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@ 2012-02-03 07:49 am UTC
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Entry tags:prompting part iii

Please see the most recent MOD NOTE


(updated 6 June)

Welcome everybody. How you got here I have no idea but thank you for coming and welcome again, nonetheless . As you may have gathered this is a Fic Prompting Meme dedicated solely to the hilarious and oh-so-addictive BBC Radio 4 sitcom - Cabin Pressure. I'm aiming for this to be pretty anything goes - but in order for everything to run smoothly, there are a few guidelines. Don't worry - they're not too restrictive.


FILLING GUIDELINES



As you probably all know - our meme now has it's very own database created and maintained by the great Enigel. It both catalogues each and every prompt that we post and provides links to fills. You can find it here: Google Spreadsheet

We also have a Pinboard archive which has been put in place by the lovely [personal profile] oxfordtweed in the place of our late Delicious Archive. This Archive contains a list of all the prompts this meme has to offer - you can find it here: Pinboard Archive

This is a great step forward in making our meme just a little more organised (but not too organised of course. This is Cabin Pressure) which is always a good thing.

So in order to make things easier to archive - Please nest your fills.

This can be done by either posting each part as a reply to that part's immediate predecessor, OR by replying each time to Part I OR - well you get the idea :D

It makes it simpler for Enigel and myself to link fills in a clean and clear manner. Following these guildelines will be very much appreciated guys :D

REPROMPTING



Reprompting is allowed but please include the URL of the original prompt when you do so. It will make it infinitely more easy to Archive which would make both Enigel and I very happy :)

As for everything else



  1. Be respectful to one another. Disagreements are fine, but not everything disagreeable is trolling. If you suspect someone of trolling, just ignore it. If you cannot respond to a comment without attacking or trolling someone else, keep it to yourself.

  2. No bashing prompts. It might not be your cup of tea - but obviously someone wants it enough to go to the effort of requesting it. So just scroll past it.

  3. Prompt away as much as you like guys - seriously, go wild - but please try to fill as well.

    4. NEW - If your fill includes a major element that veers from the original prompt (crossovers, established universes, kinks, et cetera), please take a few moments to check with the OP that such additions are welcome. This has caused problems in the past and it only takes a few moments of your time.
  4. Please no RPF. I'm not trying to oppress you RPF writers and enthusiasts, I would just really like to avoid any legal problems.

  5. When you post a fill (or post a new part of a WIP) please go over to the Filled Prompts Post (if it is complete) or the WIP Post (if there are still more parts to come) and, following each post's guideline's, post a link to this fill or new part.


REALLY IMPORTANT ADDENDUM



According to numerous Child Safety laws it is illegal to provide pornographic material to minors. Seeing that the majority of the stuff we have here is rather adult in nature, this Meme is consequently an 18+ zone. Failing to comply to this rule could result in the Meme getting shut down. So if you're here and you're under 18 please back button now.

+ Please do not post anything regarding minors in a sexual situation. It really doesn't matter how tasteful or crass it is, there are laws that classify that sort of thing as child pornography and as such, I'm afraid we're going to have to go with the attitude that safe is better than sorry.

It really is VERY important that these rules are upheld as the consequences are severe.

Other than that - go crazy guys. Any problems please just message me and I'll try my best to work it out.



Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Prompt Index

Current Prompt Post | Current Chatter Post | WIP Post | Filled Prompts Post | Searching Post | Orphan Post | Page-a-Mod Post | FAQ | Beta/Concrit Post

[livejournal.com profile] cabin_pressure | Cabin Pressure @ AO3 | IRC Chat @ irc.ecnet.org #FittonATC

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FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 1/?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-07 07:47 pm UTC (link)
Yeah, so I said this might be a while, but damn you anon, your prompt just wouldn't leave me alone! (and I do so adore awkward!Martin, even more so paired with an awkward!Henry =} ). Hope this is what you were after...

*

It took a lot of nerves for Henry to ask Martin out to dinner. He stammered his way through an offering of a date, his hands sweaty and shaking as he talked, setting himself up for rejection with every word he managed to pronounce. Even with the buzz of euphoria (He said yes! He said yes!), this was soon followed by the distressed realisation that he had absolutely no idea about how to go about what was apparently to everyone else such simple social protocol.

Their first date is middle of the road by most stretches of the imagination. Not that it doesn't work out: Martin stands awkwardly in a smart shirt and jeans at the time they set, and Henry thinks he looks amazing, tugging on his own cuffs and feeling inadequate, but when they're seated his nerves disrupt his speech every time his brain calls attention to the fact that he is out on a date with the pilot across from him, his sentences stuttering into each other, giggling anxiously at his own jokes and beating himself up on the inside after every comment (Nice hair?! Nice hair, what the hell were you thinking saying that, you stupid, stupid...). He can tell Martin's as about as wound up as he is; the pilot keeps running his hands through hair, laughing too loudly and a wary tenseness to his posture, as though he expects someone to shout 'April Fools!' at any given moment, eyes darting towards the door for a quick escape should his prophecy come true.

Reservations aside, they manage to make comfortable conversation aside from the perfunctory small talk, and Henry's pleased that they both can relax over talk of flying and aeroplanes, Martin perking up and discussing avidly different types of light aircraft, while Henry interjects with his own preferences. He knew Martin was a pilot of course, and he himself is a fan of planes, especially of older historic models like Lancaster Bombers and Spitfires, but he finds that half the pleasure of the topic is seeing Martin's face flush with excitement, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he makes grand gestures with his hands to add to his argument. He knocks over the salt cellar at one point, immediately halting his demonstration with a look of embarrassment and self-horror, but Henry quickly saves the situation by claiming the cellar as a casualty of warfare, and they both laugh and mimic bomber squadrons with their hands before someone shushes them for being too noisy and they can't help giggling at how childish that was.

They both agreed at the start of the meal that it might be better if they both paid for their own meals, and Martin readily agreed. He orders small and light however, claiming when asked that he isn't really that hungry (although Henry would never have thought it looking at him, skinny as a rake like he was), and shakes his head vehemently when Henry offers to get him something extra. Henry maybe thinks Martin just doesn't want to have to stay any longer than he has to , but as the night goes on, he doubts it somehow; they get on well, and mishaps aside with the seasoning, the night flows by with good conversation, a glass of wine and a water for Martin.

It feels like it's not long before they're putting their coats on to head back home, stepping outside the door of the restaurant. Henry's only in Fitton for a couple of weeks on business, staying at a B&B, so hopes that the darkness of the streets coupled with that one glass of alcohol wont stop him finding his way back to his lodgings.

“Well...” Henry starts gawkily, scuffing his newly polished shoes on the pavement, wishing his trousers had real proper pockets so he could burrow his hands down away from the cold. “I had a-a nice night Martin, thank you.”

The pilot flushes under a street light “Yeah. Me too. Better than expected. I mean – not that I wasn't expecting a nice night, course not, just it was nicer than I had hoped for.”

