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“So what do you do then?”
The question he dreads every time. Should he say that he’s a pilot, an airline Captain, and be crushed by the weight of soon to be unfulfilled expectation? Should he say that he’s a man with a van and watch the interest slowly drain from their eyes? Should he just say he’s between jobs and take the sympathetic platitudes about the recession with a self-deprecating smile and hurried change of subject? He’s tried all three. None of them have ever worked.
“I...” think, think...oh sod it “I’m a pilot,” he finishes weakly.
“Really?”
The enthusiasm in her voice makes him flinch.
“That’s really impressive, what company do you work for?”
“It’s not that...I mean...it’s a really just small charter firm.”
“But still. Are you...oh what is it in aeroplanes? First officer?”
“Yeah. No. I mean yes it is first officer but no I’m not. I’m...” he heaves a sigh and finished resignedly, “I’m the Captain.”
“Oh my God, you aren’t? You’re so young.”
“Why yes, sir is very young for such hefty responsibility, isn’t sir?”
The dreaded drawl. What’s he doing here?
“Oh, hello.”
God she sounds enchanted and she’s only just seen him.
“Well hello. My name’s Douglas. I am sir’s first officer.”
“Really? Pleased to meet you Douglas,” she flirts.
“Enchanted,” he says languidly. She giggles and that’s it, Martin’s lost her.
“Alright, Martin?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“Really, you sure? I’d have said you were in there.”
“Before you turned up,” he mutters under his breath.
“Sorry, did you say something?”
“No,” he replies and it’s not untrue, he didn’t say anything, he grumbled it.
“Fair enough. I’ll see you tomorrow then, bright and early for our flight to Peru.”
“Yep.”
“Bye, Martin.”
He gets in his Lexus and speeds away to his flat leaving a lingering buzz of engine roars and high-pitched giggles.
“Oh bugger off, Douglas.”
~*~
Oddly that is one of the most pleasant encounters he’s had. The nicest that Douglas was involved in, anyway. Discounting the nights when he fell over his own tongue so badly that the object of his attentions gave him a pitying look and walked away, and the nights where his mouth ran too fast in front of his brain and he ended up with most of a gin and tonic down his shirt, his attempts at seduction still left him on the cold and lonely side of successful.
It was ironic really that it was only as a result of Douglas’ teasing that he had even decided to give actually talking to people another try. He wasn’t exactly happy in his current state but he was at least acceptant that even if he did meet someone, one of the many major malfunctions he had would send them running in the opposite direction almost as soon as he opened his mouth. He had long learned to stop trying, to endeavour not to be too miserable with his lot in life and to drown Douglas out with flight checks and operating procedures.
Even so soon after Helena, Douglas managed to pull without really trying. Martin tried to look for the grief of betrayal in his eyes when he had a buxom blonde draped over his arm while he talked about a landing in Zagreb, but he never found anything more than a mischievous gleam. Martin marvelled that sometimes as he watched Douglas flirt his way into someone else’s bedroom, the pang of jealousy he felt was because he never managed to get anyone to listen to him talk about flying for that long.
The first few attempts were as disastrous but at least they were mercifully free of witnesses, well ones that knew him. Then the memorable night in one of the few bars Fitton had stood out in the growing gathering of memories of failure.
“But obviously I’m not going to stay in the sales department forever, when something in the ad team opens up, I’m there.”
“Right...wow...brilliant.”
“So what do you do,” she chuckled, elegantly sipping her cocktail.
“I...well I...”
“Well he is Captain of an airline.”
“No way, are you?”
“Why yes he is,” Douglas continued, cutting across Martin’s panicked protests. “I have the privilege of being his First Officer.”
“Really?”
“Indeed, you wouldn’t think it to look at him would you, some people have though I was the Captain and he the First Officer, but I assure you the reverse is completely true.”
“I see. A pilot,” she tailed off in a muted awe.
“Definitely and never has a Captain instilled me with such a sense respect for how close the ground can suddenly become if one isn’t looking.”
She laughed heartily at that, tilting her head back and letting her glossy black hair tumble from her shoulders. Douglas smirked back at her. Martin stared at them both feeling like he was drowning.
“Nor has any First Officer enlightened me so thoroughly on just how many illegal kumquats can be smuggled on a small aeroplane,” he snapped back. They both stop laughing and in a sickening instant, Martin realised he’d revealed a little too much.
“Well, I think I’d better go check on my friend. It was nice to meet you,” she said hurriedly, more to Douglas, then scampered away to a group of chattering girls.
“Very smooth there Martin.”
“Oh...shut up.” he went back to sulking into his glass.
“I didn’t even know this was a potential hunting ground for the bachelor Martin Crieff.”
“Douglas.”
