Archive of Our Own

The pilot's lounge at Dundee Airport had always left a great deal to be desired, but during the years since Douglas had last seen it, it had slid – or rather, careened headlong – even further into not-so-genteel decay. There was one kettle, mid-80s vintage, with a broken cord; three chipped mugs, all exhorting the drinker – in neon pink letters, no less – to Have A Nice Day; a couch with one cushion missing and another so stained that anyone who dared sit upon it risked contracting a communicable disease; and an array of ripped and dog-eared magazines from the days when bell-bottoms were very much en vogue. Douglas shuddered to think of those days: communicable diseases, indeed.

Still, it was better than nothing, and it was one place where he could hide away from Martin, who was on yet another health and safety kick. He'd revised GERTI's flight manual for the seventh time since Douglas had met him, and he was determined to explain his modifications to anyone who would listen. Of course, the only one who would listen was Arthur, who was not Martin's target audience, but beggars could not be choosers, as far as Douglas was concerned.

Sighing, Douglas maneuvered himself into the cracked plastic chair, which was the only non-infectious seating the room had to offer, and took a sip of the coffee Arthur had prepared for them before they landed. It was slightly less vile than usual, which he supposed was something to be grateful for. Yawning – God, another two hours at least until the cargo was loaded – he set the cup down and began leafing through the aged magazine selection out of desperation. Perhaps a perusal of vintage fashion would keep him awake, or at least too fearful of flashbacks to close his eyes.

“Hullo, what's this?” Douglas murmured, as he browsed through the stack piled haphazardly on the table. Goodness, someone had clearly restocked the selection, for there were two among their number that were actually less than a decade old. One of them was a Woman's World with a grimacing Prince Charles and Camilla on the cover – Douglas set that aside as a last resort – and the other was one of those intellectual gay men's magazines that still managed to have some totty in it. It was no contest, really.

For all that he had been married, repetitively so, Douglas had never been loath to appreciate the male form from a distance – or from close up, in his younger days. There had been that matador in Barcelona the summer he'd got his wings, and the athletic German with the delicious knees...ah, heady times, in more ways than one.

Much more promising, Douglas decided, as he leafed through the second magazine. Film review, politics, garden design, boring, boring, boring – ah, that was better. Appropriately for the venue, it was a spread featuring young men dressed – or rather, partially dressed – in various flying uniforms, most while draped tastefully over the wings of aircraft. High art, clearly. Squinting to read the sparse text, Douglas noted that the article claimed the young men were all students at the Bournemouth Commercial Flight Training School. A likely story: more probably they were all well-hung models who were enjoying not having to get their todgers all the way out for a change.

Douglas had just enough time to think that would have been funny, though, to see someone I actually knew, when he turned the page and...there was Martin.

Well, he was fairly certain it was Martin, at least. His features were the same, but there were several striking differences. First of all, his hair was quite a change from Martin's softly curled ginger: this man sported chestnut brown hair severely combed back in a 1940s style. Second, none of Martin's freckles were in evidence. Douglas had never had much of an opinion about Martin's freckles one way or the other, but now that they were obliterated by makeup or the wonders of photo retouching, his eye was drawn to Martin's features in a way they never had been before. How had he never noticed the exaggerated (and sensual, his traitorous mind supplied) bow of Martin's upper lip, the extraordinary shape of his eyes, the indescribable green-gray of his irises? The Martin in this picture wasn't blushing and tripping over his own tongue, he was staring almost defiantly at the camera, confidence personified. If this really was Martin, where the bloody hell had that come from, and more importantly, where had it gone?

Martin's face was enough of a surprise all on its own, but Martin's body was a positive shock. Not that the photograph revealed very much of it: the shot was cropped to about mid-chest, and Martin was wearing a heavy coat in the style of the World War II bomber crew jackets, open to reveal a tantalising triangle of Martin's bare chest from rather well-formed collar bones all the way to sternum. That relatively small amount of skin should not have been titillating, but when combined with the expression, it looked as though he'd been forced to throw on the first thing he could find after a damn good shag, and was rather cross about having to cover himself up. Douglas knew exactly how he felt, because if there was one thing of which he was certain, it was that there was entirely too little of Martin showing, and Christ, what was he thinking?

“Douglas, are you in – oh, there you are.”

Douglas had never closed a magazine so swiftly in his life. Twisting in his flimsy plastic seat and hearing it creak alarmingly in protest, he raised an eyebrow at Martin in what he hoped was his usual smooth fashion. “I'm sorry, were we playing hide and go seek? I'm afraid I made it a bit too difficult for you by sitting in the pilot's lounge.”

Martin frowned at him, which of course drew attention to those almond-shaped eyes. Douglas cursed silently. “You're up to something,” Martin said.

“I'm always up to something, Martin. That's as profound as saying the sun rises every morning.”

Martin pursed his lips in disapproval, and Douglas absolutely did not stare at that impossible bow. Bugger, there was no doubt about it: the man in that photograph was either Martin or Martin's sexy twin. And if Martin himself were his own sexy twin – oh God, now his logic was beginning to resemble Arthur's.

He realised belatedly that Martin was studying him closely; when he met Martin's gaze, Martin cleared his throat and said, “Well, we're taking off in twenty minutes. I need you.”

“But Sir,” Douglas drawled, raising a hand to his chest like a Victorian maiden struck with the vapours, “This is all so sudden.” That earned him a narrow-eyed glare from Martin that was far too close to his sultry photographic mien, and Douglas was horrified to find himself flushing. Douglas Richardson did not get hot and bothered by prissy little twits like Martin Crieff. It was ridiculous. Impossible.

“Very funny,” Martin snapped, and for a moment Douglas saw something cross his face he couldn't quite place. It seemed almost like hurt, but that didn't make sense. “Do what you want. I'll do the checks myself, and if you're not there on time, we'll take off without you.”

“Now hang on, Martin –” Douglas began, but Martin had already spun on his heel and left the room. Douglas blew out a breath, then twisted back to glance at the pile of magazines.

“Oh, sod it,” Douglas muttered, snatching the one with Martin in it off the table and stuffing it into his uniform jacket.

Fine, so all right, yes; Douglas took the magazine home. And one day, he found that it had somehow migrated from the kitchen table, where he'd first tossed it, to the nightstand beside his bed. And one night, he was bored with his latest spy novel and in casting about for something to read, picked up the magazine.

He read the article about landscape design first, because he was considering having someone in to do something with the rooftop terrace that had come with the new flat, and wondered if he could do it himself. After fifteen minutes reading about the emotional value of various shrubs and medicinal uses of herbs and zen and feng shui, Douglas gave up on it, and flipped to the next article in desperation.

Oh, right. The next article was the one with Martin.

Buggering hell, Douglas thought when the photo hit him like a kick to the gut. He could almost pretend this wasn't Martin, because the young man wearing the flight jacket had nothing in common with him. This man looked like he'd never stammered in his life, like he could have any woman – or man – he wanted, like he was king of all he surveyed. He was – sex on legs, quite frankly, and he really needed to stop staring at the picture now, because it was making him think all sorts of fabulously filthy things.