“We could go back to your place for coffee?” Henry says, then blanches.“I-I-I mean actual coffee, not that weird euphemism for sex people use in films, although if you wanted to, not that I'm asking of course, just if you were interested, but not if we both mean just coffee-coffee, 'cause then we'd just have coffee-coffee and it wouldn't be anything to do with sex, and oh bugger, I'm really making a mess of this aren't I?”

Martin smiles faintly, and touches his arm, clunkily patting it in what is meant to be a comforting action, as though he's been running through the motions of how to establish minor physical contact in his head before actually doing so.

“That'd be nice.” he mumbles self-consciously. “Just... my flat's not the best place...it's a bit...” he scrunches his face up like he's trying to figure out how to word something before he simply blurts out: “It's getting renovated see... so there's all sorts of dust and paints and things like that. Not very good for coffee. It'll end up tasting like plasterboard.”

It doesn't occur to Henry that the man might be ashamed of where he lives. He laughs too high-pitched and bites his lip, the conversation suddenly drying up, silence lingering for a couple of seconds too long to be natural, until he finally manages to say:

“Well, I guess I'll see you again?”

Martin nods fervently, reminding Henry of one of those nodding dogs that you stick on the dashboards of cars, only with a mop of curly ginger hair instead. “I-I'd like that. I'll call if you like? We can meet up again?”

Henry nods, then strays for a moment, rocking on his feet, wondering if this is the point when he should kiss Martin goodbye, not quite sure how to go about it. Is he meant to just go for the cheek? – oh but what if he misses and kisses him on the lips, and that would be too forward, wouldn't it, and that'd make this so much mortifying than it need be. In the end, he gives up, and waving the pilot a goodnight, starts back to the B&B a couple of streets away, thinking Oh god, I am such an idiot to think this might have worked out.

He doesn't expect Martin Crieff to ring him back. Definitely not to clumsily make enquiries about another date.

But he does.

The second date, in contrast to the first, is much better. They go to a movie, and afterwards, they hop over the gates of the park, and they lie on the cold grass, Henry tracing out the constellations he recognises from his night-watching back in Dartmoor, Martin repeating the name of every star with a quiet sort of reverence.

And, when they actually both pluck up the courage to kiss, it becomes – as Arthur Shappy would put it – actually quite brilliant.

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Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 1/?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-08 01:03 am UTC (link)
I AM LOVING THIS SO HARD RIGHT NOW, OMG!

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theimprobable1: (otp)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 1/?


[personal profile] theimprobable1
2012-02-08 10:30 am UTC (link)
Awww, this is adorable!

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chess_ka: (GTI)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 1/?


[personal profile] chess_ka
2012-02-08 12:00 pm UTC (link)
This is so, so brilliant. Very in character and perfectly awkward. I love Henry's panicked thought processes. The image of them going star gazing has left me dead from the cuteness :D

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FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 2a/5?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-09 11:31 pm UTC (link)
This fic has kind of evolved into five segments of different moments in their relationship. This one was meant to be a cheerier MJN centred one, but it wasn't working, so that'll be the next update. This was also intended to be fluffy but turned angsty in the writing. It's Martin. I swear he's a magnet for it.
Faint spoilers for Hounds of Baskerville (Sherlock 2x02)

2. Coming Out – Part 1

There's a knock on the door one Saturday in summer. Henry shifts in Martin's hold, arching his back slightly to stretch and shuffles across closer to his human pillow, burrowing into what corners he finds, snuffling a sleepy 'morning love'. Martin simply groans in a guttural half-awake sound of dissatisfaction, and makes a sleep-deprived version of 'go away' to whoever is at the door, more a burble of sound than anything else, but the intent behind it is clear. That done, he resumes his former position, namely with all of his limbs wrapped around whatever part of Henry he can find in a form of unconscious clingy possessiveness not unlike an octopus. Henry however is used to this enough by now, having stayed over at Martin's enough weekend's to have started to miss the invasion of space when the pilot isn't asleep beside him, and smiles contentedly, feeling slender fingers threading through his ruffled hair.

“If they think I'm getting out of bed at this hour with such a gorgeous man next to me...” Martin buries his head into the nook of Henry's shoulder, snuffling the rest of his words, not quite up to finishing his sentences yet at such an hour of the morning.

“You flying today?” Henry asks. He hasn't yet met the elusive crew of MJN air, but it's the only people he would imagine are paying a visit. The landlord has a distinctive tap-tap-bang-bang knock he does, the severity of the bangs indicating the rate of rent that is yet to be paid, and the students, rare as their visits are, never knock. Henry's found that out on more than one slightly awkward occasion.

The knock comes again, insistent, a bang-bang-bang, followed by a voice.

“Wakey wakey Marty! You just going to leave me waiting out here on the landing?”

The first thing Henry notices with a detached sort of interest is that the caller said 'Marty'. No one he is aware of calls the pilot 'Marty'. The man hates it as a nickname with a scowling unexplained dislike, quick to correct anyone who would try to use it as a diminutive, and it sounds jarring, not bad per se, but like it's not really referring to the lanky young man next to him, like it's meaning someone else.

The second thing Henry notices – because really it would be hard not to – is that Martin stiffens, his entire body stilling as though mimicking wood or a deer in headlights, before he is bolting out of bed with an unnatural speed and roughness, jostling Henry and throwing the covers back as his feet hit the ground.

“Shit.” Martin makes a panicked whimper in his throat. He swears again, and it must be bad, because he rarely swears at anything that isn't serious (Henry's learned to judge the scale of disasters by the level of expletives that Martin uses: 'damn' is burnt the toast bad, moving up through 'for god's sake' (loosing his van keys yet again) and 'bloody hell' (accidents brought on by his inherent clumsiness, like tripping over his own feet and banging his shins on the side of the bed). 'Shit' it seems, is some level of apocalypse akin to losing one of GERTI's wings.)

This panicked Martin is a newer version that Henry's never experienced. His skin isn't flushed and reddening like the slow tidal wave of colour that usually washes up his cheeks in a crisis, and he's not shouting out his distress; if anything, his voice is strained but altogether too quiet, compressed down with great difficultly. Henry would definitely rather have the usual Martin back, because this new one is too strange with its differences, drained pale so his freckles are even more prominent, wringing his hands like he's trying to clean them on the air, bouncing on his feet as though he's weighing up which direction to bolt in. “Maybe if we're quiet, he won't know we're in, he might think we aren't here....”

“I know you're in there Marty!” the voice shouts again. It's almost teasing. “Your landlord said you were up here.”

“C-c-coming.” Martin shouts back to the door, and then throws his hands up in distress, holding his hair in his hands, clumps of ginger curls in his fists, a paroxysm of near terror on his face. He stutters to find the right words, eventually regressing to just swearing again before his brain can kick in with actual speech. “Shit... shit, shit, what am I going to do? Y-You've got to hide, or leave, or... I don't know, vanish, just... you can't be here... Oh god, shit, shit.”