“I’m sure the ladies have to watch themselves when you’re in town.”
“Oh just...just go away will you.”
“But of course, I wouldn’t want to cramp sir’s style.”
It is an encounter that sticks out like a sore thumb in his memory, despite his subsequent efforts to obliterate it with cheap vodka. Douglas continued to tease him about his perpetually single state and appeared on three more occasions when he was in a crowded place just trying to meet someone, four if you include the one tonight. All three had ended in similar disasters. Either the person left or they went home with Douglas instead. It just wasn’t fair. He didn’t understand why Douglas was doing this, it was obvious that he was doing it deliberately. It just didn’t make sense.
He trudges home on his own, again, trying not to think about how cold his flat is now the heating’s packed up and he can’t afford the call-out fees. He thinks about how wonderful it would be to have a warm body to curl up with. He sighs deeply and wipes away the tears as he turns into an alley.
~*~
“I mean the crosswind made it particularly difficult but I managed to get her on the tarmac only ten minutes late, which I think is an achievement in itself.”
“Surely managing to land at all in gale force winds at all is an achievement in itself.”
“Well...yes, I suppose it was,” he blushes.
“You’re too modest, Martin.”
“Well...”
She’s still here. He has been talking about flying for approximately twenty minutes now and she is still standing next to him, drink in hand, eyes alight, smiling attentively. In the past few minutes of conversation he’s learned that her name is Angela, she has brown, curly hair and hazel eyes, she has a cat called Milton, after the poet, and she works for a fairly large banking firm. Oh and her favourite colour is blue.
Martin is not one to let things run away with him, he knows full well that pride comes before a fall, not that that’s ever stopped him from rushing headlong over the nearest ledge, oh no. However, with Angela, he seems to be doing well, well being defined as: she hasn’t run away or thrown a drink at him. In fact during the course of the happy dialogue she has edged closer to him. Noticeably closer. Almost as noticeable as the rising red that has been colouring Martin’s cheeks since he first realised this.
“Modesty is indeed one of Martin’s biggest failings.”
Not now, oh please, not now.
“Another is a perhaps slightly cavalier attitude to the cabin addresses.”
“Sorry, who are you?” Angela asks.
“My sincerest apologies, I am Douglas, Martin’s First Officer.”
“Oh, right.” Angela visibly relaxes. “Cabin addresses?”
“He has been known on occasion to engage in a bit of light teasing with the customers of Mother of Jesus, No airlines.”
“Mother of Jesus, No?”
“Yes, so called because it is what we so often hear screamed from the vicinity of the passengers after one of the Captain’s addresses.”
“Really?” she splutters.
“Of course. You see he has this merry jape whereby he pretends to be incompetent, saying things like ‘good evening ladies and gentlemen, sorry for the delay but I temporary misplaced my long distance driving glasses’. Or ‘good evening, I hope you are all enjoying your flight so far, don’t be alarmed at the smoke coming from the left wing and if you could all lean to the right in approximately six seconds, I’d be most grateful’, that was quite a good one. But by far the best was the one about drinking a litre of vodka through a straw before landing. That was a cracker.”
“That was you!”
“I notice you don’t deny the other two.”
“As a matter of fact, Douglas, I...”
“As a matter of fact,” Angela cuts in. She looks ill at ease and there seems to be a genuine spark of fear in her eyes as they flit between smirking Douglas and indignant Martin. “I really should be going now, have to be in work tomorrow, in the morning. Bye. It was nice meeting you.”
She scurries across the room and through the doors in the blink of an eye, leaving Martin to stare sadly at the path she cut through the crowd of people as it irrevocably shrinks and disappears.
“Well I never. Something we said?”
Martin clenches his fists tightly, his bitten nails leaving jagged imprints on his palm. There is so much loneliness and sadness and complete and utter exhaustion with life and the world surging through his bloodstream, bathing every organ and muscle in bitterness, but at that moment it all pales in comparison to the blind rage he feels as he makes eye contact with the still very smug looking Douglas Richardson.
“No, Douglas,” he grits out. “Something you said.”
“Me? Now what did I say that could have...?”
“Why Douglas? Why do you do it? All I wanted was to try and meet someone, just for once, just an actual person who would like me and want to be with me for longer than five seconds, is that really so much to ask? Just someone who doesn't mind that I’m a glorified delivery boy with an expensive hobby and who will let me talk about flying sometimes. I just want to meet someone and feel for even a few brief moments that I belong to the human race, that I am somehow part of it, because I don’t feel like that sometimes, Douglas, I really don’t. I don’t feel like a person because surely people aren’t alone like this, all the time.”