First and foremost: Martin's mouth was made for sucking cock. Douglas had never truly given it much thought, considering Martin’s mouth was usually getting him into trouble or was being used to give women a negative impression of his ability to form complete sentences. However, after careful study Douglas conceded it was also quite attractive, full-lipped and sensual, with a tendency to pout. Douglas had heretofore only considered Martin’s pouting to be annoying, but lately he’d suspected himself of taking the mickey so that he could see the pout and imagine those fantastic lips wrapped around his erection, which – really, no good at all could come of that line of thinking.

Trying to concentrate on other things besides Martin's lips, however, was not terribly productive either, because Martin's other features as shown in the photo were nearly as distracting. Even worse were the features the photo hinted at: the rest of Martin's (slender but surprisingly muscular) chest, the stretch of his shoulders under the jacket, the hint of stubble on his upper lip. Douglas had never seen Martin anything but clean-shaven, and now he found himself wondering whether Martin left off shaving at the weekends, whether by Sunday morning he had that same shadow of a beard, whether it would scratch if Douglas rolled over upon waking and pressed his mouth to Martin's throat –

Jesus Christ, Douglas thought. His brain had just gone from inappropriate wank fantasy to cosy domestic scenario in under a minute. Was this the first sign of senility, perhaps? Or merely the first sign that he was becoming a pathetic old codger with a hankering for lithe young men? True, Martin wasn't that young, but he was nearly two decades younger than Douglas, and that was at the very least the beginning of an extremely slippery slope which could only end in tawdry assignations in grotty train station loos. It was not the sort of future Douglas Richardson envisioned for himself, thank you very much, so it would be best to stop this line of thinking in its tracks.

He looked down at the photograph again. Martin met his gaze, unflinching and stupidly, unfairly sexy.

“Bugger,” Douglas snapped, flinging the magazine on the floor and turning off the light.

A week later, they flew to Deauville, and bad weather forced an unexpected layover. Carolyn was furious at the thought of her slim profit margin disappearing in a thunderstorm, but she bowed to Martin and Douglas' insistence that the conditions were unsafe. The hotel she chose for them was even more charmingly substandard than usual, and Douglas privately suspected that her explanation that this was the only accommodation available on short notice was a load of cobblers. Had she been travelling with them, Douglas was sure the hotel would at least have had a lift, and possibly even rooms that did not boast hot and cold running mice.

“God,” Martin said as they trudged up yet another flight of stairs, “I think we're going to reach cruising altitude before we get to our rooms.”

Douglas snorted at Martin's display of wit, then checked himself. He did not find Martin Crieff funny, and he was certainly not witty.

As Douglas let himself into his room, he groaned. “Oh, marvellous.”

Martin was at his side right away. “What?” he asked, poking his head over Douglas' shoulder to get a look.

Douglas steadfastly ignored the way Martin's breath seemed to caress his cheek. “Mouse traps,” he said, pointing to the one just inside the door. “They're not even trying to hide them.”

“The place is probably infested with them,” Martin huffed.

“We're going to wake up in the morning to find our faces eaten off,” Douglas said. He turned on the light – which flickered alarmingly – and moved into the room, searching for a spot that looked clean enough for him to set down his overnight bag. It was not an easy task.

“Isn't that rats? I don't think mice do that,” Martin observed, following Douglas into the room.

Deciding the bed was the safest option, Douglas flung his bag there, then turned back to Martin. “I have every confidence that the mice in this establishment will be able to live up to the high standards set by their rodent brethren.”

Martin chuckled, smiling. Douglas' attention was inevitably drawn to his pretty, pretty mouth. Fuck.

Martin sobered and shifted from foot to foot, as though he'd suddenly realised he was standing in Douglas' hotel room. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I'd better – ah – head off to mine.”

“Right,” Douglas said. Attempting to lighten the mood, he added, “May your room be free of flesh-eating creatures.”

“Thanks,” Martin said drily. “Erm, you too.” He turned to go, stumbling a little as he did, and Douglas watched him walk away, taking especial note of the way his uniform trousers hugged his arse.

I hate everything, Douglas told himself, nearly setting off a mousetrap with his foot as he closed the door behind him.

That night, Douglas dreamed that Martin showed up at his hotel room door. When Douglas opened it, Martin – in an uncharacteristic display of initiative – shouldered his way into the room, backed Douglas against the wall and proceeded to snog him in a thoroughly brilliant fashion. Douglas was extremely annoyed when he woke up just as Martin's surprisingly confident hand was making its first explorations of the region south of Douglas' belt. This simply would not do, he decided. He would either have to throw out the magazine, or burn it in a ritual purging ceremony: anything that would rid him of this bloody stupid obsession.

Rolling over to check his watch – of course this sewer didn't equip its rooms with alarm clocks – he groaned when he realised how disgustingly early it was. After debating whether or not he wanted to risk another erotic dream, he flung himself out of bed and slouched into the shower. Twenty minutes later, he was presentable enough to venture out for breakfast.

The hotel, predictably, had no restaurant, but they'd been informed that the café on the corner opened early. Douglas was relieved to find this was indeed true: the heavenly scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted down the street, making his leaden steps a little lighter as he staggered up to the door.

And then he stopped dead in his tracks, because Martin was seated at the table by the open window, with an enormous pastry covered in fruit and what looked like a cappuccino in front of him. As Douglas drew nearer, Martin looked up. Their gazes locked, and Douglas felt an annoying lurch in his stomach that did nothing to improve his already sour mood.

“Bad night?” Douglas enquired as he slid into the seat opposite Martin.

Martin grunted. “I dreamed of face-eating mice all night.”

“I'm sorry. I had no idea you were so suggestible.” The waiter appeared, and Douglas summoned his French. “Avez-vous des croissants aux amandes?” The man answered in the affirmative. “Bon. Et un espresso – double, s'il vous plaît.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “And what kept you awake, then?”

Douglas hadn't smoked in twenty years, but he suddenly craved a cigarette. Must have something to do with the whole French café theme, he decided. “I awoke in the middle of the night to find an actual mouse in my bed,” he lied smoothly. “Rather put me off the whole sleeping lark.”

“Ugh,” Martin said, shuddering in horror, and Douglas tried very hard not to picture Martin naked and shuddering in pleasure. It didn't work. “That's bloody fantastic, isn't it? How does Carolyn expect either of us to fly her bloody plane if we can't get a decent bloody night's sleep?”

“Calm down, Martin,” Douglas said. “Drink your foamy coffee and try to forget about the nasty-wasty rodents.”

“I won't calm down, because I'm fed up with this. I'll quit – it's not as though it's a hardship since I'm not bloody getting paid. This is ridiculous. My life is ridiculous.”