“Why?” Henry's sat up now and wide awake, manoeuvring himself so his legs are dangling over the side of the bed. Any hopes for a Saturday morning lie-in have evaporated with the good mood, and now his main concern lies with his boyfriend, who is pacing in short lines and half circles and paling faster every second, his breathing close to hyperventilating. “What it is? What's wrong?”

“Oh god, it – it's Simon...Simon, my brother, and I never, I never thought he'd even think to come here....He never visits, never, ever, so why now? Why today? ...And oh god, he doesn't know, doesn't know I'm.... a-a-and he's going to find out, and he can't...”

Martin appears to be in the first stages of an oncoming seizure, all trembling hands and the negative shaking of his head as though to deny his own current reality. Granted, the pilot's never been the most stable of characters when it comes to stress, liable just like Henry is to bouts of overriding nervousness when out of his depth, but he's never seen the man so agitated, like he wants suddenly to do nothing other than melt into the plasterboard walls, secrete himself in a small crevice to hide from his brother.

Henry simply does what comes naturally, not quite sure what else he can do to fix this (He only knows he wants Martin to feel safe, to smile at him goofily like he always does, like Henry is the centre of their own small universe, not look like he does now, eyes wide with an inexplicable sort of fear, his words just short of babbling nonsensically in panic).

He stands up from his seated position, placing both his hands on Martin's shoulders; partly to ground him from his erratic motions of moving this way and that, to force him to stand still for simply one moment so they can work this out, so that Henry can help him; partly to reassure him with the contact of another human being inter-cutting his frantic internalizing.

Martin does thankfully slow down, eyes whirling round to meet his boyfriend's, half frightened and half beseeching (and that desire to help, to protect, to be there for the pilot strengthens, billows up, disparate strands of affection plaiting together to forge something stronger. Because Martin does not have to face whatever this is alone, does not have to because Henry will not let him, not now he is here for him).

“He doesn't know you're in a relationship with a man?” Henry murmurs slowly, testing to see if he has guessed correctly. Martin hangs his head, nods miserably.

“I never told my family I was gay.” he whispers. “They wouldn't...wouldn't have approved.”

His stricken face reminds Henry of himself for a moment. Standing in the clearing of the moor, eddies and tides of mist swirling around his ankles, dampening the hems of his trousers, his feet planted on boggy ground not out of choice but out of terror. Steeling himself for something to reach out of the shadows, all teeth and red eyes, some monster to lunge at him without being able to do anything to stop it. Martin has the same frozen look, like a man before the firing squad awaiting his own execution. It is breaking Henry's heart.

The door knocks again, impatient now.

Someone saved Henry from his demons. Brought them out into the clear light of day to see what they really were, that there was nothing to be frightened of, that it could be defeated.

And now Henry will do the same for Martin.

“I can hide if you want me to,” he says quietly, moving in close and meeting Martin's eyes, “I will, if it makes you happy. But do you want to be doing this all your life? Hiding from the things you're frightened of?” (Henry thinks of dark moors, and his father screaming, and the panting, growling breaths of the hound bearing down on him) “Or do you want to face them, right here, with me?”

“I-” Martin glances around wildly “I-I don't know...”

“Are you ashamed of me Martin?” Henry asks suddenly. There is no volume in his words. No anger or interrogation, it's not demanding anything. The pilot frowns, surprised at the frankness of the question, evidently confused but understanding seeping gradually into his expression.

When Henry asks whether he is ashamed of him, he does not mean just him as a man, he isn't asking whether Martin is embarrassed about him as a boyfriend. Instead, it encompasses everything they stand for – their relationship, their loyalty to one another, their right to choose who they want to live, Martin's right to love who he wants. 'Are you ashamed of me Martin?' means by extension 'Are you ashamed of what we have Martin?' and 'Are you ashamed of who you are Martin?'. And the pilot has an answer for these questions.

“No...” Martin replies tentatively, like it's a realisation to him, being almost comfortable in his own skin, panic receding from its manic manifestation into more an undercurrent of stress calmed from its turbulence by Henry's words. “No. I'm not. Not of you. Never.” He takes Henry's hand from his shoulder, and holds it in his own grasp resolutely, the grip tight and firm. “I am not ashamed of you, a-and I am not ashamed of us.”

He leans forward, resting his forehead against Henry's for a second, forcing his breathing to slow, readying himself for the storm.

“I am not ashamed of us.” he repeats.

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FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 2b/5?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-09 11:34 pm UTC (link)
Simon laughs of course when Martin opens the door, more out of shock than anything else. The pilot stands tensely at the door, teeth grinding out the perfunctory greetings of hello, and behind him saying nothing at all is the third man in all of this, Henry, still dressed in a t-shirt and boxer shorts and looking quite rightly like he's just got out of bed.

Simon grins mockingly at first, like the scene is a comedy one of accident and bad timing, where one party says 'It's not what it looks like!' and the other humiliates them mercilessly with poor jokes in bad taste. And then he realises that in this scene no-one will be laughing or playing the fool, that it is serious, that Martin is holding another man's hand so tightly his knuckles stain white.

“Simon. This is Henry.” Martin shifts on his feet and a small fluttering of bravado causes him to raise his head from where he's been trying to coil in on himself, fixing his older brother's gaze. “He's my boyfriend.”

Simon's blooming disgusted expression makes him want to shrink down into nothingness. His brother starts then. Like he had expected. Disbelief and anger, the twin emotions mirrored in every word he now speaks; vicious and cutting and designed to maim. It is only Henry's hand grasped tight in his own that stops him from running away, and even as Simon's words grow crueller, louder, drenched in disappointment and derision, (“It's fucking sick Marty, you know that? There must be something wrong with you – always thought there was, you fucking queer”) the other man's hand still remains, squeezing back.

I am here, that hold promises. I am not leaving. I will never leave.

“I-I think you should go Simon.” Martin stutters out in a trembling voice thick with hurt (and they're only words that Simon is saying he knows, that they mean nothing, that they are wrong, they are ignorant, but they are words that dredge up every inadequacy he's ever held that his brother knew how to manipulate, all his failures, all his weaknesses). He can feel Henry standing a sentinel next to him, and he finds his voice getting louder slightly, his boyfriend's presence giving him the courage he needs. “Leave. Please.”

Simon sneers. “Jesus you're pathetic aren't you? Always a disappointment to everyone Marty. Wonder what Dad would have said if he knew his youngest son was a bloody poof...”

“You will leave.” Martin says again, shakily, blinking rapidly, unable to meet Simon's eyes. Stop talking, he thinks, please, please, it hurts and I can't hear any more because then I might start to think that maybe you are right after all.

