cabinpres_fic (

cabinpres_fic) wrote,
@ 2012-02-03 07:49 am UTC

Entry tags:

PROMPT POST 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

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

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.

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.

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

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.
Please no RPF. I'm not trying to oppress you RPF writers and enthusiasts, I would just really like to avoid any legal problems.

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

cabin_pressure | Cabin Pressure @ AO3 | IRC Chat @ irc.ecnet.org #FittonATC

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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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	Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3b/5? theimprobable1 2012-02-13 09:49 pm UTC (link)
	happy sigh I love paternal!Douglas. (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent) (Thread) (Hide 1 comment) (Show 1 comment)

	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!) (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent)

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

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 =) (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent) (Thread) (Hide 2 comments) (Show 2 comments)

	Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3b/5? chess_ka 2012-02-14 01:04 pm UTC (link)
	Oh don't worry, I'm all over this pairing like a rash :p I'll definitely be writing a bunch for them. (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent) (Thread) (Hide 1 comment) (Show 1 comment)

	Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3b/5? (Anonymous) 2012-02-14 03:31 pm UTC (link)
	Yay! =) (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent)

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 =) (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent)

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. (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent)

	Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 4/6 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! (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent) (Thread) (Hide 1 comment) (Show 1 comment)

	Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 4/6 (Anonymous) 2012-02-17 08:06 pm UTC (link)
	My pleasure - thanks for commenting! =) (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent)

	Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 4/6 theimprobable1 2012-02-15 04:20 pm UTC (link)
	Awww this is so sweet, how perfect they are for each other. (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent) (Thread) (Hide 1 comment) (Show 1 comment)

	Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 4/6 (Anonymous) 2012-02-17 07:08 pm UTC (link)
	Thank you =) They are so lovely together, aren't they sigh (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent)

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

chess_ka
2012-02-17 06:10 pm UTC (link)

Things I love:

Martin doesn't make a big deal over Henry's nightmares, and is so understanding of him not being able to talk about it yet.

Martin's attic being a functioning flat - it sounds shabby but actually quite cosy. Also, his collection of books. Bookworm!Martin is a headcanon of mine ^^

That Martin thinks every fight equals the end of the relationship. Bless him :(

The way they are both so broken and flawed and lacking in self-confidence, but they adore each other so very much. This is why this pairing has struck a chord with me, and it's coming across so wonderfully here.

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

(Anonymous)
2012-02-17 07:07 pm UTC (link)

Wow, another lovely review for one of my fics! (I'm the Not-John-Finnemore anon filling the angst!Martin prompt =]) Bookworm!Martin has been a headcanon of mine for a long while now, so I'm so glad someone shares this =) And I understand completely what you mean about them as a pairing - they've both been through so much hardship, and are so shy and with not much confidence when it comes to relationships, but in my head, they both have so much love to give to the right person, and that makes them lovely to write and to read.
Thanks again!

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	Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 4/6 chess_ka 2012-02-29 02:53 pm UTC (link)
	Is this gorgeous fic going to be finished? It's one of my absolute favourites :) (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent) (Thread) (Hide 2 comments) (Show 2 comments)

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

(Anonymous)
2012-03-08 07:29 pm UTC (link)

I promise upon my honour that I'll finished this fic, come hell, high water, or goose smoothies =). I'll really sorry about the delay in uploading the final parts of this - part 6 is finished (and so very very fluffy to boot ;-)), but part 5 isn't quite done yet, and unfortunately RL decided to make the deadlines for everything all occur in the last few weeks (damn you, priorities!). I should have part 5 up at some point soon however *fingers crossed* =)

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	Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 4/6 chess_ka 2012-03-08 10:06 pm UTC (link)
	This makes me so very happy! And don't worry about taking the time to finish it - I know RL can take over. I can't exactly judge, either. I've got an unfinished fic still floating on the last part that I can't quite work out how to finish >_< Looking forward to reading the rest whenever you finish! :) (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent)

FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 5a/6

inkstained_scrivener
2012-04-23 09:00 pm UTC (link)

