Hello all, I hope you're having lovely summers
Here's the next chapter - hopefully not as angsty as the last
Vaduz
Two weeks; Deborah would never admit that she was counting the days since she and Martin had ended their relationship, but every morning, like clockwork, the little number in her head would rise, and another day would pass in which she was choked more and more by a vile mixture of absolute love, and complete miserable anger for him.
At first there had just been sadness, as Deborah had expected; the temptation to simply beg for him back clashed with a hollowness that burrowed into the pit of her stomach, telling her that it was over, and to get used to the empty space in her life.
Martin wanted to be friends, and so did she; the heated emotions of the moment fizzled somewhat over the days that passed, and flying together became that little bit less painful. At least, Deborah could bear to look at him; that was something. Both of them would smile, and try to make jokes, but neither Deborah nor Martin seemed able to stand the effort.
Then came the anger; that moment of clarity that Deborah had felt the night that they had ended things remained alive, feeding off her sadness, and it was only after a week that she realised what it was. It was that same indignant rage that had fuelled her years before, before Martin had been more than the pernicious Captain that she'd bid farewell to after a long and trying day.
It was the anger that had faded from her teases and remarks, leaving only fondness and affection in the place of what had once been biting and sarcastic; now it was back with a vengeance, saving Deborah from the clutches of depression and miserable wasting away. Martin wanted before, here it was; as Deborah's interactions returned to their days of yore, picking up on things that would make him squirm, Martin reacted just as he had at the beginning, irritable and resigned.
The only difference was that although Martin rolled his eyes, snapped at her if he was in a particularly bad mood, sighed and hummed dejectedly, Deborah had yet to hear a single protestation, or any insistence that 'I'm the Captain', or a parrying shot about her.
Hope; that was what that was. An infinitesimal flicker of hope in Deborah's chest that whispered that things might just end well for them, even after everything that had happened; Martin wasn't fighting back, and he wasn't protesting his rank, which meant that he knew she didn't mean it, he knew that it was just her way of coping, no matter how much it annoyed him. And he was putting up with it for the sake of putting things back the way that were.
When that thought had wandered unbidden through Deborah's mind, all that she could think was that 'the way things were' was what had led to them falling for each other in the first place; they were fixable.
But Deborah wasn't going to make the first move; it wouldn't be in character, to the point that the very idea of exposing her desires, her feelings, made her stomach churn and her throat clench. Trying to move first had been what had broken them in the first place.
Martin was making an effort, he still cared, and he wanted things to go back to normal; not only that, but she would catch him looking, staring at her from the opposite side of the desk, despite the both of them pushing as far to the opposing ends as was physically possible. He looked, and even though they bickered more than they had in years, Martin couldn't quite keep that soppy light from his eyes when he looked at her, even when he was trying to slam her and come out on top.
They still communicated as if they were a couple; it hurt when she noticed them doing it, but Deborah was well aware that 'just friends' didn't synchronise their tracks across the workplace, or buy two of everything when at cafes, or look to each other for everything from confirmation of simple actions to the punch lines of jokes.
If she waited, and was patient, and made sure to make it very clear that every tease was made out of affection…Martin would want her back, and he would take that step, and she would say yes. Everything was going to be okay.
For now though, it was still a strain not to lash out accidently, for both of them; this was made only slightly worse by the fact that Carolyn had left them in charge of MJN for the week, providing the perfect opportunity to pull pranks and tease Martin and his presumption of supreme command in the absence of their CEO.
While the phone sat in the centre of their conjoined desks, Martin sat studiously on the far end of his side, pencilling in something that Deborah wasn't entirely sure related to work, and she, for her part, slouched back in her seat, feet up on the desk, crossed at the ankles, swinging ever so slightly.
If she had to pick a mood to describe the morning so far, Deborah would have said tense; true, she had arranged a faux call or two to trick Martin, which irritated him to no end, but she assumed that he had done something similar, as he kept glancing at the phone as if it might grow a head and bite him, before his eyes flickered up to her.
To Deborah's surprise, there had even been fake calls that neither of them had arranged; it was almost as if someone in Fitton had seen Carolyn leave, and realised that they could have some fun.
In addition, Arthur was mysteriously absent; in the past two weeks, that was an occurrence growing more common, as if he were avoiding the animosity between them. He probably was. To be fair, Deborah and Martin were being friends in the same sense that a new swimmer dips their toe in and out of the sea.
When the phone rang for the third time that day, Martin's movements ceased, but he didn't shift from where he was hunched over the desk; Deborah swivelled her chair so that she could survey the length of the desks, resisting the temptation to poke him with the end of her shoe as the phone continued to emit a tinny ring.