Douglas opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. He'd seen Martin in a strop before, but it had always seemed like more of an adolescent tantrum than proper adult rage. Now – either because of Douglas' newfound appreciation of Martin's pout, or due to something emerging from Martin himself – the man positively smouldered with righteous indignation. Combined with the heavy-lidded aspect brought on by exhaustion, he looked disturbingly like the Martin in the magazine: determined, defiant, and sexy as hell.

Douglas cleared his throat before speaking. “What else would you do?”

Martin studied him for a moment. “I don't know. Work in an office, I suppose.”

His espresso and pastry chose that moment to arrive. After thanking the waiter, Douglas returned his attention to Martin. “You'd be bored in a week.”

“I wouldn't mind boring,” Martin insisted. He took a sip of his drink, and came away with a thin line of foam clinging to his upper lip.

“You have –” Douglas gestured at his own lip, and Martin, catching on, darted out his tongue to lick it clean.

Buggering fuck, Douglas thought, infinitely glad he was sitting down.

Martin was frowning at him now, and Douglas realised the conversational ball was in his court, lying motionless on the ground. “Why don't we talk to Carolyn? MJN has been doing more business lately. I don't see why she can't afford to pay you something.” In fact, Douglas knew full well she could afford it, because she'd offered him a pay rise last week, not that Martin needed to know that. Besides, he'd wheedled it out of her with a carefully planned strategy of misinformation that made it seem as though a competing job offer were imminent; it wasn't as though he couldn't manage it again at some point in the future.

“We?”

Douglas blinked at Martin, a little stupidly, perhaps. “Pardon me?”

“You said, 'Why don't we talk to Carolyn?' Why did you say 'we'?”

“Oh,” Douglas said. For the second time in less than five minutes, his brain refused to cooperate with his mouth. “Well, I didn't mean to imply you couldn't speak for yourself –”

“No, I mean, that's very –”

“Of course, you're an adult, and completely capable –”

“– nice of you, and well, I won't say it's exactly out of character –”

“– of making your own stand for right and truth and fair play –”

“– but it's still a bit surprising considering how much you like to take the mickey –”

“– and I have no intention of –”

“Douglas. Douglas.”

Douglas' mouth snapped shut. Dear Lord, he'd been babbling. In stereo, with Martin. The world could end anytime it pleased now.

“Thank you,” Martin murmured, catching and holding Douglas' gaze. “I, erm, I appreciate your offer, but I'd like to do this on my own.” His hand slid partway across the tabletop before stopping abruptly. Douglas stared at it for a moment before Martin snatched it away as though it had been burned.

“Of course,” Douglas managed. “I understand. But if you change your mind, I'd be happy to help. Sincerely, Martin – no ulterior motives.”

Martin nodded, ducking his head. His cheeks, Douglas noted, were slightly flushed, bringing the freckles into sharper focus. The Martin in the bomber jacket wouldn't be caught dead with freckles, but they looked quite fetching on his Martin.

His Martin? Douglas silently chastised his wayward brain, but his brain would not be chastised. It stubbornly continued thinking of Martin in the possessive.

Douglas watched as Martin took a bite of his pastry, closed his eyes and groaned. “Oh my God, Douglas, this is the most delicious thing I've ever eaten,” he sighed.

“Is it,” Douglas said. His voice sounded a bit strangled to his own ears.

“Mmm-hmm,” Martin said. And then he proceeded to suck his sticky fingers clean, one after the other, while Douglas' brain quietly exploded.

Serves you right, Douglas thought viciously at his brain. His brain wisely chose not to respond.

As soon as they landed at Fitton later that morning, Douglas pleaded some half-arsed excuse about needing to talk to one of the airport crew about Gerti's berthing while Martin was still running through his post-flight checks. He immediately raced out to head off Carolyn, who was outside the plane supervising the unloading of the cargo.

“I'm busy, Douglas,” Carolyn said shortly, without looking at him.

“I'm sure you are, O Queen of Us All,” Douglas drawled, earning him a sidelong glare, “But I need to let you know that a storm is coming.”

“What, another one? The storm last night was quite enough, thank you.”

“This one is not strictly of a meteorological nature. It is not in the shape of a funnel, an anvil, or even a fluffy bunny, but is in fact in the shape of one Martin Crieff.”

At that bit of news, Carolyn lowered her clipboard and stared at Douglas. “Martin has become a storm? How on earth did that happen? In my experience, the man can barely manage a light drizzle.”

“I wouldn't credit it myself if I hadn't seen it,” Douglas admitted. “But make no mistake; he's more tetchy than a monsoon over Myanmar, and he's headed your way.”

“Well, what's his problem this time? Did you nick all the good cheese off the tray before he'd finished his four thousand safety checks?”

“Alas, I am not the one to blame – this time,” Douglas amended at Carolyn's sharp look. “He's finally determined that allowing someone to abuse him this shamelessly without remuneration isn't a fair trade-off. I believe he is, however, willing to be abused should you decide to give him a salary.”

“Douglas,” Carolyn said sweetly, “I believe the blame does lie with you. You're the one due the pay rise next week, and contrary to what you may think, I am not so far from economic disaster that I can afford to raise the salaries of two pilots. I can manage one or the other, but not both.”

“Yes, well,” Douglas said, clearing his throat. “About that.”

Carolyn waited, clipboard twitching in her hands, as Douglas tried to force his mouth to form words. “I, erm,” he said, then cleared his throat again.

“For God's sake, Douglas –”

“I want you to give my pay rise to Martin,” Douglas blurted. There, he'd said it. Christ, he'd said it.

Carolyn stared at him, so wide-eyed he was afraid they might simply drop right out of her head. “I'm sorry, I thought I heard you say that I should give your money to Martin.”

“Well, considering I haven't actually seen any of it yet, one could argue it isn't exactly my money. It's a little easier to part with that way,” Douglas muttered. He took a deep breath before continuing. “I can say that because it's a hell of a lot harder to suggest you cut my pay as well.”

Carolyn actually gasped. “I think I need to sit down.”

“Oh all right, let's not be silly about it; it's not such a sacrifice. I sold my house last month, remember, and have moved into much more affordable accommodations. I was thinking about it, and I believe I can manage quite well with even a ten percent cut. It won't be much on his end, but I think Martin will appreciate the gesture; ultimately I think he's only craving a bit of recognition. That plus the rise you were going to give me should be sufficient to keep him with MJN, though if you can find it in your heart to scrape together a few more quid, it might be worth your while. You won't find another competent pilot – or an incompetent one, for that matter – who's willing to work for a pittance.”

Carolyn frowned. “Does Martin know you're doing this?”

“Of course not. And you're not to tell him, either.” Carolyn raised an eyebrow. “That is, if your Highness would be so kind.”

Carolyn drew herself up. “Douglas –”

“And another thing: he's going to burst out of that door in a minute spoiling for a fight, and it's important you give him one. Make him work for every pound you cough up.”