_{I am so so so sorry for the delay in this – everything literally piled on at once and I had no chance to spend time with this baby of mine. The last page of my reports and paperwork and all that non-fiction rubbish has been handed in (Hurrah!), so this is for all you wonderful people who waited so patiently. [oh, and deanoning as well now that I finally have an account =)]
Spoilers: Sherlock Series 2 – The Reichenbach Fall.}

4. Grief

The train to Euston from the Exeter Station is delayed, according to the mechanically apologetic female voice over the tannoy, apparently due to over-running works on the line, but then Martin hadn't really expected anything otherwise from the British Rail System. The two of them linger on the platform, Henry agitated and obviously so, hands itching to reach for the packet of cigarettes in his top pocket but knowing he wont get a chance to smoke one, damn those laws regarding public places. He's started muttering under his breath, moaning the train, the weather of a sweeping drizzling wind that tousles his hair with a damp hand, all of it transference from what he's really bothered about. Martin for a moment stands self-consciously on the platform simply watching him, unable to do much at all other than squint at the display board to read the upcoming train times, before in a moment of rare decisiveness he slips over by Henry's side, joins their hands, murmurs “Don't worry, it wont be long now”.

Henry doesn't calm completely from his pent up state, still twitchy, still irritated at the unreliability of the trains and how every day there seem to be bloody works on the line, delays because there was a sodding leaf on the tracks or something, but he squeezes the hand in his own as a gesture of something they haven't quite worked out yet: a 'thank you', or a 'I'm glad you're here', both of them merging at once into a grateful touch. Martin skims his thumb over a tense knuckle, and Henry realises a small huff of air, deflating slightly, and the two of them say nothing as they listen to the dangling bells intimating an announcement in the hope it might say something new this time.

Martin doesn’t ask why he's standing here on an open air platform, three hours since he woke up this morning, no flights, no van job, just envisaging a whole day spent with his boyfriend. Three hours ago, he had plodded in slow lazy steps downstairs to see Henry with his head buried in a morning broadsheet, immersed in a world of stocks and FTSE, had made them both coffee and mopped with the hot water that had splashed from the kettle, passing Henry's over with a sleepy good morning kiss. Martin doesn't know why the photograph on the front page: an arrogant looking man, dark haired and dark mannered, an intense look in his eye as he had glanced over at the camera as though merely bored by the whole proceedings, had stirred up such an expression of distress in Henry, why it meant he had bundled himself out the house nearly immediately with the declaration that it was of the utmost importance that they caught the next train to London, with Martin rushing behind him out of the door, remembering to bring the essentials of money and coats that Henry in his haste had forgotten. Henry as yet has not been forth coming with any answers, is wrapped up in his own head, merely a 'hmm' of acknowledgement or his own visual signs: fidgeting and muttering away under his breath, and so Martin keeps his curiosity to himself; strays along the yellow line through the platform, running through flight plans in his head and keeping a quiet eye on his boyfriend in case he is needed.

The train does come eventually, and once seated Henry thankfully dozes off for a couple of hours, head on Martin's shoulder, snoring softly with his mouth partly open, and giving Martin a cramped shoulder after a while. They're on a table seat, and Martin starts up a conversation quietly with the woman across from the two, who appears to be in a similar predicament: her girlfriend is using her shoulder as a make-shift pillow, the armrest jutting against her chest as she nuzzles up against her. The woman strokes her hair away from her face, looping it around her ears in a delicate motion as she indicates Henry with a nod of her head, mouth wide and snuffling on Martin's shoulders and smirks “You too, huh?”

It's a nice enough chat on the way down. Martin and the woman talk, and their chat stems from a starting discussion of how they're being used as glorified comfort blankets for their significant others, to more general topics suited to long train journeys, like unemployment levels and the government. The woman, who introduces herself as Tania, gestures at the four of them all sitting on a plastic table, jokingly claiming that they should stake that area as 'queer corner'. Martin laughs, trying to muffle it so as not to jostle Henry and the light humour distracts him from the problems he possesses at hand: how Henry's worry lines had deepened and his hands became so flighty and agitated and whatever it is is nothing he can fix.