"Your turn, I think." Deborah remarked dryly, nodding pointedly at the device as Martin lifted his head and straightened out his back; today was one of those days where the pleasantries were marred by an underlying wash of disdain, brought on by all of the other problems. Taking turns was a step in the right direction, even if it did mean that fifty per cent of the effort had to be shared.
Martin made an annoyed little tutting sound, and rolled his eyes, but thrust his arm out to take the phone, pressing it against his ear with what might have been a bit too much force, if the wince that twisted his lips was any indicator.
"Hello?" he announced as was proper, reaching out with his free hand to fetch a pen, ready as always to jot down anything that he might need to remember for later; Deborah watched unashamedly, slipping her arms around her chest and settling back in her chair, "MJN Air. Captain Martin Crieff speaking."
A moment passed, in which Martin nodded reflexively, tapping the pen against his fingers; Deborah couldn't decide whether a job would be a good or a bad thing. It would give them something to jointly focus on if nothing else.
"Certainly. May I take your name?" Martin inquired, hand poised and ready; then his expression morphed into a sardonic smirk, and he shot Deborah a sideways glance, shaking his head and laughing sarcastically, "Are you?" then another pause, in which he pouted pitifully at Deborah, to her confusion, "What a coincidence." She really had no idea what was going on, "Oh, it's just that I'm the Lord High Archduke Martin of Crieffstonia."
It was in that moment, as Martin was rolling his eyes at her, drifting between sardonic appreciation of some wit that he must have been attributing to her, conceding her talent, and self-satisfaction that he had riddled out her scheme, that a sinking sensation rolled into her abdomen; Deborah couldn't help but stiffen, lowering her feet to the ground as she pricked her ears and tried to assess just how deep a hole Martin had stuck his foot into this time.
"Now what can I do for you?" Martin was asking, eyes narrowed as he tackled whoever was on the other end of the phone, barely giving them time to answer before he ploughed onwards, growing overconfident, as was his perfected style that at any other time Deborah would have rather enjoyed, "Is it a dragon? D'you need rescuing from a dragon? Only I know what you princesses are like."
Now that might be a little bit not good; Deborah decided that for the sake of Martin's safety, and self-esteem, now was a good moment to chip in before he became too accidently insulting. The only issue was doing so without indulging in either the prickle of sadism, her own self-importance, or an overly sentimental show of concern.
"Er, Martin." Deborah spoke quietly, clearing her throat to get his attention, and leaning forwards, stopping with her hand outstretched, hovering where she had been about to tap at his elbow; Martin hummed in acknowledgement, and quirked an eyebrow at her, a smug smile tugging at his lips, "This is nothing to do with me."
"No, of course not!" Martin replied, turning his seat so that he could face her, rolling his head in tandem with the bout of sarcastic disbelief; the phone was still pressed to his ear.
"No! Really!" Deborah implored him, taking care not to speak too loudly lest their potential customer hear them, raising both eyebrows pointedly; thankfully, Martin must have seen the concerned honesty in her expression, as his own eyes blew wide, and his bottom lip dragged through his teeth.
"E-e-e-e-excuse me;" Martin stuttered into the phone, cheeks turning red as he raised a second hand to the receiver and gulped, throat bobbing apologetically, like a fish caught on a line, "can you wait a minute?" then he pressed the phone to his chest as if that might block out the noise, and glared desperately at Deborah, "Seriously, Deborah – this isn't one of your mates?"
"Who is it?" Deborah asked patiently; this was something that they could sort out together, it didn't need to blow up in their faces.
"The Princess of Liechtenstein!" Martin hissed, pressing the phone even further into his chest; oh, of course! Martin must have set it up himself; the trepidation in Deborah's guts lessened its hold, and she had to admit, she admired his initiative. She wouldn't have used such an outlandish character, perhaps, but never mind.
"No." Deborah drawled, settling back into her seat, a small smirk appearing on her lips; there was no reason that she couldn't play along, enjoy the game, "The Princess of Liechtenstein is not one of my mates."
"Right! Fine!" Martin snapped hastily; before Deborah could react, he had thrust the phone into her hands, and retracted his arms as if it might burn him, throwing her in the deep end, as if she would actually fall for his scheme, "Then you talk to her!"
"With pleasure." Deborah retorted smoothly, lifting the phone to press it lightly against her ear, making sure to hold Martin's gaze as he glared back at her suspiciously, "Hello. This is First Officer Deborah Richardson. I do apologise. We've been getting some hoax calls this week. Now, how can we help you?"
"Well, I am Princess Theresa of Liechtenstein and I was hoping to charter you to fly the king and I from Vaduz to Fitton." a womanly, mid-European accent came down the line, patient, despite the grilling the woman had received already; Deborah couldn't help the small, warm smile that she sent Martin's way, admittedly entertained by the fantastical lengths that he had gone to in order to fool her.
