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God chose a particularly rainy Tuesday to wreck Martin Crieff’s luck once again. The day started off poorly for Martin in particular; he woke later than normal and had a brief, freezing cold shower before pulling on his wrinkled uniform (his iron broke the night before) and speeding to Fitton airfield where Carolyn, Douglas, and Arthur were waiting.
“Where are we off to?” He said between yawns. He hadn’t had time (or money) for coffee and was utterly exhausted. The students he lived above were partying all night in celebration for the end of Midterms. It wasn’t until next week that they found out how poorly they did.
“Our client should be arriving soon. We are flying him and him alone to Naples, Italy. Oh, speak of the devil, here he is!” Carolyn hurried off to greet the limousine.
“Sir looks awfully tired today,” Douglas commented, emphasizing the “sir” as he always did.
“Students,” Martin let out a large yawn that he tried and failed to stifle, “were up late, partying, the obnoxious little buggers they are,” he grumbled. “Woke up late.”
“Who’s taking lift off?”
“I will,” Martin said, “you can get the way back. When do we need to fly Mister Bigshot back?”
“Wednesday evening,” Douglas replied. “Ah, here they come now.”
Martin turned to look and his stomach dropped unpleasantly to his toes.
“Douglas, Martin, this is our client, Mister Kent Savage.” Douglas obligingly held out a hand but Martin was frozen.
“Hell, Martin? Martin Crieff?”
“Y-yes, hello again,” Martin stuttered.
“You two know each other?” Carolyn asked sharply.
“Of course! We went to school together! Hell, we’ve got to catch up! Tell you what, when we get to Naples, I’ll take all of you out to dinner, my treat!”
“Oh we c-couldn’t-“ Martin spluttered but Savage waved it off.
“Enough bloody stammering, Martin! I see you haven’t outgrown it.”
“Right. Uh, thanks.” Martin scratched the back of his neck.
Arthur piped up from behind Martin and Douglas, “If you’ll follow me, sir, I’ll show you to your seat.”
Arthur and Carolyn led Mr. Savage to his seat as Martin and Douglas left to get situated in the flight deck, Martin as pale as a sheet and trembling.
“Y-you can take control, Douglas,” he said softly, voice shaking a bit as he furiously scratched at his left wrist. Douglas obliged, but once the plane was safely in the air, he turned to Martin.
“Are you alright, Martin?”
“Fine!” Martin said, a little too quickly. “Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine!”
“Clearly,” Douglas said sarcastically, but he let the matter drop. “How about a game of those who aren’t evil, but have evil sounding names?”
“S-sure. Um… Agatha Christie.”
Once they arrived at their considerably less than nice hotel in Naples, both Douglas and Martin were horrified to learn that not only had Carolyn booked them in the same room, but said room had only one double bed, not two.
“Carolyn, we cannot share a bed!” Douglas all but shouted.
“You can and you shall!” Her voice left no room for argument. “Now, Mister Savage has arranged for us to dine with him at Café Bella. This is very kind of him, so we are to show him our gratitude. Meaning you two,” she gestured to Martin and Douglas, “are to be on your best behavior.”
“Yes, Carolyn,” Douglas intoned dully. Martin nodded silently.
“D-do I have to go?” He nearly whispered.
“What? Of course, you dolt! You are the reason he’s inviting us out in the first place!”
“Right,” Martin said miserably, looking down at his shoes.
When seven o’clock struck, Douglas, Carolyn, Arthur, and Martin were seated at a table in a medium-sized café with the businessman Kent Savage.
“So, are you the captain, Douglas?” Savage asked after sipping his wine.
Douglas hesitated, waiting for Martin to quickly protest, but the young man was silent, his eyes having a staring contest with his salad.
“No, actually Martin here is captain. I’m first officer,” Douglas said after a second.
“Are you joking!? This tosser’s captain!?” Martin nodded before jabbing a lettuce leaf with his fork, but not moving to place it in his mouth.
“So, Captain Crieff,” Martin really didn’t like the way Kent said “captain”. “Find a special someone yet? Just got married myself,” he waggled a golden ring underneath Martin’s nose.
“No,”
“What, no men interested in an airline captain?” The rest of the crew of MJN Air looked at Martin incredulously. Martin blushed a deep red. “I’m not gay,” his voice cracked on the last word.
