There is an old, beat-up sofa in the corner of the galley. It has never been quite comfortable enough to sleep on, which is why (in addition to other, more monetarily-based reasons) they have kept it.
Martin can't remember getting up off the floor. Or crossing the room. Or sitting back down.
He remembers Carolyn hugging him, which is ridiculous and a clear sign that he has well and truly snapped.
Then again, he is currently lying with his head in her lap, and he's fairly certain he's not hallucinating because he read somewhere that you have the wrong number of fingers when that happens and he's counted his twice.
Carolyn has one hand in his hair, stroking gently through it, and Martin has never been so acutely aware of the fact that she is a mother.
Arthur is sitting next to her, wedged tightly so that he can continue rubbing Martin's back. He is humming softly, and has been doing so ever since Carolyn explained the situation to him (in hushed whispers, as if it would somehow hurt less if said quietly). Martin wonders idly if Arthur is aware that he is doing it or if it's just a nervous reaction.
Either way, he doesn't exactly mind.
---
Martin has been dozing lightly on and off for about two hours when the cabin address comes on.
“I hate to do this, Martin, but you probably really should take over for a bit. This is starting to get dangerous. Well. Dangerous by my standards. It got dangerous by yours about an hour ago.”
Martin stands, stiffly, and sways for a moment. He is dehydrated and suddenly terrifyingly dizzy. “Just... one moment,” he mutters, and bolts for the lavatory.
The sink water isn't quite cold, but it provides enough of a shock to wake him up a bit. Thanks to years of practice and ow, damn, stupid ear, he has enough presence of mind not to shake his head.
When he returns to the galley, Carolyn is doing something on her mobile and Arthur is holding out a glass of water and his hat.
Martin downs the water gratefully, managing to give Arthur a small smile as he dons his cap. Then he heads out to the flight deck.
Douglas looks absolutely exhausted, and Martin wonders guiltily how long he has been in the galley. “Sorry about...”
“Don't.”
Douglas stands. Martin squares his shoulders, suddenly feeling like he should be proving something.
And then he is being pulled into a brief, but strong, embrace, and it is all he can do not to fall right back apart.
Douglas releases him after a few seconds, clapping him on the shoulder and departing with a firm, “Only an hour or so. I'll have Carolyn wake me.”
Martin sits, takes hold of the controls, and breathes deeply.
This is an easy flight. He could probably do it with his eyes closed. He could certainly do it without giving it much real thought.
He thinks. Hard. About everything. He reports their current position and checks all the instruments and wonders why the air on the top of the wings and the air on the bottom don't just split up.
Arthur and Carolyn come in every so often. Carolyn talks about expenses and clients and next week's flight, and asks if he still wants... (Of course he does, of course he does, he will never not want to fly, especially now, well, maybe not now now, but in a week, yes, he needs to fly.)
Arthur brings him coffee and biscuits and talks about clouds and why they look different when you're in them and the flowers in the hold, and gives him a hug around the back of his seat when he takes too long to respond.
After an hour and a half, Douglas comes back and takes control, and Martin stays where he is. They play games and Douglas wins them all and Martin sulks and they argue about whether Constantinople does or does not rhyme with Istanbul. The stupefying shock and horror have vacated the flight deck and been replaced by a not-quite-forced semblance of ordinariness that Martin is unspeakably grateful for.
FILL: Fine 3/3
Martin can't remember getting up off the floor. Or crossing the room. Or sitting back down.
He remembers Carolyn hugging him, which is ridiculous and a clear sign that he has well and truly snapped.
Then again, he is currently lying with his head in her lap, and he's fairly certain he's not hallucinating because he read somewhere that you have the wrong number of fingers when that happens and he's counted his twice.
Carolyn has one hand in his hair, stroking gently through it, and Martin has never been so acutely aware of the fact that she is a mother.
Arthur is sitting next to her, wedged tightly so that he can continue rubbing Martin's back. He is humming softly, and has been doing so ever since Carolyn explained the situation to him (in hushed whispers, as if it would somehow hurt less if said quietly). Martin wonders idly if Arthur is aware that he is doing it or if it's just a nervous reaction.
Either way, he doesn't exactly mind.
---
Martin has been dozing lightly on and off for about two hours when the cabin address comes on.
“I hate to do this, Martin, but you probably really should take over for a bit. This is starting to get dangerous. Well. Dangerous by my standards. It got dangerous by yours about an hour ago.”
Martin stands, stiffly, and sways for a moment. He is dehydrated and suddenly terrifyingly dizzy. “Just... one moment,” he mutters, and bolts for the lavatory.
The sink water isn't quite cold, but it provides enough of a shock to wake him up a bit. Thanks to years of practice and ow, damn, stupid ear, he has enough presence of mind not to shake his head.
When he returns to the galley, Carolyn is doing something on her mobile and Arthur is holding out a glass of water and his hat.
Martin downs the water gratefully, managing to give Arthur a small smile as he dons his cap. Then he heads out to the flight deck.
Douglas looks absolutely exhausted, and Martin wonders guiltily how long he has been in the galley. “Sorry about...”
“Don't.”
Douglas stands. Martin squares his shoulders, suddenly feeling like he should be proving something.
And then he is being pulled into a brief, but strong, embrace, and it is all he can do not to fall right back apart.
Douglas releases him after a few seconds, clapping him on the shoulder and departing with a firm, “Only an hour or so. I'll have Carolyn wake me.”
Martin sits, takes hold of the controls, and breathes deeply.
This is an easy flight. He could probably do it with his eyes closed. He could certainly do it without giving it much real thought.
He thinks. Hard. About everything. He reports their current position and checks all the instruments and wonders why the air on the top of the wings and the air on the bottom don't just split up.
Arthur and Carolyn come in every so often. Carolyn talks about expenses and clients and next week's flight, and asks if he still wants... (Of course he does, of course he does, he will never not want to fly, especially now, well, maybe not now now, but in a week, yes, he needs to fly.)
Arthur brings him coffee and biscuits and talks about clouds and why they look different when you're in them and the flowers in the hold, and gives him a hug around the back of his seat when he takes too long to respond.
After an hour and a half, Douglas comes back and takes control, and Martin stays where he is. They play games and Douglas wins them all and Martin sulks and they argue about whether Constantinople does or does not rhyme with Istanbul. The stupefying shock and horror have vacated the flight deck and been replaced by a not-quite-forced semblance of ordinariness that Martin is unspeakably grateful for.
He only wishes they didn't have to land.