"But of course!" Deborah exclaimed, batting a hand through the air; as Martin's eyes barrowed in confusion, she winked playfully, "To fly The King And I? Well, this is The Sound of Music to our ears! Why, not since we flew Madam Butterfly to the South Pacific have we had …"
"Deborah! It's nothing to do with me either!" Martin hissed abruptly; Deborah didn't bother to lower the phone or try to muffle the speakers as she paused, and took in his jittery demeanour.
"Yes it is; but I must say dear, answering it yourself first was a very artistic touch." Deborah remarked wryly, rolling her eyes at him.
"Look at me Deborah! Actually look at me!" Martin demanded, leaning forwards in frustration and gesticulating furiously at his chest, teeth gritted and jaw set; Deborah felt a pang of guilt, realising that Martin had in fact noticed the sarcastic filter that she had been watching him through in the past two weeks, and finally, genuinely looked into his eyes, "It's not me!"
As Martin held her gaze, chest heaving ever so slightly in agitation, cheeks red with exertion, Deborah had to purse her lips against the rush of dismal understanding; Martin sighed and say back as her eyes widened, and her wrist flopped imperceptibly under the weight of the phone.
"Well, it's not me!" Deborah hissed desperately, bewildered, holding the phone away from her as she wheeled her chair a little closer to Martins; he shrugged his shoulders helplessly, and dragged his old laptop closer as she tentatively lifted the phone back to her ear at the sound of the voice crackling into the air.
"Okay! So this has been a lot of fun, but have we perhaps reached the point where one of you might consider googling the words 'Theresa' and 'Liechtenstein'?" the woman, (Theresa, Deborah was now willing to admit that she might actually be who she said she was) asked, sounding as if her patience might only continue so far.
"Deborah, look." Martin whispered; before she could turn to look at what he had found, Deborah found herself being jostled as he wheeled his chair clumsily up to hers, and plopped his computer down on top of the paperwork that she had been neglecting, only to reveal a very information Wikipedia page, "I've just …"
"Your Royal Highness." Deborah drawled brightly, praying that they hadn't managed to lose an entire job between them; Carolyn would kill them, and no breakup was worth that, "How may we be of service?"
oOoOoOo
The atmosphere hadn't become any easier with the intricacies of flying a plane to distract then; Deborah found that she was just as hyper-aware of Martin as she ever was, and so was he if his ever more frequent squirming and sideways glances were anything to go by.
In the past two weeks, it hadn't all been bad days, but today definitely was, despite Deborah's efforts otherwise; the lack of Carolyn, the hoax calls and the opportunity to raise each other's hackles, and the relationship themed conversation courtesy of Herc, flaunting his and Carolyn's perfect romance, had simply made it impossible not to wallow in the horrible, bitter prickles that churned beneath every second.
In truth, it did help a little that Arthur was there to interrupt the awkward silence, but he seemed quite reluctant to hang around too long. Deborah wanted them to just get along so that they could fix things, and she was willing to plough through her currently unpleasant feelings regarding Martin, but half way to Liechtenstein, Herc's words from before were still ringing in her head, as if magnified by the slim metal shell that cased them.
"So … Martin." Deborah breached the rhythmic hum of the engines, inwardly cursing how cautious her own voice sounded; she didn't look at him, and stared instead at where her fingers curled around the end of the arm of her seat, "What sort of team would your exes make?"
She knew it was wrong, and that it would rile him up, but Deborah hadn't been able to quash the flickers of jealousy that had alighted earlier that day; it was like a compulsion that countered every coping mechanism she had devised. If she played it as a game, filled with cheer, then perhaps Martin wouldn't mind so much.
"What?" Martin spurted, glancing bewildered across the gap between them; it hadn't been apparent how stiffly he had been sitting until he shifted self-consciously, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, "No team. You know I've never been married."
"Mmm, but what about ex-girlfriends?" Deborah replied swiftly, aiming for nonchalance, but suspecting that as she continued to stare ahead, and at anything that wasn't Martin, she only sounded jealous at best; she knew that she shouldn't push, but she just couldn't stop herself.
"I'm not telling you that." Martin retorted, turning his head back to stare at the sky; as his voice trailed off, Deborah snatched at the opportunity to sneak a glance at his face, and was caught off guard by the introspective frown that dragged down his whole posture, "Nothing good can come of it."
"Okay." Deborah conceded, nodding stiltedly; she had been right, this was a bad idea. No good could come of stirring up the messy tangle of emotions between them, especially not thousands of feet in the air, in control of a metal tube full of flammable liquid; or anywhere for that matter.