“Unconvincing. Is it because your dad hated you enough? Couldn’t bear to have a faggot for a son as well as a muck up?” Martin sunk visibly lower in his seat.
“I’m not gay,” he said shakily.
“Whatever you say, captain,” Savage smirked. “Do you still have that inner ear thing?”
“Yes,” Martin said in a small voice. He glanced at Douglas, waiting for him to rehash the story of the smoke-filled fuselage and was shocked to find Douglas shooting daggers at his not so former bully.
“Passes out when ‘e gets dizzy, ‘e does,” Savage gulped down yet more wine. “So, for a laugh, we swirlied him,” he looked up at Martin’s red face. “Don’t look like that, we let you alone after you passed out,” he burped. “Didn’t see much of him after that. Switched schools after he tried to off himself.” The silence at the table seemed deafening.
“You’re over that now, aren’t you?” Savage asked nonchalantly. Martin stood, knocking over his chair in his haste.
“I-I can’t-“ his lip wobbled, the tears he’d been holding back all night finally spilled. He rushed out of the café and into the downpour.
Douglas jumped to his feet and made to go after him, but Carolyn stopped him.
“Let him have time to cool off.”
“Overdramatic, that one,” Savage grunted, offing his wine glass and rudely snapping his fingers at the nearest waitress for a refill.
Douglas threw himself back into his chair.
“Where’s Skipper gone?” Arthur asked, concerned.
“No idea,” Douglas sighed before turning to Savage. “You utter bastard!”
“Excuse me?” Savage replied indignantly.
“What Douglas meant to say, was you ignorant, idiotic, sadistic clot pole of a man!” Carolyn cut in. She and Douglas stood, and Arthur, slow on the uptake as usual, stood moments later.
“Skipper is one of the kindest, most hardworking people I know and you were mean to him you… you horrible buttface!” Arthur picked up his plate of linguini with pesto and dumped it on Savage’s head.
“What?! You can’t do this!” Savage sputtered.
“My apologies, Arthur can get carried away,” Douglas said smoothly. “Allow me to clean you up,” he picked up Carolyn’s glass of white wine and splashed it on Savage’s purpling face.
“Oops. Come along, Arthur. Shall we find some biscotti?” Douglas said, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Enraged, Savage tried to stand, but knocked his chair over and stumbled into a waiter, falling on his behind (and the unfortunate waiter).
“I believe you will have to find an alternate airline for your return journey,” Carolyn said with an air of finality. “Good day.”
And with that, the three of them walked out of the restaurant, leaving astonished wait-staff and diners in their wake without a second glance.
Hours had passed since they had returned to the hotel, Arthur sporting a rather large stomachache from the dozen or so Italian cookies he had devoured. No sign of Martin.
Douglas waited in their room. Hell, after the way Martin’s day had gone, Douglas would be fine with sleeping on the floor, despite his body’s protests.
It wasn’t until half past midnight that Martin knocked timidly on their room’s door. Douglas wondered why Martin knocked until he spotted Martin’s room key on the television cabinet. He quickly strode over to the door, opening it to reveal a red-eyed, shivering, dripping wet Martin Crieff.
“D-Douglas,” he said, teeth chattering.
“Martin, you idiot, get in here,” Douglas helped Martin shed his soaking jacket.
“N-no n-need D-Douglas,” Martin stammered.
“Alright, take a hot shower; I’ll leave your clothes in the bathroom once you’re in.”
“D-Douglas,” Martin looked about to protest, but Douglas cut him off. “No room for arguments, Martin,” Martin finally nodded and kicked off his water-logged shoes, tripping on them as he made his way to the bathroom.
“D-dammit,” he tried to growl through his teeth’s chatter as he reached the bathroom and disappeared inside.
As he heard the water run, Douglas turned his attention towards Martin’s flight bag. After much digging and the discovery of a disposable razor with one blade gone (which Douglas pocketed) he located the pilot’s ratty pajamas. He looked over the poor state of the bottoms and the stained “Crieff Electrics” shirt and sighed again. They looked like they’d been in use for far too long. Douglas awkwardly grabbed a pair of Martin’s boxer shorts, depositing the bundle on the edge of the bathroom’s sink.