Tania and her girlfriend get off at Vauxhall, and it's not long before they finally reach Euston, Martin shaking a tired Henry awake to say they've arrived. They manoeuvre their way off the train to reach overground, Henry rubbing his eyes free from tiredness, the cold air that hits them as soon as they come out of the underground seemingly doing him some good, brushing the sleep away so that he seems alert once more. Martin's doesn't often find himself in the big city, not only the lack of funds to even afford to get there, but also preferring the quiet confines of Fitton, so the mass exodus of people unnerves him to an extent, but Henry seems to have his bearings as to where they're headed, and together they walk to the underground at Euston Square to catch the tube along the Metropolitan line. It's hitting on elven now, and even still, it is packed with dark-eyed commuters and obvious tourists, the seated sullen-seeming businessmen who cast a disdainful eye at Martin with his wild bed-hair and patched up jeans when they pass. Martin flushes, averting his eyes self-consciously, but Henry gives him a conciliatory smile, touching the pads of their fingers together. It's not enough to reassure the pilot that Henry is back to his old self again, for his gaze still flits to his watch anxiously, his feet drumming an uneven tap drowned out by the roar of the rail, but he is contented with the gesture of solidarity nonetheless.

It is only a couple of stops till they hit Baker Street Station, and Martin follows quickly when Henry moves to alight onto the platform.

“Baker Street?” He asks questioning, a hopeful tint to his words, hoping to prompt an answer or even an explanation from Henry. Such things are not to be however, as his partner just nods distractedly and says no more other than to give directions under his breath, leading them out and down onto the main street. They walk for a couple of minutes, with only the lull of pedestrians, Martin apologising at every knock and getting no quarter in return, and then Henry stops dead, standing stock still outside the black painted door, the number plates in the centre a burnished gold spelling out the door number: 221.

Henry gnaws on his lip, flexing his fists loose then tight before seeming to come to an internal conclusion. He steps forward and knocks loudly with two taps onto the hard wood. He waits for a few minutes, shuffling from foot to foot while Martin stays quiet in the background, but no-one responds, so he knocks again and then bends down to flick up the letter slot.

“Doctor?” he calls through, his voice carrying into the house. “Dr. Watson? It's... it's Henry Knight... You might not remember me – from Dartmoor? Baskerville?”

It takes another few minutes, Martin drumming out an anxious rhythm on the side of his leg with his finger, but then there is a responding shout of “Coming!” from behind the door, a slow thumping sound like someone making their way down creaking stairs, (“Just a minute, hold on!”), and then the wrenching sound of the lock turning.

A hollow man, more wraith than human being, opens the door.

“Henry?” he asks, brow furrowed with some confusion. “What are you doing here?”

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FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 5b/6

inkstained_scrivener
2012-04-23 09:02 pm UTC (link)

Henry and the occupant of 221b Baker Street (“Please,” he says to Martin with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, shaking his hand in a firm grip, “None of this Dr. Watson business – far too formal. It's John, just John.”) appear to know each other from sometime back. They greet each other with the air of men who had hoped to meet under better circumstances, a rough hug from John after Henry mumbled out some faint condolences that didn't quite seem to say what they wanted to, but the doctor understood nonetheless.

Martin feels rather superfluous as John busies himself making the three of them tea, limping into the kitchen with the help of the cane at his side, a tremor in his right hand as he pours hot water from the kettle (“I hope you don't mind black, er- Martin, isn't it? Just I've got no milk in. Haven't seen much need recently”), and he sits quietly with a wooden chair drawn up from the kitchen, balancing his mug on his knees with a steadying hand, as the small talk starts – “You've put on some weight Henry. That's good, very good. You had any more... em, problems? Flashbacks, relapses, that sort of thing?” (Martin stores this away in the small file in his head marked 'future conversations', and keeps his head down, sipping his tea and burning his lips) – and then stutters to a halt under the weight of a dead man hanging over both of them.