"That's private." Martin reiterated, flattening his palm where it hovered above the arm of his seat, his eyes burning into the back of it; at that, Deborah's back straightened infinitesimally, and she turned to stare unhindered at him. If she wasn't mistaken, that was the evasive tone of voice that Martin adopted when he had backed himself into a corner, and refused to back down from a dare; Deborah assumed that this was evidence of how sensitive he was feeling, as she hadn't even pushed that hard.
"Absolutely." Deborah agreed softly, blinking foggily a few times, wetting her lips; the faint pang in her chest wouldn't let her forget that she cared far too much about Martin's happiness to upset him over something so raw, "Forget I asked."
Except, Martin didn't seem to be on the same page as he continued to turn his cock his head from side to side, gnawing on his bottom lip; now that she thought about it, Deborah didn't know what she had expected from the man that hadn't let anything go in the five years that they'd known each other. Whether he was trying to win, making a point, or simply wanted to share…Martin could be indecipherable.
"How-how-how-how many people in a bobsled?" Martin inquired, trying to sound as if he didn't care, but missed the mark by miles; he didn't look up to meet her wide eyed surprise, but instead picked at the threads on the seat.
"Four…" Deborah replied, inhaling deeply so as not to make him think that she might even for a moment be teasing him, or considering such an act; she folded her arms over her chest, pursing her lips and attempting not to stare at the flush of Martin's cheeks.
"Oh." Martin made a dejected little sound, head drooping; he still didn't make eye contact, and Deborah couldn't help but feel bad, and annoyed that she might have upset him over her own morbid curiosity.
"There's five in a basketball team, if that helps." Deborah suggested brightly, plastering on a thin smile; it took all of her power not to shrug helplessly, making it even more obvious that she was taking pity on his miserable self.
"It doesn't." Martin answered drearily; he let out a put-upon sigh, that was almost a groan, but Deborah was too busy processing the implications of that statement.
She was his third girlfriend? It briefly flitted through her mind that he wasn't that pathetic (and she would know), which only served to make the moths that had been hibernating in her chest flutter and stretch their wings. Deborah could tease, or she could be completely honest in just how touched she was; or, far more doable, she could overcompensate with jovial companionable banter.
"Ah." Deborah remarked awkwardly; she reaching into her pocket to withdraw her phone, itching to do anything to move the subject matter along, to drag it out without focusing on what actually mattered, "I don't think there's anything with three."
"No …" Martin sighed, barely sparing her a glance as she tapped away at her phone; that was the problem lately, the both of them had been too wrapped up in their own heads to may each other much mind beyond petty squabbles and forced niceties, "… there wouldn't be."
"Hang on; I'll look it up." Deborah told him cheerfully, forcing a wan smile as she bared down in the device in her hands; she knew that he wouldn't appreciate it, but she had to do something to get their rhythm back, and if that meant playful joshing, then the distraction that it provided was welcome.
"There's really no need." Martin groaned, leaning his head into his hand, eyebrows knitting in a show of exhaustion; not that he was paid any notice regardless, as Deborah was too engrossed in scrolling through a list of results.
"Pétanque!"she exclaimed, hastily putting her phone away and turning to smirk at Martin across the impenetrable space between them.
"What?" Martin continued to stare at her, his face a picture of bewilderment; that would have been a rational moment to stop pushing the subject and merely carry on as they had been, but for some reason that she couldn't explain, Deborah was almost pulled by the need to keep going, however hysterically.
"There's three players in a pétanque team!" Deborah declared proudly, too overexcited to the ear, but unable to rectify that without appearing nervous; took the controls to hand, something to ground herself, and continued to hold a false smile, "You know, boules – like old Frenchmen play."
"Go on, then." Martin replied, his tone laced with resignation; upon further inspection, Deborah realised that there was not even a trace of humour in his face, or his posture. That alone made her retract her hand to curl her arms once more around her chest, noting how his hands moved to take his controls without a word, long bony fingers curling purposefully as he took over.
"What?" Deborah asked weakly, pouting at the expectant set of Martin's jaw, and the unimpressed dullness in his eyes; she was only playing, she had thought that was what he wanted, to get along like they were supposed to.
"Well, I know you only asked me so I would ask you." Martin explained wryly, clicking his tongue and swallowing as if the idea physically irritated his throat; that would be understandable, as it made Deborah's perky mood vaporise, and her heart plummet, "What sort of a team would your ex-boyfriends be?"
His words felt like being struck in the stomach by a ten pound weight; despite all her efforts, all of their time together, everything she had given him as she opened up to him during their relationship, Martin still didn't trust her. Not loving her the way that she loved him seemed insignificant when Deborah gaped momentarily, and realised that even after all that time, Martin would still hear an affectionate jest and believe that she was baiting him.
Tearing her eyes from his face, Deborah glared out into the sky, squeezing her arms where they hung stiffly around herself; angry was better than sad, and it was far easier to let herself be carried by a twinge of sarcastic vindictiveness. It wasn't as if it would be the first time.