A sentence into the tirade the murky waters of misery overwhelm the anger. About halfway through, the dam bursts and the flood comes spilling from his eyes and down his sharp cheeks. Douglas is stuck dumb by the sudden outpourings. Interrupting Martin’s speech doesn't even occur to him, he wouldn’t know what to say if it did.
“So why do you keep coming to these places, keep making these jokes that send people away? Just when I think I have a chance, you’re there and they aren’t.” His momentum begins to run out, his speech slows. His tears don’t falter even as his sniffs and wipes at them with the back of his hand. “Foolish to think I had a chance, I know, but we all have to have these little delusions, don’t we?”
He looks at Douglas with tear stained cheeks and red ringed, watery eyes, pleading with him. Douglas hesitates for a fraction of a second too long and Martin looks back down to the bar, picking at the splintered wood.
“No,” he says quietly, sniffing again. “I suppose you don’t need them.”
“Martin, I’m...”
“Oh spare me, please, we both know you aren’t. I’m going home now. See you on Monday.”
He gets up and seems even smaller with his shouldered bowed by defeat. He pushes his way through the thick crowd, doing his best to ignore the innumerable quantity of eyes pointed at him like a forest of CCTV cameras.
~*~
He turns the key and halts the flow of cheetah food to his Lexus. The car park is cast into darkness again, the other vehicles rising from the concrete, completely shadowed apart from slithers of light that glint sinisterly off their radiator grills, reminding Douglas of vampire grins.
Martin crying is an image burned into his retinas and one that his brain won’t allow him to push into the cold recesses where other unpleasant things are buried. For Martin to get so upset about what was essentially harmless teasing was just ridiculous. Douglas didn’t mean anything by it. But then Martin had been teased before. He spends most of his time at MJN being the butt of one joke or another and he’d never been like that before.
I don’t feel like a person because surely people aren’t alone like this, all the time.
Did Martin really feel like that, had things gotten so bad?
But we all have to have these little delusions, don’t we?
Did he truly think that the idea of being loved by someone in return for any adoration heaped upon them was a delusion?
No, I suppose you don’t need them.
Douglas sighed and brought his head down on the steering wheel, grunting in annoyance at the spark of pain. This was not what he’d meant to happen at all. A timid knock at the window makes him groan. He opens one eye to give a sideways glare at the elderly woman who lives in the flat next door with what he’s pretty sure is five more cats than the landlord allows.
“Are you alright dear?” she croaks, completely unperturbed by the struggling tabby in her arms. Douglas hasn’t seen him before. That’ll be six more cats than allowed then.
“Fine, fine,” he grimaces, lifting his head from the steering wheel and aiming a charming smile in her direction. “Just tired. Long trip.”
She nods with pretend understanding. “I know just how you feel, love, some days it’s a miracle I make it to my bedroom at all with my aching limbs I can tell you.”
He can recognise the signs of an upcoming lecture, something in the way she tucks the cat further under her arm and shifts her weight. Preventative measures required, he thinks, time to abort the conversation.
“Yes, it must be murder at your time of life, Mrs. Graham, but I really must be getting along, I have to be up in the morning.”
For a fleeting second she looks disappointed and Douglas almost feels sorry for her. There isn’t anyone to visit her anymore and the only real conversations she gets are with the deliverymen from Sainsbury’s. But there is a time and a place, and this time and this car park are definitely not it.
“Again? You are a busy bee.”
He flashes her another smile while he extracts himself from the front seat of his car and eyes the exit, analysing the distance, his potential speed and the likelihood of her following him.
“Well I’d better be along too dear, I only just got back from the shops meself and along the way, you’ll never guess what I saw?”
“The cat?” Douglas asks, his brain doing calculations all the more frantically.
“Well you are a canny one, aren’t you? Why yes it was, poor thing freezing its little tail off. Are you headed up? Me too, I’ll tell you the full tale on the way shall I? Oh, no pun intended.”
She sets off towards the lift muttering ‘tale, tail’ between giggles. With all hope gone, Douglas resignedly falls into place behind her and closes his ears to the exploits of the old lady and her cats, reserving all attention to the reverberating echoes of Martin’s sobs.
Just for once...
~*~
Standby for the week. Carolyn bounces around like her heels are connecting with springboards rather than concrete as she walks, the gleeful smile of a CEO matching the greatest income with the minimum expenditure illuminating her face. Arthur’s usual cheeriness infects the room with sunshine even after Douglas closes the blinds huffily. Only Martin brings a black cloud to dampen the bits of the portacabin last week’s rain failed to reach.