“I don't think you are wanted here anymore.” Henry steps in coolly, moving to stand closer to Martin and nearer to the door, a pseudo-barrier between his boyfriend and Simon. The older Crieff brother is taller than Martin, a threatening figure formed with all the indications of anger, and any other situation would have Henry stammering and apologetically trying to request him leaving as politely as possible, if he barely even spoke at all. But this man isn't deserving of his courtesy. This man is saying all those words, all those horrible, nasty, bruising words, to Martin, wounding him, dragging him down when the two of them have worked so hard bolstering each other up against the damages the world gave them. “So get out.”

“You dare try and tell me what to do, you little...” Simon starts, furious, but a voice from the little landing just prior to the last ten steps up to the attic room cuts through.

“Hey!”

Henry looks over Simon's shoulder. A cluster of students have seemingly been roused by the intruder's shouting, and have gathered in a show of solidarity, intent on doing something about it. It was Terry that shouted, a six-foot punk with a spiked red Mohawk and thick soled leather boots, and although Henry knows he's one of the quietest of the group through their fleeting acquaintance as they pass on the stairs when Henry's visiting, he certainly looks the most physically imposing of the lot of them.

Terry directs his next question at Henry now he's got his attention.

“This guy causing you trouble, Henry? You want us to get rid of him for you?” He flicks his head at Simon, who appears all of a sudden less vocal than he was before with the appearance of six or seven protective students, gathered in a mob-like group with a threat clear in their offer. There is a blush of warmth at the centre of Henry's heart, and he thinks with a certain amount of pleasure that for a man who seemed so isolated, Martin obviously does have people to care for him in their own way, who are willing to stick up for him, defend him at a moment's notice.

“It's alright, Terry.” Henry calls back down, then glares daggers back at the elder Crieff brother. Martin's hand is grasping and sweaty in his own. “Simon here was just leaving.”

His tone brooks no argument, and Simon growls before deciding he'd rather not take his chances staying, not when he's outnumbered and outmatched. Terry most definitely looks like he'd do some damage if he got into a fight.

“You've made your choice.” he hisses at Martin who quails faintly under such a venomous gaze. “Just don't expect any support from me.”

“I never did.” Martin glances up at his brother, and there is misery in his eyes even as he readjusts his grip on Henry's hand to reassure himself. “So go.”

Simon turns tail, striding down the stairs without looking back at his younger brother, and as he does so, Henry watches as the students jostle over to let him past, before huddling round to block his return, a moving barricade that makes to usher him quickly out of the house. Terry looks very tempted to push him down the stairs as he goes, and gives Henry a nod and a quick concerned once-over of a trembling Martin before following the group to make sure that the job's done properly and that he wont be coming back. Henry half imagines they'll put a mug-shot of his face on the fridge in order to recognise him if he comes round again and to bar him from the premises.

“Are you ok?” Henry murmurs, focusing his full attention onto Martin, a limp and exhausted statue, pallid and quiet. The man shakes his head silently, and there are tears in his eyes that are starting to spill over onto his cheeks, and Henry doesn't think as he pulls his boyfriend into a rough hug, trying to tell him without saying anything that he wishes he could make this better, he wishes he could help this hurt less. Martin clings to him like a drowning man, fingers digging into his back, clutching to him like they're one person, like there aren't any gaps between the two of them to make them distinct and separate.

“I will be.” Martin says into the space between Henry's neck and shoulder, breathing out a soft sigh. He isn't shaking anymore. “Just.. stay with me?”

Henry smiles gently, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Always, love.”

He feels Martin smile against him. It's a start at least.

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Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 2b/5?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-10 09:15 am UTC (link)
Oh. Oh. OH!

My heart. *points at floor* You've broken it...

This was downright beautiful, and quite the rollercoaster of emotions. Bemusement at first for Martin's unexplained panic, helplessness at his desparation, anger at Simon (for a short while I hoped that Simon would be appalled at his brother's fearful reaction, because while he still behaved like an utter ass towards his little brother, Martin should know that Simon wouldn't be THAT cruel. Cue h/c. *sighs*), elation at the protective!students (that was glorious! "... Martin obviously does have people to care for him in their own way, who are willing to stick up for him, defend him at a moment's notice." I melted. ), and finally heartache for Martin's misery... Very well done, though now I'll start the day with tear reddened eyes. Ah well.

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Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 2b/5?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-13 04:39 pm UTC (link)
I'm sorry about your heart! *passes over glue frantically* I'll try and make it so that the next chapter is much happier? And I absolutely adored writing protective!students, so they might be appearing in part two =)
Thanks for reviewing, and I'm glad you liked it.

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chess_ka: (GTI)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 2b/5?


[personal profile] chess_ka
2012-02-10 12:04 pm UTC (link)
Oh God, my heart! The whiplash mood change from being warm and sleepy and panicked worked so well here.

Martin, poor dear Martin, I just want to hug him and tell him there's nothing wrong with him and it's all going to be okay. But ahhh, thank God for Henry and his quiet support. He's so wonderful! (The students were pretty good too :D)

I love the parallels you drew between Henry's terror on the moors and Martin's fear of Simon - beautifully done, and really showed how strong and compassionate Henry is. Can't wait for more!

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Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 2b/5?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-13 04:42 pm UTC (link)
Thank you for your review! I felt a little bad for putting him through the wringer like that (which I seem to do every time I fill someone's prompt on this meme) but he has Henry, so he'll be ok. =)

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theimprobable1: (otp)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 2b/5?


[personal profile] theimprobable1
2012-02-10 06:44 pm UTC (link)
*hugs Martin* I'm so glad he has Henry! It was great to see him and the students stand up for Martin. I'm eagerly awaitng more!

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Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 2b/5?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-13 04:43 pm UTC (link)
Thank you! I'll be hopefully posting more soon.

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FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3a/5?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-13 09:02 pm UTC (link)
Thanks for all the kind reviews! Here's part 2 (and yes, I brought Martin's students back from part 1, I just couldn't help myself =])

Part 2, The Family

Douglas considers himself quite fluent in the body language of a certain Martin Crieff. Granted, he's not a mind-reader, (though he professes to be often just to rile up his captain), but being cramped in a small cockpit together for hours and hours on end lends itself well to being able to strike up friendships. While the nervy up-tight captain didn't first appear to be the sort that Douglas would easily get on with, neurotic and uptight as he first appeared, they’ve made their own odd friendship, the two of them. Their original doubts regarding the others air-worthiness have been smelted down from their original animosity and forged anew in word games and bad jokes and those few talks they have in the seclusion of the cockpit; when they're staring at the immovable horizon and revealing ever so slowly the patched up places in their characters, the black marks and the burrowed dissatisfactions.

There are things Douglas will never repeat to anyone else, locked up in the black box of his head: how seeing his children so little hurts sometimes, how they're finding other figures in their stepfather's that they call 'Dad' instead of him, other men to patch up grazed knees and tell them stories, and that pain like a crack down the centre of his sternum that never really lessens.