"Hmmm." Deborah hummed in thought, shrugging her shoulders flippantly and narrowing her eyes, though she didn't allow herself to clock Martin's reaction; he thought that she wanted to boast about her conquests, as a way to hurt him, then fine, "Well, you know the start of the London Marathon …?"
"Yes, all right!" Martin retorted sourly; when she heard him sigh dejectedly, Deborah made herself glance towards him, just a peek from the corner of her eyes, and saw to her disappointment that he looked truly miserable, one arm propped at the elbow of the arm of his seat, chin dropped unceremoniously on his curled fist, while he dutifully kept an eye on the controls.
Perhaps she had been too harsh on him? Again. After all, Martin was hurting too; even though it was insulting, and wrong, he thought that she was rubbing his face in her success…and that must have been upsetting.
"Were there really only two people before me?" Deborah asked quietly, hugging herself a little more tightly; better to simply get to the crux of her frantic games than to let Martin wallow in things that just weren't true. She didn't want to hurt him; Deborah was just trying not to hurt herself with the constant barrage of Martin that her brain thrust upon her.
"No, three." Martin corrected; apparently the impulse to be factually correct was greater than the need to maintain a detached coolness, as he turned to stare at her, forehead crinkled in confusion, sitting up a little straighter with the movement.
"Then what-" Deborah began, making sure that even though she met Martin's gaze, her back remained pressed against the back of her seat, like a brace; but she was cut off abruptly.
"I'm not counting you." Martin interjected; when Deborah's features softened in surprise, and her mouth opened yet no sound escaped, his eyes flickered down, and biting down on his bottom lip, Martin shifted and leaned forwards to pay the control panel unnecessary attention.
"Because you're still holding out hope?" Deborah inquired, finally, when the humming of the engines seemed to slice through what was otherwise a stiff and uncomfortable silence; though she watched his cheeks lose some of their flush, when Martin's eyes rose once more, hers dropped to stare at her knees.
"No, because I don't want to think of you as my Ex." Martin replied, as if the words physically threatened to choke him; Deborah still didn't meet his eyes, the hopeful glimmer fading, "You're my friend, not some woman that I'm cutting out of my life."
"I see." Deborah sighed, pushing her hair behind her ears for a lack of anything constructive to do; there was something jarring, yet completely expected, about the fact that Martin didn't want her back. She had never considered it, at all, even when she was lashing out at him.
"Ex sounds like an ending, and we're not-" Martin explained, his voice reedy as if he were trying to grasp at the correct phrasing, forcing away any kind of stutter; that was all Deborah needed to hear, all that she needed for the flicker of hope to relight.
"I understand Martin, I really do." She replied, glancing up fleetingly to smile a wan smile, apologetic, a peace offering; if Martin didn't want to close the door between them completely, then there was a chance that they could be fixed, "If I'm honest, you weren't a part of that marathon I mentioned."
"Yes, thank you…" Martin sighed, but even though he sounded weary, a faint smile was beginning to form on his lips, as if he were being reluctantly swayed in the right direction.
There was hope.
oOoOoOo
There was no hope. Not even a shred.
On the drive to the castle, everything had seemed fine; strained and a little uncomfortable, but Deborah had really been trying. As both of the pilots had to fly for the rest of the day, Arthur had been allowed to drive them to and from the castle. Martin had been pinning his medals to his jacket, and once she had moved past the fact that in all the years they had known each other he had never told her about his time in the air cadets, or his medal, things still didn't pick up.
It was true, the pang of dejection at the revelation of what must have been a large part of Martin's life did upset her, but Deborah was sure that her insistence upon teasing him about them had been affectionate, a fond prod, just as she would have done before they had ever been together. The sort of teasing that Martin had fallen in love with to begin with.
He didn't get angry, but he did bat her hand away with an air of resignation; Martin no longer wanted to play, not while her attempts at drawing him into her games posed a threat to his proud stature.
And then Theresa and Maxi appeared, and any sense of hope, of happiness that might have been flickering in her chest was replaced by a throttling, frozen misery that left her lips trembling when she reached around the front passenger seat to watch the woman, eyes prickling, as she groped and fondled Martin…and Martin barely put up a fight.
Maxi, Deborah liked; he was rude, and prissy, and a bit like Martin, so Deborah rather liked the precocious little sod. Theresa on the other hand…was a lovely person; she couldn't be faulted, save for the fact that she didn't even try to hide her salacious flirting with their Captain.
She drawled, and cooed, and ran her hands over Martin's chest as she inspected his medals, teasing the way that Deborah had, but in such a way that made Martin blush and swallow and stutter under her ministrations. Martin glanced subtly towards Deborah every now and again, almost guiltily, but he made no efforts to stop the other woman from showering him with affection.