“So that you can quietly laugh at his antics?”

Douglas shook his head. “No. Because he needs to feel like he's won for a change, and an easy victory won't do.”

Carolyn folded her arms. “Why are you doing this, Douglas? What do you get out of it? You're not even asking for credit.”

Douglas spread his hands. “Is it so hard to believe that I might simply want to do something nice for someone?”

“Quite frankly, yes. Because in all the years I've known you, I've never seen you do anything that didn't involve some personal gain for Douglas Richardson.”

Douglas tried not to squirm under her too-sharp gaze. “That's a fair assessment, I suppose. Mean-spirited, perhaps, but fair.”

“And so while this appears on the surface to be an altruistic gesture, I can't help but wonder if I'm merely missing something.”

Douglas cast a nervous glance at the cabin door; Martin would be out any minute, and he couldn't see them talking. “I'll tell you what, Carolyn: if you can determine what I can gain from losing a sizeable chunk of my paycheque, I'm keen to hear it. But for now, I really must dash.”

“Don't think we've finished talking about this,” Carolyn said dangerously.

“Perish the thought, ma'am,” Douglas drawled, turning on his heel and executing a not-terribly-dignified sprint for the hangar.

When Martin walked into the pilot's lounge half an hour later looking as though he'd been struck by a lorry, Douglas was on his feet in a trice. “Martin? Martin, are you all right?”

Martin blinked at him for a few seconds before speaking. “Carolyn, erm,” he rasped, “Carolyn is going to start paying me.”

Unable to stop himself, Douglas seized Martin by the shoulders. “That's marvellous news! Congratulations, Martin. How did you manage it?”

“I actually threatened to leave,” Martin said. “I didn't think I'd be able to say it, but I did.”

“Good for you.” Martin shifted, gaze searching Douglas' face, and Douglas belatedly realised he was still holding Martin's shoulders. He let his hands drop.

Martin glanced down at his shoes, then raised his head again, and the look of terrified determination on his face nearly stopped Douglas' breath. “I'd like to take you out to dinner,” Martin said, words coming in a rush, “Because I want to thank you for encouraging me, and because it's been ages since I've been able to afford to take anyone out for more than a kebab. Will you?”

Douglas resisted the urge to find Martin's bravado charming, and failed completely. “I'd love to. What time?”

Martin checked his watch; Douglas noticed his hand was shaking. “Seven? There's a new Greek place on the high street – we could meet there?”

“Fine,” Douglas said, voice sounding rusty to his own ears. Martin nodded, then turned to go. When the door had shut behind him, Douglas stood in the middle of the room for a full minute, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. Dear Lord, was this what it was like to be Arthur every day?

It's quite simple, really, his addled brain finally supplied. You've just agreed to go on a dinner date with Martin Crieff. He is taking you out to dinner. On a date. There may be soft music played on a bouzouki. There may even be candles.

“Bloody blasted buggering bollocks,” Douglas spat, just as one of the pilots from Southern England Air opened the door of the lounge. Douglas saw his eyes widen, and then he very carefully backed out the way he had come.

“No, I – oh, never mind,” Douglas sighed, giving the bloke a few moments to escape before heading out the door.

Dinner was a disaster.

That is to say, it was a disaster in that nearly everything went perfectly. Martin was at the restaurant when Douglas arrived; like Douglas, he was dressed well but not formally in a fairly nice pair of dark trousers and a blue striped shirt open at the neck. They fit him well enough for something clearly off the rack, and Douglas couldn't help but wonder what Martin would look like in tailored clothing that hugged every curve and plane.

Martin was nervous, but unusually for him, he was actually doing a good job of hiding it; Douglas fancied he was one of the few who knew him well enough to recognise the signs.

They made aimless small talk until the waiter came to take their orders. Douglas decided on lamb souvlaki, while Martin dithered.

“Everything looks so good,” Martin said. “I can't decide.”

“It's a pity you don't like lamb,” Douglas said. “You're partial to fish, though, and the stuffed halibut sounds exquisite.”

When he looked up from his menu, Martin was staring at him. Then the waiter cleared his throat, and Martin started. “Erm, yes, the halibut, please.” After the waiter had gone, he murmured, “I didn't know you – knew so much about me.”

Douglas waved a hand. “Merely a couple of minor observations about your gustatory preferences, Martin,” he said airily, though his heart was hammering in his chest. The truth was, he knew far more about Martin than he did about any other pilot he'd flown with, everything from the intricate manifestations of Martin's more annoying neuroses to the fact that his father was a world-class prick. And contrary to the law that familiarity breeds contempt, Douglas had started off completely contemptuous of Martin – as a pilot and as a human being – and found that every new thing he learned about him made him shed a little more of that initial dislike. Oh, he was still a jumped-up little prat at times, but he was much more than that, and God help him, but Douglas understood him.

Martin's easy smile faltered at Douglas' words, and he cursed himself silently before speaking. “So, tell me the whole story of your triumph this afternoon,” he said brightly. “Leave no detail undetailed.”

That brought the smile back; Martin launched into an account of the conversation with Carolyn, and if it was accurate, it seemed as though she'd given him exactly the fight Douglas had requested. The resulting feeling of accomplishment did wonders for Martin; he spoke animatedly, his fine-boned hands gesturing, his joy obvious. It stunned Douglas to realise he could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he'd seen Martin truly happy. It further stunned him to realise that far more than the sullen, brooding young man in the photograph, the Martin who faced him across the table was utterly captivating.

“So, erm, thank you,” Martin finished, his cheeks pinkening. “I don't think I'd have been able to do it without your help.”

“But you didn't need my help, Martin; you bearded the lioness in her den all on your own.”

Martin shook his head stubbornly. “I mean the fact that you offered. It made me think...”

Martin trailed off. Douglas murmured, “Go on.”

“It made me think – it made me feel – that there was someone on my side for a change. That means a lot.”

Martin lifted his chin, as though daring Douglas to make light of it – and Christ, he was right, that would normally be Douglas' first instinct. But the last thing on Douglas' mind right now was making a joke. Unfortunately, the first thing was flinging a few twenties on the table, taking Martin by the hand and dragging him off to his flat for a long, screamingly good shag. Neither would be a particularly clever move.

Instead, Douglas met Martin's gaze, and slowly slid his hand across the tabletop until it was covering Martin's. Martin started and flicked a glance down at their joined hands, then back up at Douglas.

“I am on your side, Martin,” Douglas said softly. “Have been for a while now. I have this irresistible urge to take the mickey sometimes, though; can't help it.”

“I know,” Martin said, shrugging. “It doesn't bother me, really – not any more. I'm rather used to it now.” He cracked a small smile. “I don't know what it would be like, flying with someone who wasn't a bit of an arsehole.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Douglas drawled. He began to remove his hand, but as soon as he did, Martin's own hand shot out and halted its progress. This time it was Douglas' turn to stare stupidly down at the place where Martin's fingers were curled around his wrist. When he looked up, he saw that Martin was gazing back at him in a way that made Douglas wonder if his first instinct deserved some reconsideration.