Yet over the years, he's found himself telling Martin: about Helena, his daughters, his drinking. It tumbles out when he can't keep it in any more, can't hold his head up and pretend that it doesn't affect him, pretend he's the all powerful sky god because some days he feels very very human and filled with all the regrets and hurts that that humanity entails. Martin is an oddly suitable sounding board, curiously attuned about his first officer's moods when it's something Douglas really needs to get off his chest, and Douglas knows with an iron-clad certainty that whatever he tells Martin will never be repeated outside of the cockpit. He didn't know truly until that night when the captain turned up at his door, unwittingly stumbling into his personal web of lies, the extra epaulettes and Helena's misconception of his rank. His eyes had widened, speech stuttered slightly and Douglas had fully expected Martin to say something. For the man to whom the belief that he was the captain was paramount above all else, that moment had been the perfect chance to get one up on Douglas, after all the taunting and teasing, after always coming second best in everyone’s eyes.

But Martin went home that night without saying anything at all. And in the months that follow, Douglas finds his trust for his captain growing, not something he'll ever admit to, not something that he'll ever let Martin know out loud, but it recalibrates his views of the man, learning to look past the regulations and to-the-letter accordance to the rules, and instead seeing a young man who is quietly just desperate to seen as something other than a failure, but resigned to a lifetime of never achieving it.

And just as Douglas is aware that Martin will never repeat what he tells him, so he makes himself a promise that the failings that Martin admits over the hum of the engines and in the light of the skyline will never be added to his arsenal of teasing. When Martin mumbles out his money troubles, the constant struggle to stay financially afloat, the poor relationship with his father, Douglas nods and stores these facts away, never to be said aloud with the company of anyone else.

It is because Douglas knows the younger pilot so well that he notices that over the past number of months, something has changed in the man. The changes are slow growing, so subtle at all that if Douglas hadn't been as attuned to Martin as he was, he may not have noticed them at all. They move slowly, like a steady erosion, but they are certainly there, making their mark without fuss.

Douglas notices one day when they've stopped over at a hotel in Köln ( Carolyn being cheap enough to only pay for one room with two single beds) that Martin's definitely put on weight as the captain pulls a t-shirt over his head as he changes into his nightwear. The younger man is never going to be big, his bone structure never anything other than skinny with jutting out hips and sharp elbows, but it doesn't look like Douglas can play the xylophone across his ribs anymore. The older man notes with a paternal satisfaction that the pilot has stopped needing to use a belt to hold his uniform trousers up about his waist, and wonders whether the van business is going through a boom season. The younger man still devours the hotel breakfast with the vivacity of a hoover of course, but Douglas supposes that old habits die hard, and at least it's no longer with that half-starved desire to hoard as much food as possible to deal with the lack of it later on.

He also smiles more. That's one of the things Douglas notices the most. He appears almost eager to finish up the flight-plans and paperwork to return back to his flat – a tiny dingy affair by any stretch of the imagination from what Martin's told him about it – making Douglas wonder why exactly Martin would be so happy to be going back to what he imagines is a glorified broom cupboard. He also checks his mobile for messages as soon they land at their destination, flicking the brick of a model several years too old on and tapping his fingers while waiting for the start-up screen to fade.

Whatever he receives (and there never appears to be a day when there isn't something awaiting him, the quiet 'ting' of a message in his inbox, or even an automated call informing him of a voicemail), it makes his whole face light up as he reads or listens to what is there, his worry lines smoothing out, any foul mood or jittery irritation if the flight hasn't gone too good dissipating into nothing as though it was never there. The look on his face sticks with Douglas. He remembers he used to smile at his wives like that.

It's the look of someone stupidly and hopelessly in love. God help him.

He mentions this to Carolyn after a flight, when they're both watching Martin grin to himself as he walks over to his battered old van to go back home. She's of course noticed it as well, eagle-eyed and world-wise as she is, but upon converging both of their data on the recent changes in their usually luckless captain, neither of them appear to know the identity of this mysterious romantic partner. Martin has been strangely tight-lipped on the matter: Douglas would have thought that when the man who was so often unfortunate in most aspects of his existence finally managed to pull someone and keep them, he wouldn't have stopped talking about his new-found happiness for days and days, beaming with pride and generally conveying all the soppy romantic sentiments usually reserved for twittering pre-teens.

“They seem to be making him happy,” Carolyn says thoughtfully as they observe the van shuddering away off the airfield, “but I still wish we knew who it was. I want to be sure he's being treated right. Just as his employer, you understand.” she adds with a stern look at Douglas when he raises an eyebrow. “It's my duty as CEO to know about these things. I can't have my pilot's doing anything stupid like falling in love if they've chosen an unsuitable partner, who is just out to break their heart and make them therefore unfit to fly. It's bad for crew morale. ”

Douglas finally gets his chance to assuage his curiosity about the source of Martin's sudden change in attitude when, after a flight back to Fitton, he notices Martin has left his captain's hat on top of the altimeter (with the usual indulgence of gold-braid smothering almost any hint of navy fabric). Seeing his chance, he gets the pilot's address off Carolyn, the older woman choosing to keep her silence on the matter and handing it over with a sharp look that makes its own demands on how the information is used, and drives over in his Lexus to Parkview Terrace.

“I'm here to see Martin.” he tells the student who answers the door; a tall red haired punk with a leather jacket who studies him critically, a sullen defensive look rising on his face.

“What d'ya want with him?” the student questions gruffly, arms folded. Douglas doesn't really feel like he has time for the Spanish Inquisition, not really intimidated by the ensemble before him (he's survived med school and Air England, there is nothing this man can do that would scare him), and so sighs at the man theatrically, bringing the hat forward and spinning round in his hands.

“He does get awfully antsy without his hat,” he supplies, trying not to sound too sarcastic, though it's difficult to break a habit of a lifetime. “I am simply dropping by to see him and return his property.”

“You a friend of his?” The young man apparently isn't letting him though, if anything moving further to the door arch to block any view of the inside of the premises. It's like dealing with the house guard dog, Douglas thinks, getting slightly annoyed at having to stand outside in the cold, stamping his feet slightly and shifting his weight, recalling fondly the heated air conditioning back in his Lexus.

“I'm his co-pilot.” he bites out, “I spend five days a week trapped in a small metal box with the man, I think it'd be a poor effort on both our parts if we hadn't struck up some sort of an accord. Now, are we finished playing twenty questions? Or do you need to frisk me first before I'm allowed to cross over the threshold?”

“Who is it,Terry?” A female voice shouts from a door off to the left.

“Friend of Martin's.” The student – Terry – shouts as a reply, giving Douglas another serious once over with his eyes, before calling back, “It's ok, he's safe.”

“Sorry 'bout that.” he grunts as an apology to Douglas, moving to one side to let him into the entrance of the student house, the hallway decorated with photos of what he guesses is the students, all gathered in various smiling positions; some at parties, some at day trips etc. Douglas smirks as he catches a clearly uncomfortable Martin being dragged into the frame of some of them. “Had a small bit of trouble couple of weeks back.” Terry gestures up the stairs right in front of them with a nod. “Third floor, first door at the top.”

