Title: Come Fly With Me
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: PG
Length: 1,000ish words
Summary: Five things that happened to Martin Crieff when he wasn't flying an airplane.


1.

Douglas locks Martin in a closet. There's a thump, then rustling: Douglas leaning back against the door, crossing his arms across his chest. He probably looks irritatingly cool. Martin reaches up, tries to find some sort of light.

"There's no light in here," he says a couple of minutes, seconds, later.

"Bully for you," Douglas says. "Now spill."


2.

The pub is loud and poorly lit. Martin adjusts his collar.

"A pint of bitter," he practices saying. "Bitter," he says, "A pint of it. A pint. Please." It feels rather like a tongue-twister. Or French. He navigates his way through the crowd, dodges the elbow of a giant behemoth celebrating something on the telly.

Martin Davenport is sitting at a table near the back. Martin trips over a handbag and lands with his arms braced on the bar. He leans over to the bartender and says, "Bitter bitte, a pint please of bitter please." He laughs at his own joke. Nods. Swallows. His shirt is choking him. "Yes."

"What?" the bartender asks. "Speak up, mate."

"Bitter," Martin says. He enunciates like he's speaking to the half-deaf airfield manager at Spitfire Aerodrome. The one with mob protection. Or inexplicably huge bodyguards. "Please."

Pint in hand and far more money than he really has to spend left on the bar, Martin walks over to Martin Davenport's corner table. He resigns himself to ramen and Arthur's failed experiments for the next four months. Manages not to spill a drop of his drink until he sits down.

"Bugger," he says. He flushes. His hands shake. He wipes at his shirt with a wet napkin. "This is new."

Martin Davenport pulls a small tube from his pocket and tosses it across the table. Martin watches it skitter past his coaster and fall to the floor, landing near his right foot. "Stain remover," Martin Davenport says. He shrugs and grins. "I'm always spilling things in the cab, and you need to look sharp in case of auditions."


3.

Carolyn rings him at 4:32 (and seventeen seconds) the morning they're supposed to fly to Tahiti. Martin's bag is already packed: filled to the brim with sunblock and floppy hats, brand new aviators and the disposable camera someone left in Martin Davenport's cab. "Herc will be flying this one," she says. Her voice goes false and cheery, "Now you won't miss any jobs with your van."

"But he's not even with MJN," Martin says. She hangs up on him mid-M. "That's against the rules," he adds. His voice sounds whiny even to him.


4.

"Oh, no," Martin Davenport says. "They're not props, if that's what you're asking."

"Right," Martin says. His eyebrows feel droopy, which shouldn't even be possible. He can't decide what to do with his hands. His fingers. "Well, that's," he says.

"She's my wife," Martin Davenport says, "Legally, and all that rot. We just don't, you know." He waves a hand, and makes a profane gesture. Martin blushes. His entire face is likely redder than a tomato; he lifts a hand to his cheek, and the skin is hot.

"Oh," Martin says.

Martin Davenport leans forward and down--he really is too tall; it isn't fair--and Martin tilts his head up. Martin Davenport's hands are dry against Martin's face. Martin wipes his palms on his trousers. The kiss is short. Not too wet. Martin lips his lower lip when they separate, and Martin Davenport pushes him back against the door.

"Oh, oh," Martin says. And then he stops talking.


5.

"If you carry the two," Arthur says. He closes his eyes, bites his lower lip. Pokes at what Martin can only guess is a giant invisible calculator floating in front of him "Nope, still 17:30."

"16:30," Martin says. "Or, rather, 16:32, now, which is rather beside the point, don't you think."

They're locked in a store room. Have been all day. Martin's stomach grumbles. His head aches.

*

Hours pass, or maybe minutes. "Hey, I know," Arthur says.

"No," Martin says. He tosses another box bereft of life-sustaining instant coffee packets to the floor, and starts trying to open the next box on the shelf. The tape is very strong. Very sticky.

"But how do you know-"

"No charades," Martin says. "No charades, ever."

*

"You sure you don't want any?" Arthur asks. Only his mouth is full of something freeze-dried and disgusting, so it comes out "oosuuuroodnwannaaee." Martin shakes his head no, winces. Crouches over himself even further, pressing his back against the wall and his head against his knees.

"It's really quite good," Arthur says.

"No," Martin says, "It is not."

"No,” Arthur agrees, "It's not. Still, it's not poisonous, exactly, so it's got that going for it at least."

Martin sneezes. A bead of sweat trickles between his shoulder blades, and he flicks a ball of dust from his knee. The dust bunnies are breeding. The food isn't poisonous, exactly, and there's not a drop of coffee to be found. "We're going to die in here," he says.

"Nah," Arthur says, "Douglas will come up with something and rescue us."

"Douglas is on a date," Martin says. He pinches his nose. "With a flight attendant from Kent."

Arthur shrugs. Shovels something green into his mouth.

*

Martin shakes his mobile. It's pay-as-you-go; he hasn't paid, so it won't go.

Arthur snores. He rolls over and flings his arm at the floor. Kicks at an imaginary football. Shouts "Brilliant!" and lets out a sound rather like a jet exploding mid-takeoff.

Martin glares at him, then refocuses his ire on his mobile. Were he not banned from calling emergency services from this number, Martin would be calling for an entire fleet--nay, an army--of police officers right now. He holds a finger over the 9. Inhales and tries to remember the meditation tips he learned watching Martin Davenport do his AM Yoga.

*

Martin wakes with a start.

"Well, come on then," Carolyn says.

"Mum!" Arthur shouts. Martin winces. Brushes off his trousers as he pulls himself to his feet.

"Volume, Arthur," Carolyn says. Her dog yips and barks, apparently in agreement.