Which of course was the exact moment their meals arrived, because oh yes, he'd forgotten, the universe hated him every bit as much as he hated the universe.

The rest of the meal passed in a hazy mix of small talk, excellent food and intense sexual frustration. Douglas was both elated and apprehensive when it was finally over, because he still had no idea whether Martin wanted this as badly as he did. Even if he did, however, the question of whether or not to act was still an extremely difficult one. They were coworkers, after all, and Douglas would hate to see one of them have to leave MJN if it ended badly. And while it might seem overly pessimistic to predict a sticky end before anything had actually begun, Douglas was well aware that while he always landed his aircraft safely, he was more inclined to crash and burn in his private life.

When they left the restaurant and stepped out into the cool autumn air, Douglas was no closer to making a decision on the matter. Hands shoved into his jacket pockets, he turned towards Martin and smiled. “Well, thank you for a lovely –”

And that was as much as he got out before Martin closed the short distance between them, took Douglas' face in his hands, pulled him down and kissed him. It was hard, desperate, and all too brief; Douglas didn't even have time to extract his hands from his pockets before Martin had broken away, the old, familiar doubt clouding his features.

“Oh, God, I've gone and cocked it up, haven't I? It's only that it seems like for weeks and weeks you've been, well, looking at me –”

“Martin –”

“I mean, not only looking at me, but looking at me, you know, but that was probably just wishful thinking, wasn't it –”

“Martin, stop –”

“I’ve completely misread everything, and I thought I was doing all right for a change, should have known –”

“Martin.”

Martin’s mouth snapped shut, though he bounced nervously on the balls of his feet, as though he were preparing to make a dash for it.

“Now listen to me carefully. Much as I usually relish your panic attacks, the middle of Fitton high Street is not the best place for one. The way I see it, we have two options: we can adjourn to a crowded, noisy pub –”

Martin's shoulders hunched, as though he were trying to make himself smaller. “I'm pretty sure I'd like to just crawl under a rock right now, thanks –”

“– or you could come back to mine.”

Martin froze and stared at him. “You – you're inviting me to your flat?” he stammered.

Douglas hesitated for only a moment. In for a penny, in for the national debt. He stepped closer, until there was only a hairsbreadth between their bodies.

“Yes, to my flat. I don't know about you, but I prefer to do my snogging in more private surroundings.”

Martin's eyelids fluttered shut. “You, ah, oh God, do you really –”

Douglas leaned in, letting his lips brush against Martin's for a moment before pulling back. “Yes, I really really. Now can we go?”

Martin shivered and opened his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, his voice almost a growl, and Douglas may have shivered a little himself as he led Martin towards his car, one hand splayed across the small of his back.

As soon as Douglas closed the door to his flat, he turned smoothly, took Martin gently round the waist and tugged him closer. “Now, where were we?”

Martin didn't answer in words, but considering his non-verbal answer was to wrap his arms round Douglas' neck and pull him down into a needy, open-mouthed kiss, Douglas didn't mind the lack of conversation. It was clear that Martin hadn't been kissed in a while; the edge of desperation in the way he plastered himself against Douglas' body spoke volumes. For his part, Douglas suspected he may have seemed a little desperate himself; he'd been fantasising about this for far longer than he wanted to admit, and having the real Martin warm and eager under his mouth and hands was far superior to the fantasy. There was an untutored sweetness to Martin's kisses, his sighs, his responses, that Douglas hadn't experienced in a very long time.

Martin groaned when Douglas pulled away from the kiss to trail his lips along Martin's jaw, down the side of his surprisingly graceful neck. “Oh God, Douglas, please, I want,” he panted, burying his hands in Douglas' hair and urging him into another kiss.

Douglas ran the tip of his tongue over Martin's pretty upper lip. “What do you want?” he murmured.

This time Martin was the one to pull back. Swallowing, he said, “I – what do you want?”

Douglas nipped at Martin's chin. “Listing it all would take hours. I think it might be a more profitable use of our time for me to just show you.”

Martin tilted his head back and moaned. “Oh, yes please –” And it was that breathy imprecation that got Douglas moving, had him trying to tug Martin toward the bedroom and undress him at the same time, fingers fumbling over buttons and feet tangling until they nearly fell into a heap in the hallway.

“Sorry, sorry –” Martin said, then collapsed in a fit of giggles as Douglas' fingers skidded across his ribs in an attempt to find purchase and steady himself.

“Ticklish, are we?” Douglas asked, regaining his footing as Martin squirmed under his roaming hands.

“Stop it!” Martin yelped, his own hands rising to retaliate.

“Mmm, I'm sorry to say that I've never been particularly ticklish,” Douglas drawled. “I'm afraid you'll have to devise some alternate method of torture.”

Martin raised his head, and Douglas was brought up short by the feral, almost predatory look in his eyes. Smiling in a manner that could only be described as deliciously wicked, Martin slid to his knees.

“Well, that's certainly a novel approach to the – oh my God, Martin –” Douglas gasped, because Martin's surprisingly deft fingers were already unbuttoning his trousers, and then Martin leaned forward and breathed hotly over Douglas' quite interested erection through his pants, and Christ, if anyone had told him the boy could be sin itself, he would have done this ages ago –

When Martin began tugging at his trousers, Douglas shook his head to clear it. “Wait, wait,” he said, stilling Martin's hands and tugging him to his feet again, “Not like this.”

Martin's face flushed, this time in embarrassment. “Did I – do something wrong?”

Douglas quickly kissed him in an effort at reassurance. “Not at all. In fact, the mere idea of your gorgeous mouth employed in that particular task is fantastically appealing. It's only that a blow job in the hallway is not as – reciprocal as I'd like.”

Martin's eyes widened. “Oh. Well.”

“I'd like to take my time with you tonight,” Douglas continued, brushing his lips against Martin's. “Strip you out of your clothes. Look at you spread across my bed. Touch every inch of you.”

Martin closed his eyes and shivered. “I'm – not much to look at.”

“I beg to differ,” Douglas growled, taking Martin's mouth in a deep, possessive kiss that surprised even him. By the time they parted, Martin was clinging to him like a limpet, his hips undulating helplessly against Douglas' thigh, Douglas' hand on his arse encouraging him in his goal.

Disentangling himself with great regret, Douglas took Martin's hand and led him to the bedroom. When they reached their destination, Douglas turned and found such a look of pure, unselfconscious happiness on Martin's face, he sucked in a breath. He couldn't recall ever seeing that expression on Martin's features, and to think that he was the cause was both humbling and terrifying.

“Martin,” Douglas murmured, pulling him close. Martin ducked his head, still smiling, and Douglas nuzzled his ginger curls, smiling rather stupidly himself as a wave of sheer fondness threatened to overwhelm him. God, he was falling arse over tit for Martin Crieff; how the hell had that happened?