Henry and John talk in low voices about another man, 'Sherlock', who Martin pieces together was the man whose photo was splashed so lovingly across pages one through four of the broadsheet this morning. It's all a bit over Martin's head, and, feeling he wouldn't be welcome with intrusions at this stage, instead takes the opportunity to study the new man further.

He has the face of someone who looks like he had been truly happy once, the sort of shades the loss of that leaves behind, the sort of sadness engraved into the hollows of his eyes the kind that hasn't always existed, has been forced upon him rapidly and without warning. There's a look about some people, Martin's always found, the look people have when life hasn't been overly kind, has heaped on tragedy after tragedy and left the soul to muddle through the mess. Maybe this last tragedy was the final one that broke down all the barriers, the defences of strength built up over years. Martin's been building his own walls for so long, recognises them for what they are: his difficult family life, his personal failures, his poverty and struggle to achieve – they are not the same bricks that John has used, but they end up with the same mould of grim determination, only John's wall has finally began to crumple under the strain of something too big for him.

John Watson smiles at something Henry says, and it only serves to make his distress more obvious: it breaks up the thin, pale lines of his face and half heartedly fixes them back into a cheap imitation of happiness.

"He lost his partner" Henry murmurs softly in response to Martin's question (“Henry – is he – is he alright? He doesn't look well”), when John takes their empty cups back to the kitchen. "Suicide. Not expected.”

Martin thinks about this silently, eyes cast down in, brow furrowed, as the other two men hammer out their own demons. He thinks about John Watson and his quiet military stance, like he's been through more wars than one, his trembling hands and the cane by his side, his eyes that look so empty and sad even when he's smiling, seeming for all the world like it's an effort to get up every day, but doing without a murmur of complaint because it's the only thing stopping him from slipping away altogether.

Martin wonders what it must be like for one soul to be ripped into half a man, stumbling around robbed of the rest which made it whole. He wonders what it would be like if he lost someone who means as much to him as this Sherlock Holmes, who he will never meet except through second-hand memories, meant to John Watson. He wonders if this was how it would be if he lost Henry.

He imagines cold rooms and the bed too wide for him, duvet smothering him, thinks of going back to his lonely flat and hiding away from the world in the little motions to keep himself busy, flight plans and Douglas' paperwork and all in the aid to forgetting momentarily. Every silence welling up to proclaim the knowledge that something is gone and is never coming back, the absences heavy, crushing down, compacting an empty niche in his chest. And that fear hurts far more than he thought it would, deeper and more violent, because he thought once that he would always be alone, that he would always be just Martin, marooned on his raft watching other rafts on tranquil seas brimming with people and friends and family sail past. Thought he was independent and self-contained out of habit, that he was his own man, and while that never had amounted to much, he wouldn't have to rely on anyone else for anything, would never do anything as stupid as falling in love.

But that's all wrong now, mixed up, changed and turned on its head. He has Henry, and they're a unit, a partnership. He is Henry's as much as Henry is his. He wonders if this was what John and Sherlock were like, inseparable and fully formed, the perfect compliment, and he can tell that this is true if he looks hard enough, because the man called John Watson is only a ghost half formed, missing some vital light, the emptying of something which had filled him from the inside out and now has drained away.

And should Martin lose Henry... He would be nobody's. Have no-one.

He barely notices that Henry is saying his goodbyes quietly after a couple of hours (“I'll fight this John,” he is saying, “whatever they're saying about him, I will stand up in court and swear by him and what you two did for me if I have to. That wasn't trickery of his, I know it. He was a decent man, didn't deserve this media circus bullshit.”). John goes quiet and thanks him with a hoarse voice, and Martin doesn't understand what is being said in response or what this all means, and wont unless Henry chooses to tell him. His mind is currently engaged in a sickening cycle of fear, his heart too obvious and heavy in his chest, his hands wringing his sleeves and disrupting the cuffs where some of the material has frayed into strands under his ministrations and shoddy workmanship.