It was almost as if his captainly pride had found a new source; look at me, look, I can be admired by someone that isn't you, somebody else thinks I'm attractive, I don't need you.
Whilst busy fighting the hot burning behind her eyes at his preening, Deborah entertained the painful realisation that Theresa was doing the one thing that she couldn't; she was openly and courageously demonstrating her desire.
Even now, while she was terrified that someone better, richer, younger, more beautiful, and infinitely braver, was entrancing Martin right before her eyes, Deborah knew that she could never just tell Martin to take her back, that she still loved him to the point that she barely thought of anything else, that watching him fall for this other woman was like taking a knife to the gut.
And where they stood, Martin would never turn down a woman like Theresa because of a lingering affection for someone who could only show him affection via teasing remarks.
Deborah put up with his flaws, rather adored them actually, listened to him when he spoke, encouraged him to broaden his horizons, and shared similar interests; and she loved him. Theresa appeared to be able to do all that, but she was also sarcastic in a more pleasant way than Deborah was, her bolshiness impressed Martin in a way that Deborah's never had, and she wasn't afraid of her feelings.
In short, she was exactly Martin's type…only a thousand times better.
Now, Martin had left Deborah alone in the flight-deck to talk to her, to apologise for the delay, he said; but he had been gone far too long for that to be true.
It wasn't fair; Deborah rubbed her hand over her eyes, making sure to pay attention to the controls, lest she accidently send them plummeting into Fitton airfield at an unpleasant angle. Perhaps her teasing had backfired, riled him up, made him uncaring of the fact that Deborah was there to witness his back and forth with the princess. Maybe he wanted to hurt her.
Or, more probably, everything that Deborah had accused him of when they had split up was true. Two weeks, and she was still aching from the loss, yet still completely besotted; two weeks, and Martin didn't care enough not to flirt with another woman in front of her.
All that Deborah could do was cling to a slither of hope; if he loved her at all, if there was any part of him that didn't want to close that door yet, Martin would leave any newfound attraction alone. He wouldn't do anything that might hurt her more.
oOoOoOo
Anger was better than pain; something that Deborah kept telling herself as Theresa told Martin all about how much she loved flying, how much she wanted to be a pilot, how much she admired that he had achieved his dream.
Deborah actually was a pilot, she loved aviation, she'd have known why they were flying in circles in an instant; but Theresa was better. Theresa wouldn't mock Martin the way that she did, Martin obviously thought that Theresa was much more impressive.
So Deborah tried to block out what she was hearing, curled in her seat so that her back was almost to the centre of the porta-cabin, arms wrapped around her chest, pouting and staring glassy eyed at a dusty corner, while the two of them ignored her completely.
Then the sat-com rang, and Deborah grasped at the hope that maybe, just maybe, even if Martin remained enamoured with the princess, she would begin to see him through the same pitying spectacles that everyone else did; she didn't want to bring Martin down, or degrade him, but Deborah couldn't stop herself.
Of course, that didn't happen; Deborah watched in silent horror, like the witness of a sinking ship, as Theresa tore into Carolyn, defending Martin's honour, making his face light up, his eyes widen, and a dazzled glow tint his aura. Of course…
Of course, that would make Martin fall head over heels; Martin, who had a particular weakness for strong women. Martin, who had been blinded by demanding Hester McCauley, and that self-righteous pilot from Cal Air, who had made it clear that the thing he loved the most about Deborah, apart from the moments when she opened up to the possibility of being more fluffy and vulnerable, was how competently she dealt with everything from divorce to sexism, to bullies that the company encountered. He loved how she could come across a shouty man from the training centre, or a rude Australian, and simply raise an eyebrow and cut them down to size.
But Theresa was better, because she wasn't fluffy or vulnerable underneath that; she was the leader of a small country, and able to unleash her wrath whilst looking absolutely stunning, not a dark hair out of place, or giving away anything that might be used against her.
By the time that the sat-com clicked off, Deborah was certain that neither of them even realised that her eyes were watering imperceptibly, or that she was clenching her hands where they tucked into her arms; nor that she felt as if her insides were being carved out, and only a vacuum left in their place.
"Wwwwow!" Martin exclaimed, his voice thick with desire as he gazed up at Theresa, hands pressed together as if she had presented the Holy Grail, or performed some sort of erotic miracle; Deborah felt like choking, "That was amazing! I thought you said you weren't that sort of princess?"
"No, but my mother is." Theresa answered bashfully, placing a hand on her waist and batting her eyelashes, oblivious to how agonising such an action was, too busy being a genuinely nice person and entrancing the Captain, "That was basically her."