Douglas wants to ask what exactly constitutes as 'a small bit of trouble', but consigns the question away for a later date, his focus mainly on the answers to a stronger curiosity, and makes his way up the stairs. It's hard going – Douglas wonders exactly how many stairs it is possible to squeeze inside one house – and the top floor when he gets to it is dark, the only light bleeding out in through the gap between the floor and the bottom of the door on the left.

Douglas knocks, and then knocks again after a few moments when there's no response. He can hear music seeping out through the door, and the indeterminable mumble of voices washing over it, and assumes Martin hasn't heard him. He hasn't come this far to go back, so, with hat held in his hand, he tries the handle of the door, and, finding it unlocked, heads inside.

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FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3b/5?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-13 09:05 pm UTC (link)
The flat is as small as he expected. There's a battered sofa-bed squished over on the far side as he walks into what he assumes is the main living room, the duvet folded into a neat pile against the side, pillows leant up alongside them, a baulky TV on a wooden stand marking the other side of the wall. It's barely bigger than Douglas' entrance hallway with the addition of the furniture. There is a surprising number of books to accompany this however, a rickety floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that appears to be propping up the walls overstuffed with cheap paperbacks, well-used with bent spines jutting out, an overspill down at the bottom, with piled collections of novels raised up like little islands from the floor.

A CD player has been plugged into the wall socket, the newest thing in the flat, whose wallpaper where it still hangs looks like it's been plucked straight from the seventies, definitely not belonging to Martin, too sleek and new, months rather than decades old. The music he heard echoes of out on the landing plays out strong and clear; something folksy, built up with a steady beat of a guitar being strummed and sounding out a regular tempo, the quick notes of a fiddle darting in and out of a traditional ballad.

In the centre of the room is the captain he was searching for. Barefoot on the worn wooden floor, ginger hair all messy and unbrushed, he is holding someone else in a tentative grasp, one hand at their hips and the other held out to one side. It appears as though the stranger is teaching him to dance. Douglas adds this to his list of teasing material, the image of the flat-footed captain planting his feet this way and that and stumbling over them in an effort to co-ordinate himself. The gods, he thinks, are smiling down on Douglas Richardson today for delivering him such a gift.

“This is the worst possible music you could have picked.” he hears Martin half-heartedly complain. “It's too fast.”

“Just because you can't dance, love.” replies the decidedly male voice. Douglas has a moment of blinking in faint surprise before this fact is quickly accepted and assimilated. It's not like it really matters what sex he is. “I'll have you know, this is some classic folk. Perfect for dancing.”

“Maybe when drunk. You just like the artist's because he's from Dartmoor.” Martin grumbles, but it's clear he's not serious, stamping his foot to the beat on the music player, swaying not with grace but certainly with enthusiasm. “I think you're only doing this to show off your fancy footwork.”

“Would I?” the voice laughs, and then lets out a high-pitched shriek as Martin swings him all the way down, nearly losing his footing and scrabbling to hold onto his partner, the captain grinning with the sort of active contentment Douglas has rarely seen grace his face. It's.... nice to see Martin so calm. Relaxed. Dare he say it in his cynical old heart, but verging on blissfully happy.

He's loathe to break up what is clearly a display only meant for two people, but he can't stand there watching any longer without interrupting, feeling more an intruder than an impromptu visitor, so coughs loudly.

Both of them jump, and Martin whirls round at the sudden intrusion.

The expression that flits across his face makes Douglas wish for a moment he had never come. That he'd waited to give the hat back, that he hadn't been so intent on appeasing his own wondering nature. Because in that split second, he understands exactly why Martin didn't say anything to him, didn't say anything to Carolyn or Arthur, why he didn't share the source of his happiness when it was so obviously the best thing to happen in so long. The emotion that makes itself quickly so prevalent is not shock or surprise, it's darker, reaches deeper, a twisted gnawing thing that knots up Douglas' words for a moment.

When Martin catches sight of Douglas, flinching as he sees who is standing there, it is despair that so colours his face into a near-white complexion. He stares at Douglas fearfully like he's waiting for some sort of reaction, and it occurs to Douglas that this moment might have happened before, another set of eyes staring on with judgement, another damning sentence to the sight before them. It's just two men dancing, Douglas knows, two men stupidly twee and sickeningly affectionate, but it's not like that to other people. Other people who maybe didn't know to keep their mouth shut and opinions to themselves, who maybe told Martin exactly how much it disgusted them, how disappointed they were.

And of course Martin thinks that this will simply be another version of that.

The music clicks off, the final track on the CD. Martin says nothing, his whole body tensed up (and that hurts Douglas, knowing that Martin is waiting for him to start playing judge and jury, knowing that his friend thinks that this is the cornerstone of some ruin that his subsequent words will build, that Douglas will walk out and say nothing, or make some cutting remark and all of it liable to break down the faint barriers he can't sustain against such deliberate aim). The other man moves to one side, coming clearer into focus; about Martin's age, dark haired, stubble coating down the sides of his face and under his chin, shifting nearer to the pilot almost unconsciously.

“You forgot your hat.” Douglas breaks the silence first, bringing the article up for both men to see. “Dear me, Martin, it wouldn't do for your young man to not see you in your finest. I do hope you've been putting that uniform to some good use.” He smirks, and Martin blinks, a frown creasing his forehead. He wasn't expecting that, it's achingly obvious.

“Er... T-thanks.” he stutters, shuffling forward and retrieving the hat outstretched in his first officer's hand, cautiously, as though he expects Douglas to bite, waiting for that moment he is so sure he coming.

“You not going to do introductions?” Douglas asks after the tense quiet gets too much for him to deal with, the pilot still staring at him like he's an unexploded bomb. Good grief, is Martin not going to get the memo that he really couldn't care two hoots about the gender of his partner. “Or am I going to have to guess the name of this fine gentlemen?”

“Em,” Martin blinks again, this time in surprise, the damnation he is clearly waiting for never comes. “Er... yeah... Douglas, this is Henry. Henry, Douglas.”

“Pleasure to finally meet you.” Douglas steps forward, and holds out his hand, which the newly introduced Henry shakes politely but warily. The handshake is firm however, not nervous or sweaty, that's always a good sign. “Martin's been rather secretive about your existence, you must forgive an old first officer's curiosity in wishing to discover whether you actually existed.”

“Martin's mentioned you.” Henry says, and then a smile crinkles into something more filled with humour, “Are you the same Douglas of Birling Day fame?”