And then Douglas felt Martin's shoulders stiffen under his hands. “Oh, no,” Martin breathed, pulling back.

“What's wrong?” Douglas asked, alarmed to see that Martin's radiant smile had been replaced by a stricken expression. Martin was still staring at the floor, or rather, a specific spot behind Douglas and to his left. Twisting round, he saw –

– the magazine he'd found in the Dundee pilot's lounge. Bugger.

Martin looked at him, the betrayal etched on his features almost painful to behold. “Now it all makes sense,” he whispered, nodding.

“What makes sense?” Douglas asked. Martin's response was to begin buttoning up his shirt. “Martin, talk to me.”

“Oh, please, you're an intelligent man,” Martin snapped, “You should be able to figure it out.”

“I certainly should. But nevertheless, let's consider the extraordinary possibility that I have absolutely no idea what's going on in your head.”

Martin made an impatient noise. “You want – that,” he said, gesturing at the magazine, “not me.”

“Martin,” Douglas said slowly, “That photograph is of you, isn't it?”

Martin shook his head. “I posed for the picture, but it's not me. It's – God, if I could burn every issue of that magazine, I would.” He began buttoning up his shirt. “I thought that after nine years I'd be free of the damned thing, but no, of course not.”

“Please, wait –” Douglas reached out to take hold of Martin's hands, but Martin jerked away from him.

“Don't touch me.”

Douglas held up his hands and stepped back. “I'm sorry. Look, let's just – go have a sit in the living room and you can tell me why this has upset you so much.”

Face flushed, Martin shook his head. “There's nothing to talk about, Douglas. This was a mistake. It's best that we forget the whole thing, all right?”

“No, it's not bloody all right,” Douglas snapped, patience fraying. “You're acting like a child.”

Martin barked a harsh laugh. “I'm painfully aware of that, believe me.” He turned to go.

“Martin,” Douglas said, more softly, “Please don't leave like this.”

Martin's step faltered for a moment, but before Douglas could press his advantage, Martin recovered and fled. After a few seconds, Douglas heard the front door slam.

“Fuck,” Douglas breathed. Stooping, he snatched up the magazine and binned it with a vicious and hollow satisfaction.

Not surprisingly, a week later Carolyn told Douglas to meet him at her home before heading to the airfield. They'd managed three jobs since that night, all short cargo hops, and in that time, Martin had managed to avoid saying one word to him that wasn't related to the business of flying the plane. Oh, he was completely professional, but Douglas knew that Carolyn had already picked up on the change in their relationship, even though she hadn't accompanied them on any of the flights. He suspected Arthur babbled on to her about every detail of his life, and even he would have noticed the way the Cap and Douglas were behaving. And naturally, Carolyn would assume it was Douglas' fault.

His suspicions were confirmed when Arthur failed to greet Douglas at the door with his customary enthusiasm, which meant that Douglas was so far in the bloody doghouse he might as well give up the flat and develop a taste for Chappie. In order to be in the soup with Arthur, you had to be at least as odious as Jack the Ripper, or worse, Simon Cowell.

“I told you this wasn't the last we'd speak of this,” Carolyn said without preamble, motioning Douglas to a seat on the other side of her broad mahogany desk. “However, I had no idea I'd have to do it so soon.”

Douglas stiffened. “Could we please get to the point?”

Carolyn scowled at him. “That's a bit snappish, even for you.”

“I apologise. It's only that I'm not accustomed to being hauled before the headmaster.”

“Really? I would have sworn it was a regular feature of your education,” Carolyn said. “What did you do to him?”

“To whom?”

“Don't be clever. You know perfectly well whom I mean. You've broken Martin, and I want to know what you're going to do to fix him.”

Douglas resisted the urge to wince at her choice of phrasing. “I haven't done anything of the kind. He still flies your aeroplane, doesn't he?”

“Yes, and that's all he does now! Arthur says Martin's not berated him once this week for a breach of health and safety protocol.”

“Perhaps Arthur's finally committed all the rules to memory.” Carolyn glared at him. “Yes, all right, unlikely, I admit.”

“Impossible, more like. He also says you haven't been playing any word games.”

Douglas tried to think of a smart answer for that, but for once, none were immediately forthcoming. “We're doing our jobs. Forgive me for saying so, but as our boss, that's all you have a right to expect of us.”

Carolyn's expression softened, and she leaned forwards. “Yes, I'm fully aware of that. But as your friend, I'd like to help.”

For the first time in recent memory, Douglas was rendered momentarily speechless. “Carolyn, I –”

“Douglas, I know something's wrong, and while I haven't the right to compel you to tell me, I wish you would. Perhaps I can – offer a fresh perspective.”

Douglas sagged in his chair. “When Martin came to work for you, you checked into his record, I presume?”

Carolyn frowned. “Where are you going with this?”

“I'm looking for a fresh perspective. He's always told everyone he never went to flight school, but that's not quite true, is it?”

Carolyn looked at him for a long moment before replying. “No. I discovered he was at Bournemouth for a couple of months.”

“What happened?”

Carolyn shrugged. “The school didn't know for certain. He was actually doing very well there – was one of their most promising students, in fact. They assumed he ran out of money, though he'd not been in arrears in his accounts up to that point.”

One of their most promising students. Well, that explained how Carolyn had decided to trust her precious aircraft to a largely inexperienced Captain. However, the question of the magazine shoot still hung in the air. Obviously, his time at Bournemouth had not ended well, and whatever the reason, anything associated with that period brought back unpleasant memories. But was there a stronger connection than that?

“Why did you want to know that?” Carolyn demanded.

“I'm sorry, I can't tell you.”

“Douglas!”

Douglas lifted an eyebrow. “Forgive me for saying it, but you're really pants at this sympathetic friend routine.”

Carolyn pursed her lips, then drew breath as though she were gearing up for a truly spectacular tirade. Douglas held up a hand.

“I honestly would like to tell you more, but some of it is not my story to tell, and the rest of it is still a bit of a mystery. I've tried to get Martin to talk to me, but he's added two and two and reached sixty-seven, and I'm not sure how to convince him otherwise. He can be a bit – stubborn.”

“A bit, yes,” Carolyn admitted dryly. “All right, fine, it's your business. But if it interferes with my business...”

Douglas rose to his feet. “Message received and understood.”

“Douglas,” Carolyn said, “Martin may be a bit trying, but underneath that supercilious exterior, he has a good heart.” She fixed him with her steely gaze, and Douglas couldn't have looked away if his life depended on it. “Take care with it.”

Douglas' own heart thudded against his ribs. He sometimes fancied himself the brightest of their little bunch, but the truth was that Carolyn was sharper than the rest of them put together. “I will,” he said, with all the certainty of a vow.

Their flight to Hamburg was uneventful, and Martin was just as coolly professional towards him as he'd been for the past week. Douglas ground his teeth the whole way, but managed to avoid letting his frustration get the better of him until they were safely on the ground.

