over his cheek, gripped at his collar, and rose up on her toes, pressing her lips to his, cherishing the soft sound of surprise before she lingered for just a moment, relishing the feel of his nose pressing back against hers and his lips parting slightly before she pulled away.

His hand had moved slowly to rest at her elbow, and Martin let it fall back to his side as Deborah stepped back; she couldn't quite tell, but she thought that the tickling in her cheeks might have been a pink flush to match his own scarlet on, as he blinked slowly, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

"What…um, what was that for?" Martin inquired thickly, swallowing hard and making his best efforts at looking nonchalant, having rocked away from the wall, his hands now drifting to his pockets with nowhere better to go.

Deborah smiled shyly, and glanced at his rumpled collar before meeting his gaze; she didn't think she could tell him that it was just because she had wanted to.

"For being nice to me." She replied lightly, wrapping her arms securely around her chest again; Martin exhaled what might have been a laugh, but she couldn't be sure as his eyes dropped from hers.

"I'm always nice to you." He shot back, with little heat behind his words as he glanced around the hall, and rocked on his heels, nervous yet loose limbed and calm.

"Yes." Deborah acknowledged, smiling tentatively, trying to regain some of her usual swagger, and failing miserably as neither of them seemed to be moving forwards or backwards, in any sense, "Yes you are."

She supposed that was something; she couldn't have said that a year ago.

And that concludes the episode that Deborah recalled in 'On the Other Side' - was that what everyone was expecting?

It became more padded out than I thought it would, but I reckon that's never a bad thing

Thanks for reading