As soon as he arrives it is obvious. If the world were a cartoon, Martin would bring a dark monochrome into the room previously doused in a happy yellow, all except for Douglas’ neutrally magnolia corner, of course. He sits down at his desk in ominous silence and ruthlessly attacks the teetering pile of paperwork, seeming not to care that half of it is Douglas’, snuck in with the rest on the off chance. The pen flies across the paper, leaving spots of blue appearing like measles on the polished wood of the table and a few on the unblemished sleeve of Martin’s shirt.
The sullen nature of their Captain does not go unnoticed and soon Douglas is subjected to a ‘what have you done now?’ glare from Carolyn. He replies to it with expressionless nonchalance and goes back to reading a fatuous magazine that, while not great literature, is at least distraction from the whirlwind in his thoughts.
All night long he thought about Martin, mostly about Martin sat at a bar on his own, peeling slithers of wood off the edge while tears roll down his pale cheeks and darken the white shirt. He doesn't know why, that isn’t even how he saw Martin last night, his mind is just choosing to be a royal pain and trying to make him feel guilty. The problem is, it’s working.
When two o’ clock arrives with still no word from their prospective customer, Carolyn shuffles away for lunch looking considerably brighter than she had in the morning, but staring no less pointedly at Douglas. He chooses to ignore her. He just can’t ignore his mind. Or Martin with three quarters of the pile of forms now perched precariously on the other side of his desk where an out tray is buried. A couple of hours ago the pile fell over and Martin swore as he bent down to pick them up and Douglas looked up from his magazine. Their eyes met for a brief moment and in it Martin’s eyes conveyed all the hurt and anger he’d felt last night, placing a new unwelcome image in Douglas’ brain, before they moved back to the papers.
Arthur comes in with a rabbit-like spring to his step, clutching a paper bag sporting intermittent smudges of grease close to his chest.
“Hello chaps!” he calls, beaming. “Look what I brought.”
Douglas rolls his eyes but prepares himself to engage the poor fool in conversation when...
“We don’t care.”
Douglas blinks. Usually that would have come from his mouth, or Carolyn’s, but never Martin’s and certainly not with that level of callousness.
“You’ll like it, I promise,” Arthur continues, still in high spirits.
“If it’s anything like surprising rice, your orange platter or your increasingly inept attempts at charades, no we won’t,” Martin snaps.
“No it’s not, it’s...it’s three cream cakes from the pastry shop in town,” Arthur says a little sadly. “I thought you might want something to follow the sandwiches.”
Martin tenses but remains silent. The beginnings of a look of confusion appear in the lines on Arthur’s forehead and Douglas decides that it’s time to step in.
“Very thoughtful, Arthur,” he says with a smile. “I’ll have Martin’s if he doesn't want it.”
“Yes,” Martin responds testily. “You would.” Then his attention is back on the paperwork.
Douglas frowns as Arthur hands him a gooey cream bun, he hadn’t meant it like that. He watched Arthur messily devour his bun, the sugar returning the grin to his face, and takes a bite from his own. The magazine, on the third read now, proves ineffective at occupying his thoughts away from the sniffing picture of Martin. He wonders about Martin, he really does. All that effort, all those years of disappointment and frustration all to become a pilot and end up in a non-paying job for a company that’s living on the edge of bankruptcy with a plane that’s well past retirement age, let alone the CEO. Douglas halts that line of thought; you could be disembowelled even for thinking that at MJN.
He looks up and his eyes fall upon Martin’s cream cake, sitting forlornly alone in the in tray.
“Um, Douglas?”
“Yes, Arthur?”
Arthur sits down next to Douglas, casting a cautious glance at Martin bent over a fresh wave of paperwork thoughtfully delivered by Carolyn. On top of the cream bun.
“Does skip seem a bit...sad to you?”
“Sad, Arthur? Not shouty, not grumpy, sad?”
“Yes, well I mean I know he shouted and was a bit grumpy earlier, but he didn’t mean it, and well, he...he just seems sad really. I thought you’d have noticed.”
“Well, I don’t have the benefit of your course in Ipswich.”
“On understanding people? Exactly, it’s because of that I recognised the signs. The bowed head, hunched shoulders...”
“The tears in his eyes.”
“Oh, so you did notice.”
“Of course I did, Arthur.”
“Do you know what’s wrong?” he asks after a pause.
“I believe our fair Captain has been unlucky in love of late.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Indeed, it rather gets him down sometimes.”
“But...he’s such a nice guy.”
“Well of course you and I know that but we’ve gotten to know him over the years. His problem is getting people to stay around for that long.”
“Right. Are you sure you didn’t take that course, Douglas?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just that you seem to be so good at understanding people, to be able to tell all that just by looking at skip. Wow.”
Douglas pauses. Should he tell Arthur what he’s been doing? Would Arthur agree with him that it was just harmless teasing and Martin shouldn’t be so upset? What would it do to Douglas if he agreed with Martin instead?