Arthur kept up his usual bizarre patter as they checked in at the hotel – thankfully a step above the one in Deauville. “So the people of Hamburg are called Hamburgers, right?”

As no one else seemed willing to indulge him, Douglas stepped in. “I believe that is in fact correct, Arthur.”

“So when they eat hamburgers – you know, the ones with the beef and the buns – do they feel like cannibals?”

Martin opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Erm,” Douglas said.

“And what about Frankfurters? Blimey, it seems like that's a problem in Germany, isn't it? Why do they name so much food after themselves? It must get confusing.”

The woman behind the hotel desk raised her head from the computer screen and fixed Arthur with a look that could best be described as horrified amusement.

“Arthur?” Carolyn said sweetly.

“Yes, Mum?”

“Shut up, will you?”

“Sure, Mum,” Arthur said agreeably. The woman returned her attention to their reservations.

Douglas waited until Carolyn and Arthur were safely stowed in their hotel rooms before venturing out to knock on Martin's door. There was the sound of footsteps on the other side, then a wary, “Who is it?”

“Pardon me, sir. We're taking a survey on the rodent population of European hotel rooms, and wondered if you'd care to participate.”

There was a pause. “What do you want, Douglas?”

Douglas' brain drifted for a moment as he recalled Martin asking him the same question under very different circumstances a couple of weeks ago.

“Douglas? Are you still there?”

“I'm still here, yes,” Douglas drawled. “On the other side of the door. The closed door which you refuse to open because you're afraid of an honest, adult conversation.” He looked around him. “You know, the acoustic qualities of this hall are actually quite stunning. I may well be inspired to burst into song. How do you feel about Wagner?”

The door opened swiftly. “Oh for God's sake, come in,” Martin huffed, waving him inside.

Douglas turned to find Martin standing in his shirtsleeves with his arms crossed over his chest. “I'd appreciate it if you'd say what you came here to say and get it over with,” Martin snapped.

Douglas considered asking permission to sit. Deciding it probably wouldn't be granted, he took the chair beside the window. After a few moments' hesitation, Martin flopped down into the other chair nearer the bed.

“I came here to say that you were right, in some respects,” Douglas said without preamble. “Before I saw that photograph, I hadn't thought about you in a – how to put this delicately? In a carnal way.”

Martin scowled and opened his mouth, but Douglas' raised hand silenced him. “But that doesn't mean I took leave of my senses and imagined you'd transformed into a completely different person. I've known you for three years, Martin. No matter how good you look in a bomber jacket – and you do – I'm unlikely to forget you can also be a complete berk when you set your mind to it.”

“Oh, thanks a bloody lot,” Martin muttered, his cheeks flushing.

“It's a compliment, really,” Douglas said, resting his elbows on his knees. “The magazine may have made me think of you in a new light, but you didn't suddenly become some two-dimensional sex object. And if you want the truth, I don't actually prefer the airbrushed, pouty you. That ginger mess atop your head suits you better, and I like your freckles. Before things took a turn for the unfortunate the other night, I was rather looking forward to putting my mouth on every one of them.”

Martin's eyes widened for a moment before he looked away again. “You don't mean that.”

“I've never said anything I don't mean,” Martin's response was a glare. “All right, fine, I will admit that occasionally I've employed harmless obfuscation to turn a profit or take the piss. But I've never lied to anyone to get them into bed. Not to be a braggart, but I've never needed to. And besides that, it's wrong. Irredeemably, irrevocably wrong. If I ever misled you simply to get my leg over, you'd be justified in hating me. But I haven't done that, Martin. I swear to you.”

Martin stared at Douglas for another moment, then looked away. “If you had, you wouldn't be the first,” he said hollowly.

Douglas' heart clenched. “Is that why the magazine has such unpleasant associations for you?”

Martin gulped and nodded. “When I started at Bournemouth, I was a few years older than everyone there, and – well, as you might imagine, I wasn't the most popular. I had enough money, but only for school, nothing else. Living on pot noodles gets tiresome pretty quickly. I was casting about for a part-time job, and the modeling opportunity came up.

“I got tons of attention when the magazine came out. The other fellows – they were used to it. I wasn't. I turned down a lot of offers, because they only wanted a fast shag, and I didn't. There was one bloke – he, erm, he seemed different. He told me he cared about me, but it turned out he was only interested in what he'd seen in the photograph. He even made me wear the jacket when we – erm.” Martin cleared his throat.

“Anyway, once we'd been together a month or so – enough time for me to become completely besotted – he broke up with me. When I asked him why, he told me it was because my personality didn't live up to my publicity.” Swallowing, he added in a falsely cheerful voice, “And then he proceeded to tell the rest of the school all about my inadequacies as a boyfriend. I was a laughingstock after that.”

“Christ, Martin, I'm sorry,” Douglas murmured.

Martin shrugged. “It was nine years ago. But at the time, it was devastating. I left Bournemouth, decided I could become a pilot on my own. And I did.”

“Yes, you did,” Douglas said, warmly. “You showed that bastard. You showed them all.”

Martin scrubbed at his face. “I'm sorry. I suppose I did overreact.”

“When someone betrays your trust so thoroughly, you have every right to be wary, especially when it seems it might be happening again.”

Martin met Douglas' gaze. “It was only that – I never expected you'd be interested. And when you were, I couldn't figure out why.”

Douglas winced. “Now I'm the one who's sorry.”

Martin's mouth quirked. “It's okay.”

No, it's not, Douglas thought, but refrained from saying aloud. Rising to his feet, he tried his best smile. “Well, I feel that we've cleared the air a bit. Thanks for letting me in.”

Martin stood, a small frown creasing his brow. “You're going?”

Douglas watched as Martin stepped closer. “I don't want to overstay my welcome,” he murmured.

Martin kept his gaze glued to Douglas' face. “You haven't.”

“I haven't?” Douglas parroted, a bit stupidly, but then Martin was now standing quite close to him.

Martin shook his head. “But perhaps you'd rather go. I mean, go back to the way we were before.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Douglas asked, as Martin's gaze dropped to his mouth.

Martin looked up, then flushed. “I – erm – I'm a little more neurotic than you probably anticipated.”

“Not at all. If anything, I thought you'd be a good deal more neurotic.”

Martin frowned and reddened even further. On impulse, Douglas closed the remaining inches between them and leaned forwards until they were breathing one another's air. “Martin,” he murmured, “What I'm trying to tell you in an uncharacteristically clumsy fashion is that I know you. I'm not likely to turn around in a month, or a year, and complain that this isn't what I was expecting. And unlike some wet-behind-the-ears arseholes, I prefer my men to be three-dimensional.”

Martin stared at him for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Oh. So you would like to –”

“I would, yes. If you don't mind.”

Martin shook his head slowly. “I don't mind. I don't mind at –” and that was as much as he got out before Douglas kissed him.