“Martin, I left your clothes,” Douglas called to the man in the shower.
“Right, thanks, Douglas.” Martin’s voice was stuffy, like he’d been crying.
Douglas waited in the hotel room, reading the book his daughter was forcing him to, The Hobbit. He rather enjoyed the story, though he’d never admit to it, for appearance’s sake.
Several minutes later, just as Thorin and his company were reaching Rivendell, Martin emerged from the bathroom, ginger hair a dark brown from the water.
“I’ll get the floor, Douglas,” he said timidly.
“Nonsense. This bed’s large and I’m fine sharing, so long as you stick to your side.”
“But-“
“Sir must be well rested for the flight back tomorrow,” Douglas said and Martin walked slowly over, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed, gnawing anxiously at his lower lip.
“For God’s sake,” Douglas grumbled, placing The Hobbit down and clicking off the light, plunging them into the darkness. Martin froze like a rabbit caught in headlights.
“Right, um, right, yeah,” he laid his head gingerly down on the pillow, swinging his legs onto the bed and managing to slip under the thin covers.
“Right, this isn’t weird, yeah.”
“Martin?” Douglas said quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
And that might have been the end of it, but, as Martin’s luck would have it, his subconscious chose that night to throw Martin deep into the hells of his childhood.
Douglas woke up when one of Martin’s arms slapped his chest as the young man fought off invisible enemies in his sleep.
“Martin,” Douglas hissed, rolling onto his side. “Martin.”
But Martin did not wake. The moans and whimpers coming from his slightly open mouth simply grew louder. Douglas could make out the occasional plead for whatever was attacking him to stop amongst the myriad of apologies. Douglas rolled out of bed and crossed over to Martin’s side, grabbing a wrist trying to lash out and flicking the light on. As the dim light shown, Douglas saw that the wrist in his hand had a long scar running vertically in a jagged slash, overlapping smaller scars. Immediately, he released it and said louder, “Martin, it’s me, Douglas.”
Martin woke with a gasp, sitting up and nearly hitting Douglas in the head.
“D-Douglas?” he said in nothing more than a hoarse whisper. “Is that you?”
“No, it’s the tooth fairy, yes it’s me!”
Douglas helped Martin sit up as the younger man was still trembling and panting for air. Douglas sat on the edge of the bed.
“Martin,” he said quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Why were you apologizing?” Martin remained silent.
“In your dream, you were apologizing,” Douglas pressed further.
“I, uh,”
“Martin, you can’t keep bottling it all up.” Douglas wasn’t the best parent, but he knew when his daughter was hiding something from him that was bothering her, and Martin was acting the same way.
“It’s nothing, Douglas, I’m fine.”
“Martin, you were crying in your sleep and you’re still shaking. You aren’t fine. Is this about that bastard, Savage?”
Martin was silent and turned a deeper shade of red.
“Martin, you are captain of an aeroplane, like you’ve wanted since you were, what, six? I’m sure Savage didn’t go to bed dreaming of becoming a bloody banker,” Martin looked down again.
“The dream was about my dad, not Savage-“he said quietly.
“Your dad…” The pieces began to click together. The stutter, the awkwardness, the desire to please, the constant asserting that he was captain, that he did what he’d always said he would… Douglas exhaled a deep sigh.
“Martin-“
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Martin looked like he was on the verge of tears again.
“Alright, alright,” Douglas said softly, still in a bit of shock. Guilt from every time he had mocked Martin’s stutter and over eagerness filled his gut as he clicked the light off and returned to the bed.
As Martin drifted off into an uneasy sleep once more, Douglas tried to not notice how Martin curled into a defensive ball as he slept, clutching the pillow to him like a stuffed animal. As the whimpers began to start up again, Martin rolled over and ended up curled right up against Douglas’ side, his head lolling onto the older man’s shoulder a little bit. Normally, Douglas would have moved away, or even woken Martin, demanding he move, but, after the vulnerability Martin let show the past day and the sad truth coming out, Douglas allowed Martin to stay where he was. He may have even moved an arm to make Martin more comfortable, or even carded a hand through the fluffy ginger curls.
After the trials of the past day, Douglas had begun to view Martin as less friend, more family. And there’s nothing wrong with a father comforting his son after a nightmare, is there?