"Thank you so much." Martin exulted, still breathy, as if overwhelmed with wonder; it was sickening, and Deborah had no idea how he was doing it; he had never spoken to her like that, "You saved my life."
"Yes, well – always useful to have a princess around to rescue you from dragons." Theresa drawled bashfully, going so far as to wink playfully at him; Deborah wanted to slap her, but couldn't muster more than another wave of misery that made it harder to breathe.
"Honestly, I-I-I don't know how I can thank you." Martin replied gratefully, shaking his head as if in amazement, rubbing at the back of his neck and blowing out between his lips; it was at that point that Deborah noticed that this was the happiest she had seen him in two weeks, and her heart broke all over again.
"Well – think of something." Theresa remarked suggestively; oh, she knew exactly what she wanted, and Martin was clever, not nearly slow enough to miss the implication of her eyes fixed on his. Deborah tried not to sniffle as she scowled and shifted even further away from them in her seat, extracting one arm to poke at the controls; any kind of distraction, without being noticed, that was what she needed.
"… Okay." Martin brought his hands down and dragged his bottom lip through his teeth, eyes frantically flickering in thought; unable to fight the morbid curiosity, Deborah turned just enough so that she could see both of them in their own little world.
"I'm waiting." Theresa reminded him, placing her hand atop the back of his seat; that was it, she could keep waiting, and Martin could keep thinking, and eventually Theresa would get bored waiting for Martin's brain to catch up with him.
"Okay …" Martin muttered, his movements stilling as he narrowed his eyes, sheepishly rubbing his hands together; he turned to better peer at Theresa over the back of his seat, leaning forwards when he realised where her hand was, "I … I am thinking of something."
"Yes?" Theresa asked hopefully, expression open and pleasant; there was no way that Martin could possibly mistake it for anything but what it was.
"But I don't know if it's the same thing you're thinking of." Martin remarked, wincing at himself, eyebrows pinching as he grimaced apologetically at the woman; Deborah had no doubt that he was thinking of something wonderfully Martinish, and nothing that anyone else could ever imagine.
"No, well, you won't know until you try, will you?" Therese prompted, her patience visibly wavering, just a fraction; Deborah hated herself for wishing failure upon him, but above the trickling depression in her ears, she was praying at full volume for Martin to say something wildly inappropriate.
"Okay …" Martin started, pausing and sucking in a sharp breath; then he turned his head imperceptibly, and his eyes met Deborah's, asking, guilty, pointedly, she didn't know; all that she knew was that a flare of indignant, painful anger burned from her toes to the tip of her nose, and she smirked coldly at him, daring him 'go on then'. Martin knew exactly what he was doing, he hadn't forgotten her, he knew that asking Theresa on a date would hurt her, and he was checking with Deborah before he did it, whether to save her feelings, of wound her further, she didn't know.
"Well …" Martin's jaw set, and if he had been hoping that Deborah would beg him not to do it, he was sadly mistaken; upon receiving only a furious, trembling glare, his cheeks flushed, and he asked determinedly, tearing his eyes away to meet Theresa's (who had noticed none of this), "Would you like to go to Duxford Air Museum with me?"
Duxford? Martin's favourite place in the world, where every woman to pass through GERTI save herself had been invited to; Deborah could have collapsed in on herself, but inhaling raggedly, and adopting an indignant, furious demeanour was so much more rewarding, sitting stiffly and silently to the side.
"Okay, so it's not what I was thinking of …" Theresa replied after a moment, pursing her lips on controlled surprise; it wasn't shocking really, Deborah doubted that she had ever met anyone quite like Martin.
"Oh God!" Martin exclaimed desperately, raising his hands in surrender; his face flushed an astounding shade of red, "I'm so sorry! I should never have asked …"
"No, but it's not bad." Theresa interjected, laughing a little; the sound made Deborah force another wave of anger to try and wash away the painful ache that bubbled in her chest, "We can go tomorrow?"
"Really?" Martin asked quietly, blinking, stunned up at her; at this rate, he would forget that he was flying a plane at all, Deborah thought as she reached past him to silence a beeping alarm, taking care not to let her arm brush against him. Not that he noticed.
In fact, Deborah fazed out everything until she heard the flight-deck door click closed behind them; Theresa was gone, and Martin was sitting in stunned silence, not gloating, just sitting there, turning his hat over in his hands. She couldn't help herself, even though it pained her.
"Well!" Deborah exclaimed sarcastically, hating how viciously cold she sounded; it wasn't like she wanted to hurt Martin, but then again, she almost did after the stunt that he had just pulled.
"Did she just …" Martin asked, trailing off as he raised his head to run his eyes over her; Deborah's shoulders stiffened, and she narrowed her eyes at him, taking in the drooping nature of his limbs, and the tentatively baffled slackness of his face.