Douglas awoke with a start to find Martin looking down at him with a decidedly soppy smile on his face.

“What time is it?” Douglas rumbled.

Martin placed a hand on Douglas' chest, over his heart. “You've been dozing for a little over half an hour.”

“Oh,” Douglas said, a bit embarrassed. “My apologies.”

“What are you apologising for?”

“That was rather – inconsiderate of me. Not something I usually do, believe me.”

“I didn't mind. It was flattering, really.”

“Flattering that the young buck was able to shag the old buck so thoroughly he passed out?”

Martin's mouth curved in a ridiculously charming way. “Something like that.”

Douglas snorted. “And thus the reputation of my legendary stamina is shattered.”

“Your secret's safe with me,” Martin said fondly.

Douglas opened his mouth to speak, then found himself at an utter loss for words. This was getting to be a habit around Martin.

“You said a year,” Martin blurted.

Douglas blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Martin bit his lip. “Earlier. You said you weren't likely to turn around in a month or a year and tell me you were disappointed.”

“Mmm,” Douglas said, reaching down to grip Martin's hips, urging him closer, “I do recall saying something to that effect.”

Martin stared at his own hand where it splayed across Douglas' chest. “A year? Really?”

“Well, I'll admit I don't have the best track record, but one does like to remain optimistic.”

“No, no, a year is – it's lovely.” Martin leaned down and brushed his mouth against Douglas'. “We might even make it two.”

Douglas nipped at Martin's chin. “Perhaps more.”

Martin grinned mischievously. “Hm, I don't know. You're not getting any younger. I'm not sure if you'll be able to keep up.”

“Oh, really?” Douglas drawled, arching an eyebrow. His hands glided to Martin's delectable arse, and when Martin groaned and buried his face in Douglas' neck, Douglas rolled them both neatly. Martin stared up at him with lips parted, clearly more than a little turned on.

“I suppose I'll have to find a way to keep up, then,” Douglas growled. He ground his hips against Martin's and was rewarded with a very satisfying moan. “What do you recommend? Vitamins? Or perhaps exercise would do the trick.” Sitting up, he gripped one of Martin's legs and guided it over his shoulder.

“Exercise. Definitely exercise,” Martin panted, hooking his other leg around Douglas' waist. “But you can't already –” Martin looked down the length of Douglas' body, and his eyes widened. “Oh. Apparently you can.”

Douglas smiled. “Yes, it's a bit freakish for a man of my advanced years, I'll admit, but it's a family trait. The Richardsons have always been a randy bunch.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “I shudder to think of the dinner conversations at your house.”

Douglas smirked. Snatching up the lube, he popped the cap with one hand while reaching for Martin with the other. Martin arched his spine like a cat, and Douglas turned his head to lick a freckle he'd discovered earlier on the side of Martin's left knee.

“Now, let's see if we can't work on restoring my reputation,” Douglas said, delivering a sharp bite to Martin's thigh as he drank in the sound of Martin's needy whimper.

The last thing Douglas expected on a Tuesday morning was to be greeted with an armful of Arthur Shappey. Incidentally, it was also the last thing he expected on every other morning of the week, but this being Tuesday, well, there you were.

“Oh, Douglas!” Arthur exclaimed as he squeezed. The boy had surprising strength, Douglas noted as he fought for breath. “Thank you so much!”

“Not at all,” Douglas managed. Arthur didn't take the hint. “Glad to do it.” He patted Arthur on the back, but Arthur hugged resolutely on. With his last remaining bit of oxygen, Douglas rasped, “Arthur, please tell me what I've done to deserve this so that I can never, ever do it again.”

Finally releasing him, Arthur gazed up at him adoringly. “Skip just quizzed me on health and safety!”

“And how did you do?”

“I failed!” Arthur proclaimed, grin stretching from ear to ear.

“While not a wholly unexpected result, I'm afraid I'm at a loss to understand how I might be given credit for it.”

Arthur frowned in concentration. “Well, the failing isn't exactly down to you, I suppose, but Mum says you're the one who got Skip back to normal, so that's why I'm thanking you.”

“Ah,” Douglas said, suddenly uneasy. “Did she happen to say how she thought I had restored Martin's joie de vivre?”

“Nope,” Arthur said cheerfully. “I guessed you must have been rowing, and you made up.”

“Right,” Douglas said, nodding mechanically as relief washed over him. “Clever of you.”

Arthur grinned. “Well anyway, thanks again, Douglas!” And with a little wave, he climbed the steps and disappeared into the plane.

Shaking his head, Douglas went through the pre-flight walkaround, and as he rounded the nose he saw Carolyn standing on the tarmac, watching him. He swallowed down the small knot of dread that rose in his throat and strode manfully over to her.

“How's my plane?”

“Ship shape in Bristol fashion, Admiral,” Douglas drawled.

Carolyn favoured him with a sardonic lift of her eyebrow. “Don't worry. I didn't tell Arthur you were shagging.”

Douglas put on his best shocked expression; it wasn't much of a stretch. “Now what in the world led you to that extraordinary conclusion?”

“My eyes, Douglas. Which took in the evidence, sent it to my brain, and my brain said, 'Yes, definitely boffing like bunnies.' As Arthur lacks one of these crucial components, I'd say you're safe for now, but the two of you are so bloody obvious that even he might discover it soon enough.”

“Oh,” Douglas said. “Well.”

“You do realise that the only thing keeping me from punching you on the nose right now is the fact that Martin seems happy. In fact, he seems disgustingly happy. It practically oozes from every pore.”

“You do have such a way with words.”

“I told you to take care with his heart,” Carolyn said.

“And so I have,” Douglas answered. “I care about his heart – and the rest of him, as it happens – a great deal.”

Carolyn eyed him. “You mean that.”

Douglas didn't deign to dignify that with an answer, merely folded his arms. After a moment, Carolyn sighed. “All right, fine. I'll quit meddling.”

“I find that highly unlikely, but we live in hope.” At that moment, Martin's curly mess of hair caught Douglas' eye as he poked his head out the cabin door. He answered Martin's smile with one of his own, then swiftly returned his attention to Carolyn.

“You do understand that you are never allowed to break up with him, correct? I'll write it into your contract if I have to.”

Douglas glanced up at Martin, who had turned as red as a beet. “I don't think that'll be necessary,” he said smoothly. “Martin is stuck with me for as long as he wants to be.”

Douglas couldn't be sure, but he thought he caught a flash of a pleased grin before Martin's head ducked back into the cabin. Carolyn whipped her head round, then turned back with an exasperated sigh.

“What he sees in you, I'll never know,” she muttered.

“Actually, we're in the process of amassing quite a lengthy list,” Douglas drawled, “but luckily for you, a gentleman never kisses and tells.”

And then Douglas had the very great pleasure of seeing Carolyn blush even redder than Martin. “Oh – shut up and go fly my plane,” she snapped.

Douglas gave her a jaunty salute as he headed up the stairs. “Ma'am.”