The indication he gets to startle him out of his reverie is a sudden “You coming?”, and Martin flushes red, knowing he's just been standing there staring, but John doesn't seem to have noticed, shaking his hand genially with a half-formed smile existing solely for politeness' sake. Martin gives his final farewells awkwardly, not knowing what he can quite say in this instance, understanding that nothing much will make an impression to the doctor except the grief and the effort of pretence, that whatever he says wont matter because it's hard for anything to matter to John anymore.

He leaves 221b Baker Street with a lump in his throat, and the fresh air on exit he breathes in as though he's just been stifled.

“You alright, love?” Henry asks quietly as they walk along the commercial buildings that range down Baker Street, turning onto the Marylebone Road as they get further down. He's glancing at him with a certain degree of concern, and Martin thinks idly that this is a reversal from this morning, when it was the other way around. Henry's steps are lighter now, more determined, like he's found his answers, whereas Martin has become lost in his own head, unmoored and subject to the tide.

“Uh-huh.” Martin gives a sound of affirmation which he doesn't mean, but Henry doesn't pry for a moment. He links their fingers, and Martin clutches with his own sweaty hold, feeling faintly nauseous.

“It's getting on for nearly five.” Henry changes the topic, bringing his arm up to check the face of his watch. “Do you want to get the train back? It'll get into Exeter at about five then... dunno, I'm guessing at about half an hour to forty minutes to get back to the house?”

Martin nods, makes another sound in his throat to indicate agreeing, and he feels them change direction to head for the nearest tube to take them back to Euston Station. He doesn't want to be here anymore. The streets are too full and too brash compared to the quiet of Fitton and Dartmoor, and he can't help but think of John Watson, that man's face and all its collected misery recurring as a mournful apparition in his head, a half-dead ghost imprinted on his eyelids.

He is suddenly terrified he might lose this. Lose Henry. That his abysmal luck will triumph once again, and it will be him going through the motions every day like he's getting better, dealing with his grief, like he's moving on when he so clearly isn't. That Douglas and Carolyn and Arthur will gather around him and prop him up, and however much he wants it to be, it wont be enough to keep him upright.

That it will be him shuffling to a graveyard every chance he gets to talk to a slab with Henry's name stamped into it.

Oh, and how that thought scares him.

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FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 5c/6 -

inkstained_scrivener, 2012-04-23 09:03 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 5c/6 -

chess_ka, 2012-04-24 09:44 am UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 5c/6 -

inkstained_scrivener, 2012-04-24 03:36 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 5c/6 -

chess_ka, 2012-04-24 06:00 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 5c/6 -

inkstained_scrivener, 2012-04-24 07:40 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 5c/6 -

chess_ka, 2012-04-24 07:49 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 5c/6 -

theimprobable1, 2012-04-24 10:50 am UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 5c/6 -

inkstained_scrivener, 2012-04-24 03:37 pm UTC (Expand)

FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 6a/6 -

inkstained_scrivener, 2012-04-24 07:32 pm UTC (Expand)

FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 6b/6 -

inkstained_scrivener, 2012-04-24 07:34 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 6b/6 -

branwyn, 2012-04-24 09:04 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 6b/6 -

inkstained_scrivener, 2012-04-25 08:37 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 6b/6 -

chess_ka, 2012-04-24 09:14 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 6b/6 -

inkstained_scrivener, 2012-04-25 08:56 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 6b/6 -

chess_ka, 2012-04-25 09:00 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 6b/6 -

inkstained_scrivener, 2012-04-25 09:11 pm UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 6b/6 -

theimprobable1, 2012-04-25 06:52 am UTC (Expand)

Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 6b/6 -

inkstained_scrivener, 2012-04-25 08:57 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. :) (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent) (Thread) (Hide 1 comment) (Show 1 comment)

	Re: FILL: Romance For The Socially Inept 3b/5? (Anonymous) 2012-03-08 07:30 pm UTC (link)
	grin Yay! I converted someone to the pairing. I consider that a success in itself =) (Reply to this) (Thread from start) (Parent)

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