"Oh, yes, Martin! Yes she did." Deborah sneered, gripping the controls tightly with one hand, pushing the other through her hair; she didn't want to hope any more, she just wanted him to feel exactly as dejected and rejected as she did, "Congratulations, Martin. You've got yourself … a bobsled. I am officially, your fourth Ex."
There was a moment of silence, in which Martin gaped at her, eyes wide and dewy, as if she had spoken another language; he couldn't honestly have thought that they were still okay after that?
"No, Deborah…" Martin started, but she wouldn't allow him to finish; she didn't want to hear whatever excuses he had to make. He had made the same excuses for years; I didn't think that you minded, I didn't mean to insult you, I can't help that I need respect, etcetera, etcetera…
"Yes, Martin." Deborah snapped, sucking air into her lungs to avoid choking or letting her eyes water, "Now land the bloody plane so that I can go home."
"Deborah…" Martin repeated; her head snapped around, and she glared at him, barely registering the sad little tremble of his lips, or the way that his hand hovered in the air between them. What the hell was he expecting to happen?
"No, Martin!" Deborah didn't quite raise her voice, but it made him freeze; she didn't want to talk to him now, not for a while if she didn't have to.
So, feeling as if Martin's eyes were on her the entire time, they landed the plane in silence, save for the necessary communications with Karl. And when the safety checks had been wordlessly completed, Martin not even protesting at the unprofessional manner in which everything was check, Deborah waited for him to get up and exit the flight-deck to guide the passengers from GERTI, before storming back to the porta-cabin when she was sure that they were at the taxi. She most certainly did not cry.
oOoOoOo
Deborah was about halfway across the airfield when she felt a hand clasp her elbow, pulling her to a stop. She spun around, half prepared to tear into whoever had dared to try and stop her leaving, only to find that she almost ran into Arthur, who was blinking down at her, concern scrawled across his face.
"Are you alright?" Arthur asked, cautiously, as if afraid that she might bite; after a small tug on her behalf, he released Deborah's arm, and shoved his hands in his pockets, otherwise not moving.
"Why wouldn't I be?" Deborah retorted smoothly, plastering on a false smile, and bringing her arms up to wrap around her chest, a feat made more difficult by the flight-bag that she had hoisted over her shoulder; all she wanted to do was go home and wallow in her misery. If they stood outside for too long, there was always the chance that Martin might emerge and try to talk to her again.
"Well, I just thought you might be upset, because Theresa said that she was going on a date with Skip, and then I thought that Skip doing that in front of you wasn't very good of him." Arthur explained, shrugging as if it were no big deal, not really; it took no effort on his behalf to care, Deborah supposed, and she let the tension in her shoulders slowly fade as he continued, evidently encouraged by her cooperation, "So, I thought then, that maybe you might be upset."
"Let no one say you haven't been trained to be the wisest of us all." Deborah drawled weakly, quirking her eyebrows as she glanced past his shoulder, towards the porta-cabin; if she was jittering in her desperation to leave, Arthur didn't mention it.
"Thanks Deborah." Arthur chirped, a smile sneaking its way onto his lips; it didn't survive though, as he shuffled his feet and continued slowly, "But, you know…even though you're sad, and what Skip did wasn't brilliant, I think you should still try not to be angry with him. Because, you want him to be happy, don't you?"
"Not this quickly!" Deborah snapped, and then clamped her mouth shut, shaking her head and pushing the heel of her palm against her eyes, which watered slightly as Arthur made a twitching motion, as if to step forwards and reach out to her; exhaling steadily, Deborah met Arthur's eyes, and her resolve shattered, "It's been two weeks, Arthur, and he's already off with some other woman…I'm an emotional wreck, and Martin barely cares enough to-"
"He does care." Arthur insisted, his forehead crinkling desperately, "He loves you."
"Clearly not." Deborah replied sourly, mentally steeling herself; it wasn't working. She just couldn't process why Martin would do this to her; it wasn't fair, and he was a liar if he claimed to love her.
Before she was truly aware of it, Arthur had bridged the space between them and placed an arm over her shoulders, pulling her against his side; even though she wanted to push him away, Deborah didn't, taking the comfort where it was being offered.
"Do you want to come round mine?" Arthur asked, as he began walking them towards parked cars, "We could chat…you know…"
"No." Deborah answered swiftly; when Arthur didn't say anything in return, she was plagued by a pang of guilt, on top of everything else. She supposed that it wouldn't be too awful to talk to someone; sucking up her misery, and pushing the back of her hand across her eyes, Deborah suffocated any sign of sniffles that she may have been exuding, "I don't feel like seeing Carolyn; how about you come round mine for a bit?"
Not sure about this one, but I can't think of how else I could have tackled it