The rest of the night is taken up regaling an interested Henry and a protesting Martin with some of his Air England stories, embellishing the MJN tales at every turn just so Martin can pipe up with an indignant 'That's not what happened!. He also tries subtly to find out more about the quiet dark haired young man, slate grey eyes self-conscious as he answers Douglas' questions. Henry Knight, (and oh, Douglas is going to have so much fun making 'knight in shining armour' jokes) it turns out, seems to be every bit the gentleman he first appeared, and as Martin relaxes, it is clear that the affection the pilot holds for him is very much reciprocated. Douglas pretends not to notice the exchanges the two pass between each other like their own language of code, corners of lips quirking up in a smothered smile, fond words and soft trailing touches when Henry passes Martin a cup of tea in a green mug before he gives Douglas the next mug, and Martin nigh on glows whenever Henry absent-mindedly calls him 'love'. But see them the first officer does, and each one lightens his heart. He remembers what it was like to have someone look at him like that.

“You wouldn't be a wonder, and get me a glass of water, would you Martin?” he asks part way through the night. It's getting late, but before he goes, there are some things he needs to attend to first. His duty as a first officer as it were.

Martin appears confused, but nonetheless nods, and taking out the empty tea mugs, moves off into the tiny kitchenette to the side out of the way. Leaving Douglas alone with Henry.

Douglas shifts in his seat on the sofa, and looks seriously at the young man.

“I suppose you know that this is probably the moment where I'm meant to give you 'The Talk',” he puts the final two words in air quotations, talking low in case Martin is listening in (to be honest, there isn't actually that much space between the kitchenette and the living room) “And granted, I usually would do. I don't pretend I know you very well, but I know Martin enough to say that he's had a hard enough time in his life to deserve a bit of a break.”

Henry moves his head in a unspoken affirmation, but remains quiet, leaning forward in his seat, sensing there is more to come. Douglas continues briskly.

“You're good for him. Any idiot with eyes can see that. And if you're making him happy, that's good enough for me.” His eyes harden, and the even lower voice that follows is the voice of a father, who knows what it is to have children and see them grow up and fall in love, what it is to want to protect them from the ways their hearts can hurt them. “But if you do anything to change my high opinion of you, then I don't have to tell you that I will make you regret it if you hurt him.”

“I understand.” Henry says, and Douglas is pleased by the honesty in the young man's voice. He seems a decent enough lad. “But you have nothing to worry about. I wont hurt him. Ever.”

“Glad to hear it.” Douglas replies, and gives a short nod of his head in recognition of the other man's words. “Then I entrust him into your hands.” He hears Martin's feet scuffing the floor as he makes his way back into the room, and raises his voice, adding a joking tone to it. “Just make sure that you two don't play too rough, mind you. I'll know if sir finds it hard to sit down when he's flying.”

“Douglas!” Martin's voice is scandalised, red heating up his face, as he holds the full glass of water in his hands. Henry goes a faint pink as well, coughing akwkardly. The two are clearly well matched in their embarrassment.

Douglas stands, brushing out the creases in his uniform trousers.

“I'd better be heading off. It's getting late, and I'm sure you two have things to do that require my absence.” He winks at Martin, and the pilot flushes a deeper crimson. He relishes the next flight they have together. He's thinks he'll try and set a personal best for how many innuendo’s he can make in one journey, maybe make a word game of it. The mere idea promises to have entertainment levels that far exceed that of even the Travelling Lemon. “Night Martin. See you on Monday.”

Martin stammers out a quick goodbye, clearly wondering why he had gone to get Douglas a drink when he was so quick to say his farewells. Douglas closes the door of the small flat behind him, pulling his coat further around him, and checking his car keys in his pocket.

“What was he saying to you?” he hears Martin asks worriedly through the door. Henry chuckles fondly as a response.

“Nothing to concern yourself over, love.” the other man says, fondness evident in his tone. “He was just making sure I wasn't going to run off with your fortune, you being the poor pure maiden and I, the charming rogue, intent on taking advantage of your innocence.”

“He didn't!”

“No. But you'll never know for sure will you, fair maiden?”

“I am definitely not the maiden here.”

“You're quite right. No maiden is so poor at dancing.”

“Hey! Come here, you!”

Douglas walks away then back down the stairs, away from the sound of laughter, and cries of 'Stop!', seemingly from Henry as he squeals and laughs uncontrollably while gasping for breath, Martin replying “Never knew you were so ticklish for a charming rogue”. The first officer smiles fondly as he leaves. His work here is done.

Martin will be ok. Douglas is sure of it.

But he will definitely be expecting a wedding invitation when the time comes.

Douglas' smile widens as he wonders exactly how scarlet Martin will go if he tells him that. He'll have to find out.

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theimprobable1: (otp)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3b/5?


[personal profile] theimprobable1
2012-02-13 09:49 pm UTC (link)
*happy sigh* I love paternal!Douglas.

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Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3b/5?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-13 10:02 pm UTC (link)
Paternal!Douglas is my personal favourite, so I just had to include him here. :-)
(And wow, I've just noticed your Henry/Martin icon - it's fantastic!)

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chess_ka: (GTI)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3b/5?


[personal profile] chess_ka
2012-02-13 11:48 pm UTC (link)
Oh oh oh oh. This is perfect. *Tears her own Martin/Henry fic to shreds and stamps on it*

What you are doing with words here makes my heart happy. The way you chart the changes in Martin and Douglas' friendship, Douglas' recognition of the trust they have, it's just beautiful. And oh, Henry teaching Martin to dance! They are so beautifully adorable and affectionate together, and I love how Douglas realises how good Henry is for Martin.

*Crosses fingers for awkwardly sweet wedding*

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Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3b/5?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-14 01:02 pm UTC (link)
Again, thank you so much for your lovely comments - but really, don't rip up your own work! This pairing is so small we need every fic can, and I for one would love to read any Henry/Martin fic you've written, considering I really can't get enough of these guys =)

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Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3b/5? - (Anonymous), 2012-02-14 03:31 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3b/5?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-14 08:27 pm UTC (link)
Lovely update! I really enjoyed seeing Douglas’s perspective on both his and Martin’s friendship (particularly this: learning to look past the regulations and to-the-letter accordance to the rules, and instead seeing a young man who is quietly just desperate to seen as something other than a failure, but resigned to a lifetime of never achieving it) as well as on Martin and Henry’s relationship.

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Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3b/5?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-15 02:17 pm UTC (link)
Thank you very much =)

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FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 4/6


(Anonymous)
2012-02-15 02:16 pm UTC (link)
3. Nightmares

They are ok some days, the nightmares. Sometimes, he drifts off in a hazy cocoon of warmth, a sleeping body pressed up next to him, and his head is blissfully quiet, a blank slate that is peaceful in its absence of anything at all. Or else his night is filled with the scattered normal dreams that everyone else has – the fragmented conversations, the seemingly normal scenarios, the bizarre ones with wings or super-powers or set back when he was at school – normal manifestations of an active subconscious. Every one of those nights is a small but solid success to him.

They are more common than they were before, and he's still getting used to the novelty of managing a full nights sleep without being disturbed. He hasn't visited his therapist since he saw the dog – the real dog, smaller than he would have thought, not glowing, not with fearful red eyes, not readying to rip him limb from limb – lying with a bullet in its head, his trials over after so many years of wallowing within a limbo of crippling self-doubt and a tattered emotional stability. Any after-care he has needed has been subtlety been taken over by Martin without the man even realising it, the companionship, the solidarity, and he wonders what the therapist would have said if he told her that a prescription of some of Martin's kisses have done far more for his anxiety issues than any of her pills did.