“I suppose that...it’s been my...”
“I wondered if you and he were together.”
“What?” Douglas splutters loudly.
“Well you get on so well and neither of you are seeing anyone anymore so...”
“What? I see people.”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t. You only ever talk to girls about flying and travel and gossip and things. You never take them to your room anymore, in fact I’ve seen you send them away when they try and follow you back.”
“That is top secret, Arthur. If you tell anyone...”
“I know, Douglas, I won’t. But I always wondered if it was because you were waiting for skip to notice you.”
“Waiting for Martin to notice me?”
“Yeah, because you keep looking at him like you’re expecting something and he keeps looking at you like he’s expecting something and then you just keep looking at each other and nothing happens. It’s like a murder mystery without a mystery to solve.”
Douglas rolls his eyes. He looks at the muscles tightly wound in Martin’s shoulders and shakes his head. Utterly ridiculous.
“Of course we aren’t together, Arthur. Nor are we waiting for one to ‘notice’ the other like a pair of love sick teenagers in a pointless American film. Martin is just having trouble finding people foolish enough to date him, that’s all.”
“Oh. Okay. Sorry, Douglas. But what about you and the...”
“If you value your life, you will not finish that question.”
“Oh. I’ll go and...tidy the stationary cupboard.”
“Yes, you do that.”
As Arthur scurries away, Douglas’ eye is again drawn to Martin’s back, etched out in shadow by the clinging material of his uniform shirt. He follows the long neck up to the fluffy mop of auburn curls that sit upon his head and smiles. No. He catches himself with a shake of the head. The idea was preposterous; he didn’t feel that way about Martin. He hadn’t felt that way about a man since...well that didn’t matter now. What mattered was that he absolutely did not feel that way about...
Martin sneezes as his nose is assaulted but a cloud of dust from a box of rubbers Arthur is blowing on.
“Sorry, skip,” he says hurriedly when Martin glares at him and he hastily blows the dust in the other direction.
The first word that springs to Douglas’ mind when he sees Martin sneeze again and blow his nose tetchily into a handkerchief, is adorable. That word had come up fair bit in relation to Martin in the past, unacknowledged and unobtrusive in his thoughts. No, Douglas thinks as he watches Martin peel the last form away from the crushed cream cake with a miserable sigh, feeling a wrench in his chest, I do not feel anything remotely akin to that way about Martin Creiff.
“Douglas?”
“Yes, Arthur? Can we make it quick, I’d rather like to go home.”
“I was just thinking, if skip is having bad luck in love and you aren’t seeing anyone.”
“Arthur.”
“I know, I know, I won’t tell anyone. But, why don’t you go on a date with skip?”
“What?”
“Yeah, it might cheer him up a bit.”
“What makes you think a date with me would cheer Martin up?”
Arthur shrugs. “Ipswich.”
~*~
After making sure the coast is clear of cat wielding old ladies, Douglas gets out of his car and runs across the car park to the lift, just in case she’s lurking behind a pillar with her every increasing army of moggies.
When he is safely ensconced in his flat, burrowed into a worn armchair, Douglas closes his eyes with a contented sigh that converts into a gasp when he suddenly sees Martin behind his eyelids. He snaps his eyes open and is relieved to find that the vision does not follow him into reality, but it still disconcerts him. There is a reason that he didn’t think about the notion of him and Martin at all during the long drive home and that was that it a patently ridiculous supposition. That’s it, no more to be said on the subject. He did not think of Martin that way, and he was fairly confident, given the number of women Douglas had seen Martin try to chat up, that he didn’t think of Douglas that way either. The question about why Arthur would think such an idiotic thing can only be answered by the fact that it’s Arthur, and that in itself speaks volumes. There is one question that cannot so easily be explained away, though, one Douglas has been avoiding thinking about: why did he foil all of Martin’s attempts at seduction?
If the idea that it was an extension of the usual flight deck teasing can be push aside, as Douglas feels that at this stage it can, what motives lurk beneath the playful facade. The wish to make the Captain unhappy can shoved to the no pile very quickly, no one was that vindictive. The fun of watching Martin squirm is a possibility, but there are far easier ways that involve less effort and aviation fuel. Maybe it was about preparing Martin’s prospective partners for the worst the poor boy has to offer. No, not even that rings true.
Sitting on the old, threadbare arm chair that he considers one of his most cherished possessions, Douglas comes to a realisation that sinks his heart to his slippers. He reminds himself of the first time he approached Martin while the man was attempting to ingratiate himself into the company of a slightly mousey looking young woman with glasses. He remembers swaggering up to the bar with his best killer smile, seeing her glance at his direction. He’d flashed his smile at her, watching her shyly tilt her lips in reply, then he’d caught the last of what Martin was saying.
