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He was okay with it. Really, he was. He was used to this -- the damp, the mould, the cramped quarters, the hit-or-miss electricity, the bone-chilling cold that was his constant companion through the growing autumn nights. He was okay with it because he was Martin Crieff, Captain of Gerti, and though it was just a plane belonging to an airdot, it was still everything to him.
This life here on the ground, it meant nothing. Humping boxes in a ground-bound van, it merely served to keep something of a roof over his head, a place to stash his few belongings, his bit of bread and butter. And if the bread had gone stale by now, well, it was easy enough to soak it in a bit of instant coffee to still get the nutrients from it. That was all it was good for -- nutrients, sustenance for a body that was slowly starving to death while the soul took to flight night after night. But who cared? The food he got at MJN was all he really needed, ultimately, for it kept him going through the flights, kept him awake and alert and aware enough that he could guide Gerti through the air, soaring ever higher as together they threw off the shackles of gravity that kept them bound to the pain that reality brought them, for after all, weren't they both -- man and machine -- two broken-winged birds that still sought to fly?
Martin barely had five quid to rub together in his wallet, and as he climbed the stairs to his attic bedsit, thin legs screaming at him from the exertion, he forced his mind to focus on the here-and-now and figure out just how to make it stretch. Soup was cheap, and if he diluted it well enough, he could make a single can last for days. He'd done that already, though Douglas had seen him, had made thoughtless commentary that cut as bad as the wind could, had brought a color to Martin's cheeks and a stammer to Martin's lips before he'd simply sighed, too tired to argue any further.
Besides, it made Douglas happy to tease and snipe, and Martin knew that a happy Douglas was a Douglas that wasn't quite as prone to looking so very closely at the way Martin was filling out less and less of his uniform. It didn't matter anyway. He fought and bickered and growled for his position, for his captaincy, for the respect he'd earned after his hard-scrabble attempts to get his license, but in the end even he knew it didn't matter.
And he wasn't jealous, either, no matter what Douglas tried to insinuate -- not at Douglas' easy air of command, his smooth sky-god voice, or even his bloody 'duh-duh-duh-duh-duh' name. He didn't care that Douglas had a warm home with a fireplace, a fridge with a full array of food, a sink with a tap of reliably-running water, or lights that would always come on when bidden. He didn't even care about Douglas' car, warm and fast and far less prone to breaking down, unlike the van that Martin used when his destination was simply too far for him to walk.
He didn't need to be jealous. He had something Douglas didn't have, something not even Carolyn or Arthur could imagine. Ignoring the chill, the frost on his dirty window, the breath that fogged from his mouth, he crossed his tiny room and coaxed open the window despite its protestations at the cold, then pulled himself out onto the window ledge and carefully climbed up onto the roof, putting distance between himself and the pain that awaited him on the ground. The sky was lightening slowly in the east, and Martin smiled, huddling there on the roof in his threadbare clothes and ancient jacket, his shoes long since worn to shreds, and his body getting close to starving to death.
None of it mattered. All that mattered was above him: the birds slowly awakening, the sky growing gloriously clear, a light wind whispering icy words past his cheeks, his mind and soul lifting with that growing ease to launch itself into the sky as he closed his eyes and leaned back against the roof.
No, none of it mattered -- the pain, the hunger, the depression, the loneliness, the desolation -- for he was Martin Crieff, and he was more than a captain, more than an aeroplane. He was a bird on the wing, flying straight into another day dawning.