But the old dreams still come back, like a scar that will never truly heal, new skin threading over it but the tissue still mismatched in shade from the surrounding flesh. It might always be there in some way.

And tonight they are bad.

His own breathe exhales out in front of him, billowing in the cold, and in his head is the slaughterhouse screams of his father, struggling, writhing, agony ripped out from his hoarse throat – it is just a man, he tells himself, just a man you will see there – but when he looks, it is the hound that stares back. Charcoal fur matted with dirt and blood, growling with a death knell, low and threatening, slobber dripping from a scarlet maw in which vicious teeth are sharpened to points – it is not real, it was never there – and it barks once before it lunges at him. Claws shredding the sleeve of his jacket, swiping across his face, through skin as though it's tissue paper, and he's screaming in pain and fear, and he wants it to stop, wants to shout for his dad, but the man is already lying dead on the boggy ground, and Henry is so so alone as the hound's foul teeth clamp around his throat...

He wrenches his eyes open. The imagery of the hound, the stench of its breath on his face, the copper tang in the air, all fade into an unbroken dark. There is no death here.

I am not in Dartmoor anymore, he reassures himself, slowing his breathing, working on regulating the rhythm so he can get his breath back, I am safe.

He tells himself this, but his heartbeat is still erratically fast, fight-or-flight instinct well and truly kicking in, sweat sheening across the skin of his forehead. And though he knows there is nothing there, his eyes scan the darkness for what he is so sure is going to jump out at him, tear him down, rip him up.

There is a shifting beside him, a creak as the sofa bed dips and moans, and he looks around to see Martin open his eyes, bleary and thick with sleep to squint at Henry. A soft frown creases his forehead as he realises what must have woken Henry.

Martin knows that some nights there are dreams like this that will wake Henry up with a cry in his throat and a shivering through his body that is not from the cold, but he has never yet asked what happened all those years ago, and Henry is not quite sure he is ready to explain to anyone quite yet, the wounds too raw still and the words too hard to say. Martin had smiled in his own self-conscious way when Henry had stumbled over his sentences in an effort to put his request not to pry into words, and said quietly that if Henry ever wanted to talk about it, he would be there to listen, and if not, then he would gladly wait until the other man was ready even if he never found out what it was.

Wordlessly, the pilot shuffles nearer, wrapping one heavy arm over the other man and pulling him in close so that there is barely any gap between them. His fingers whisper across Henry's wrist before they find his shaking hand, and he laces Henry's fingers with his own and draws it against the other man's chest in a near approximation of a one armed hug. Henry knows that he'll wake up in the morning with the pilot draped all over him, tangling their legs up, erasing any concept of space between them. That is never a bad thing, he smiles to himself, as Martin presses a sleepy kiss to a spot above Henry's ear, murmuring a “G' back to sleep” barely understandable it's so quiet.

The pilot falls steadily back to sleep within a few minutes, emitting light snores against Henry's neck, burrowing nearer as though trying to absorb any body heat he can by maximising proximity. It must have been a long flight yesterday, Henry thinks, and he resolves to let the man have a lie in the morning (or later today, as it technically is) for as long as possible. Henry doesn't look round for fear of jostling the man and waking him up, but he knows what he'd see if he did: Martin with his mouth slightly open, his face withholding none of the stresses and concerns it does in waking hours, nuzzled into his neck in his usual overtly affectionate manner.

It's too late for Henry to worry that he's stupidly, hopelessly in love with this man.

Martin, who hogs the bed space, clutching limpet-like at sources of heat, who drives a beaten-up van that runs on jump-leads and the power of hope, who lives in a miserable attic that Henry's somehow started to consider a second home, without fuss moving in his CD player, some of his books (nothing like Martin's collection of course – the man could start a small library), his clothes hanging in the wardrobe and his shaving foam in the bathroom cabinet.

Martin, who smiles like he's discovering how to for the first time, who when they're on the sofa watching a film will run his fingers through Henry's hair or interlock their fingers and at random intervals will press his lips to the side of Henry's head when he thinks he's gone to sleep. Martin, with his grin always achingly wide, eyes surprised when Henry kisses him without cause or tells him he loves him, as though he doesn't quite believe yet someone is talking to him and only to him. Henry gets the feeling that Martin's never received much in terms of verbal and physical affection before.

That bothers him sometimes, when Martin has dark moments of self-doubt, when he is so sure he will wake up one morning and Henry wont be there, or when they fight about stupid insignificant things and the pilot thinks that means Henry will leave him, that he's done something wrong and ruined this; a distraught look that spiders across his face that makes Henry forget about their fight immediately and tell him Of course, I'm not leaving, love. Stuck with me now, aren't you? It makes him angry – not at Martin, never, never at Martin – when these moments show up how insecure the pilot is about this, how all his relationships before seem to have let him down or used him, before it just bolsters his own firm resolve to stay as long as Martin will have him, to take up space in the bathroom and use the hot water and share half the bed, to make this beautiful man know exactly how much he is loved.

Henry takes longer to drift off back to sleep, shaking off wakefulness and succumbing to his own tired body's wishes. Any recollections of the nightmare are now blunted by the enveloping hold around him, the heartbeat he can feel pressed up against his back, the sensation of feeling completely and utterly protected.

I am safe, he thinks again, and this time knows it's true.

He dozes off into a dreamless nothingness, not to the snarls of a growling hound or his father screaming, but to Martin breathing softly in his sleep.


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Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 4/6


(Anonymous)
2012-02-15 02:48 pm UTC (link)
I want to take this to bed and cuddle it like Martin clutching to Henry.

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iff: Asexual Dreamsheep (AceDreamsheep)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 4/6


[personal profile] iff
2012-02-15 02:54 pm UTC (link)
*wipes away tears*

Oh, you darling boys...I hurt so much for your pasts...you're so lovely together and both totally deserve all the happiness you each have to give each other.

Thank you, author-anon!

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Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 4/6 - (Anonymous), 2012-02-17 08:06 pm UTC (Expand)
theimprobable1: (otp)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 4/6


[personal profile] theimprobable1
2012-02-15 04:20 pm UTC (link)
Awww this is so sweet, how perfect they are for each other.

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Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 4/6 - (Anonymous), 2012-02-17 07:08 pm UTC (Expand)
Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 4/6 - (Anonymous), 2012-02-17 07:07 pm UTC (Expand)
Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 4/6 - (Anonymous), 2012-03-08 07:29 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3b/5?


(Anonymous)
2012-02-19 11:47 pm UTC (link)
Didn't think I'd like Henry/Martin, but I take that back. And paternal Douglas is a must. :)

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Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3b/5? - (Anonymous), 2012-03-08 07:30 pm UTC (Expand)

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