“And so it may not be a big firm but I still get to fly to lots of places.”
“It sounds great. I’d love to be able to see the world like that,” she replied wistfully.
“Yes, well it is...you do get to see so many rare sights,” Martin said. Douglas doubted that he was thinking specifically of the views from the cockpit. “And I suppose as Captain I...”
“You’re the Captain?” she asked with a breathy awed voice. “Really?”
“Oh he certainly is,” Douglas cut in. “Our brave and gallant Captain, constant source of strength and fountain of all knowledge. For instance, it was only after my employment with Captain Crieff that I learned that you can safely land a plan with such force.”
The girl giggled into her hands. Martin looked at Douglas, completely aghast.
“And did you know that...”
The memory fades away, the rest of the conversation irrelevant to the ultimate outcome of the girl, Mandy it transpired, leaving with an entirely different man while Martin was left alone. Under normal circumstances he’d congratulate himself on a joke well executed but under closer scrutiny, he realises the unassailable fact as to just why he approached Martin on that day when he had observed him trying to flirt with plenty of other people before. Because he’d stood a chance with her and Douglas was jealous.
He most definitely did not just fall off his chair. He is on the floor because sometimes the change of surface for contemplation purposes is beneficial to the conclusion reached. Was he really jealous, of that girl? Maybe jealous isn’t the right word for what he’d felt when he’d seen Martin’s eyes light up after she’d giggled airily at one of his jokes and listened to his anecdotes about flying. He saw that light sometimes, after a particularly good cabin address or well scored point in one of their games, but it was never often enough in his opinion. Not that Douglas would have taken to behaving any differently in the hopes that that light would sparkle at him with more regularity, he would never do something so trite, but he had been on pretty top form with his cabin addresses lately, much to Arthur’s amusement and Carolyn’s consternation. The group of mourners on their way to a funeral had not been particularly appreciative of the number of times he’d squeezed ghost story references into his opening statement. But Martin had laughed.
Maybe there isn’t a word for it. Maybe it’s just one of life’s little means of revenge. But forcing himself to think back he realises that every time he casually intervened in Martin’s affairs, for want of a better word, that little spark of green in his eyes had been present. And when he had watched him falter and trip over his tongue when he was trying to bat well above his average with a prospective partner, that spark was conspicuous by its absence. He sighs deeply and closes his eyes again.
When he opens them a good twenty minutes later, his flat seems so empty. Shadows lurk, noises echo, everything emphasises the wide cavernous spaces. He considers what could fill them, what could inhabit these gaps without fear of the dark and all he can come up with is Martin. He blames Arthur first, for putting ideas in his head and forcing him to think about things that were much happier in the forgotten depths of his memory folder. He shouldn’t have listened to him, God knows the man talks nothing but rubbish every second of every day. Except the few seconds where he says something profound, like recommending juggling apples for happiness. Those few seconds of clarity amidst the bordering on insane enthusiasm, and it had been there too when he’d said that Douglas should ask Martin out on a date. It had adorned his shoulders as they shrugged and coated his vocal chords as the vibrated out the word ‘Ipswich’. Could he be on to something? If he was, Douglas promised, he would buy him the biggest, stickiest, sugar coated bun he had ever seen.
~*~
He approaches the door to Martin’s flat, the cleanest part of the whole building from what he can see, and stares at it like it is has ‘abandon all hope, all ye who enter here’ inscribed over the door. It doesn't help that the door is bright red. He takes a deep, calming breath, the effect ruined by the slight judder on the exhale. He isn’t nervous. He isn’t.
His hand rises from his side as if of its own free will and he watches it with detached interest, like he’s watching a completely unconnected arm in the distance. The fist connects with the flaking paint and sounds a dull thud three times, resounding in the dirty hallway like a church bell. Shuffling sounds are heard from the behind the door, then the rhythmic pat of bare feet on carpet. The door swings reluctantly open to a dishevelled Martin standing in his pyjamas, his hair sticking up at odd angles. Douglas notices with a heavy feeling in his stomach, that his eyes are slightly red and swollen. While Martin rubs at one eye with the palm of his hand, his other blearily opens and fixes on Douglas.
“Oh.” He freezes. “It’s you.”
“Yes, Martin,” he begins, unsure how to continue but certain that he doesn't want to in the corridor. “Can I come in?”
“It depends. What do you want? Come to gloat, I suppose.”
“Do you really think so little of me?”
Martin looks away, seemingly held in rapt attention by the door frame.
“Alright,” he says, still examining the wood. “You can come in.”
He steps aside, pressing his back against the door as if trying to hold back a ravenous monster. Douglas cautiously steps into the flat and sucks in a breath. It’s tidy, yes, but it’s so small and the ceiling is covered in an epidemic of damp spots. A sofa, even more worn and decrepit than his beloved arm chair, sits in the centre of the room, the tiny, mustard coloured kitchen lies just beyond, with the fridge and the aeroplane magnets that ornament it, as the key feature. One wall is completely covered by bookshelves, who are themselves buried with surely every book ever printed on the subject of, or any subjects relating to, aviation. On the same wall, nestled between the monoliths, sits a door that, slightly ajar, reveals the barest tantalising glimpse of the crisp white linen of Martin’s bed.
“You can sit down if you like,” Martin murmurs as he lets loose the beast and the door closes with a crash. Douglas thinks he hears ‘bloody thing’ muttered under Martin’s breath as he sits down carefully on the sofa that he isn’t entirely convinced will take the weight of a human. Martin leans back against the wall next to the door. No offer of tea is extended.
“So what do you want?” he asks with evident hostility.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“About...about last night.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I do.”
“So you said, but you can’t have everything you want.”
“I usually do.”
“Well not with me.”
Douglas is stunned by how much he hopes that won’t be true.
“I want to apologise, Martin, I shouldn’t have interfered as I did, I didn’t realise it upset you so much and I’m sorry. And...” he tails off as the words catch in his throat.
“And..?” There’s no softening in Martin’s defensive tone.
“And...I was wondering if you wanted to go out to dinner.”
“Dinner? Douglas if this is a pathetic attempt at a blind date as recompense for...”
“With me.”
“What?” Is Douglas imagining things, or is there a note of anger running with the indignation. “Where did that come from?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Don’t feel obliged, I just thought I’d extend the offer.”
“Why?”
“I thought it might cheer you up.”
“What? Why on earth would you think that going out to dinner with you would cheer me up?”
“That’s exactly what I said,” Douglas mumbles to himself.
“Come again?”
“Nothing, nothing. Look, I am sorry, Martin, really.”
“And you think dinner at a cheap restaurant of your choice is going to fix things?”
It’s interesting that the ultimate objection isn’t the dinner as a date, or even that it would be with Douglas, but it is the way Martin seems to feel that Douglas is using it as a quick fix for Martin’s pain.
“No, of course not, I was hoping that it would be a start.”
“A peace offering then?”
“Something like that.”
“And what about the...”
“The what?”
“The...romantic subtext.”
“Well, I suppose if it’s unavoidable...”
“Oh for God’s sake.”
“Martin.”
“You don’t even have the courage to ask me properly.”
“I just thought...”
“Have you got any evidence that I’m interested in men, at all?”
“Well...no.”
“And even if you had, what makes you think I would want a pity date with you?”
“Are you interested in men, Martin.”
“That isn’t the point! Are you asking me out for dinner as apology or dinner as a date?”
“Both.”
“Why?”
“Well if you need me to explain why I’m apologising to you, then you clearly weren’t...”
“Why are you asking me on a date, Douglas.”
“Because, as I said, I thought it would cheer you up.”
“No you didn’t, you aren’t that stupid. So why, Douglas.”
“Why?”
“Yes, why!”
Douglas opens his mouth for a potentially witty rejoinder, something to disguise his discomfort, but it merely releases a hiss of resigned air and he deflates, eyes cast towards the stained carpet.
“Why? What a question.”
“Is there an answer.”
“A long and complicated one perhaps.”
“I suppose I have time, if you do.”
Douglas makes a face.
“Well you aren’t getting an answer from me until I get an answer from you.”
“You mean...you mean you would consider saying yes?”
Martin shrugs. Douglas sighs.
“It is a long story Martin, I...I’m not entirely sure where to begin...”
But he finds a place, somewhere around the time he first saw Martin in a bar talking to a dark-haired, dark-eyed stunner that would have been out of reach even to Douglas. He talks about the times he saw Martin quite by chance in places and left him to his business, and the times after Mandy when he sought Martin out to thwart his attempts in the best way he knew how. He talks a little about his conversation with Arthur and he can tell from Martin’s expression that he was right: Martin doesn't believe Arthur of all people could be in any way astute. Finally, he tells of his return to his flat, complete with wildly exaggerated details of the military operation he had to engage in to evade his neighbour and her ferocious felines. Martin giggles before he can stop himself and Douglas feels his chest swell at the fragile noise. When he reaches the part about his clinical examination of his own motives, his voice grows quieter. There is a nervousness evident and a slight embarrassed inflection that is so uncharacteristic of Douglas that it has Martin leaning in closer, the gripe he had with the man temporarily forgotten.
“I don’t think jealous is the right word, but I can’t find another one. I didn’t like seeing you with those people, it felt like I was losing you. God almighty, what have I become. But that’s why I did it. You asked me that question last night, here is your answer. I wanted you all to myself, I still do and so when it looked like you were in with a chance, I twisted the odds in my favour as any good gambler does.”
Martin is silent for a long time, still leaning against the wall. He doesn't look at Douglas, he stares straight ahead at the small Corgi model of a Concorde sitting midflight on a bookshelf. Douglas tries not to look at him. His heart is hammering in his chest, much to his annoyance and his mind strives to conjure up something to say to dispel the awkward hush but this seems to be one of those times when he just shouldn’t say anything.
The minutes stretch on for eternity and the strain on Douglas is beginning to show, but not as much as the strain on Martin. His eyes flit from one direction to another, seemingly trying to keep up with a tennis match of thoughts, incomprehension and panic playing steadfastly against loneliness and something else related to Douglas that he won’t give a name to.
Various limbs begin to shake for a reason beyond the flat’s broken heating, starting with his long, bony fingers and ending with his cotton covered calves. Douglas glances at him with silent pleas. Come on, Martin, please, just say something, anything, it doesn't matter. Please just say something.
“I think...I think you should leave now.”
Anything but that.
“Martin?”
Martin deliberately ignores the hurt undertones and pushes off from the wall to stand upright.
He moves over to the sofa and pulls Douglas up, or attempts to. He eventually helps the Captain and rises, catching Martin off balance. It only sours his expression more. Martin gestures to the door with shuddering hands and all but pushes Douglas into motion.
Martin strides past him to wrestle the door into submission and hold it in place while Douglas’ disbelief at the turn of events slows his pace across the floor. When he catches up with Martin’s frantic energy and stops next to the man, still bracing himself against the red painted wood, he stops and sees the disgusting corridor in front of him, with graffiti all over the walls and the smell of piss in the corners.
“I know that what I did was cruel. I like to think that I am many things in my teasing, insightful, witty, you know the rest, but never cruel. I am truly sorry, Martin, that I’ve caused you such distress.” Please reconsider. “And I understand why you’ve said no. I respect your decision.”
He turns to Martin at the same time Martin tilts his head up to look at him and their eyes inadvertently meet. Martin’s are grey with flecks of brown on the fringes of his iris, like his pupils are black holes, sucking in the darker colour to leave only the dazzling grey behind. Douglas can’t help but wonder what would be revealed if the grey was pulled away to be crushed into a singularity. Douglas’ own were a deep, soulful brown, framed by a circle of near black around the edge. Grey and brown. The light and the dark.
The door gives an inch, pushing Martin closer to Douglas, so that in the doorway, where space was certainly not abundant, they could feel the heat radiating off each other, wrapping itself around them both. It would push them together fully if it was any more solid.
Martin gasps, his lips parting to allow the puff of air its freedom and remaining open, giving Douglas a glimpse of his pink tongue and white teeth. It’s too much. Far too much for Douglas to bear. If he’s never going to have everything, he’s going to have just a little something as compensation.
He leans down slowly, feeling his eyelids droop a bit with every passing centimetre. The first contact is brief, a mere chaste peck as dry lips meet and separate. Douglas closes the minute gap within a second, and presses harder with every intention of making this last. For however long he can. Martin makes a little squeak of protest, muffled into insignificance by Douglas’ lips which become all the more insistent. Martin knows they shouldn’t be doing this, he knows that it isn’t a good idea, it’s why he said no in the first place, but it feels too different to ignore, too wonderful as it shoots sparks up and down his spine and makes his lips tingle. He kisses back, leaning closer to Douglas with the door’s encouragement, every sense focused on their connection.
They part slowly, their mouths reluctantly relinquishing their grip on each other and agonising when the men continue to pull them further apart as they lean away in their awkwardness. Douglas coughs a little, averting his eyes and resisting the urge to run his tongue over his lips to capture that fleeting taste he had of his Captain.
Martin’s opens his mouth but finds words lacking and closes it again soon after, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth instead. Neither man seems to want to be the one to address the issue first.
“Ask me again,” he says quietly after a long pause.
It takes a moment for Douglas to process what he’s just heard and to fully comprehend what Martin meant by it, but when he does, he feels a joyous warmth spread across his chest. Being a man to always press the advantage when it presents itself to him, Douglas leans in closer, gradually, so as not to fright Martin away when he’s so close to getting what he wants. He nuzzles into the warm, smooth neck then moves his lips to rest against the curving shell of his ear to whisper.
“Would you like to have dinner with me?”
Martin’s swallows thickly, closing his eyes to the feeling of another person so close to him, let along that person being Douglas Richardson. Then he parts his lips, dark red from kissing, and breathily utters two perfect syllables...
“Okay.”