Chapter Text
“And where will we be residing tonight?” Douglas asked. “Have you booked us into a campground under the disguise of ‘rustic country charm’ again?”
Carolyn’s exasperated sigh was clearly audible over the sat-com. “God save me from pilots who think they’re funny,” she muttered. “No, you are in a hotel, provided that you accept the existence of four walls, a ceiling, and a bed as the minimum definition of hotel. You even have your own rooms. More or less.”
“More or less,” Douglas echoed. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning one of you will have your own room, and one will be sharing with Arthur.”
Both pilots made protesting noises. “Carolyn, that is entirely improper,” Martin said. “We are professionals. You can’t just shove us into rooms together to save a few pounds.”
“Martin, I want you to think about how many times we’ve had this conversation. You tell me I can’t do something, I tell you I can, you agree that technically, yes, I can, and then I proceed to do that thing. Is it truly necessary to cover this again?”
“But—“
“Don’t whinge. You’ll like sharing with Arthur. If I can share a house with him you can certainly survive one evening.”
“What makes you think I’m the one sharing with him?” Martin replied. Beside him, Douglas raised an eyebrow.
“Because I know you, and I know Douglas, and I was not born yesterday.”
“Three excellent points,” Douglas chimed in. Martin sputtered.
Carolyn clicked off, and they shared a wary glance. Martin set his jaw. “I’m the captain,” he said.
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m the senior officer on board.”
“Right again.”
“I’m in command.”
“Three in a row, well done.”
“I’m not sharing with Arthur.”
Douglas made a disappointed tsk. “Oh, you almost had four, but you broke your streak. So close.”
“I mean it, Douglas.”
“I’m sure that you do.”
“Mean what?” Arthur asked, popping his head through the flight deck door.
“Ah, Arthur,” Douglas said expansively. “Good news! Tonight, you will get to share a hotel room with one of us in lovely Barcelona.”
Arthur beamed. “Brilliant! Like a sleepover! Can we make a blanket fort?”
“You’ll have to ask Douglas, since you’ll be sharing with him,” Martin said.
“Can we?” Arthur turned hopeful eyes on Douglas.
“Of course you can make a blanket fort,” Douglas said. “I couldn’t possibly sleep without one.”
Arthur bounced on his toes. Martin regarded his first officer with deep suspicion.
*
“Wow!” Arthur said as they entered the hotel room. “This is even better than the one in Cremona!”
“Depending on your definition of ‘better,’ yes,” Martin replied. He set his bag down on the double bed and sighed.
“It really is, Skip. It doesn’t even have that funny smell!”
“Fair point,” Martin agreed. “It has an entirely different funny smell.”
Arthur nodded happily. “So, why are you sharing with me? I thought it was going to be Douglas.”
“Yes, well, Douglas and I played a little game to see who would share with you.”
“Oh, and you won?”
“No,” Martin said. “No, I didn’t.”
Arthur deflated a little. “Oh. Well, that’s okay, Skip. I don’t mind that nobody wanted to share with me. I bet we can make it fun anyway. Look, there are extra blankets in this cupboard! We could make a really great fort.”
“We’re not making a fort.”
“But Douglas said—“
“Yes, well Douglas isn’t here, is he?” Martin snapped.
“Right,” Arthur said. “Sorry.”
Martin winced at the hurt tone. “No, I’m… you’re right, we can make it fun. But I’m really tired right now, and I’d just like to take a shower and get some sleep. Can we save the fort making for tomorrow?”
“Sure!” Arthur grinned at him, cheer restored. “I’ll just draw up some plans.”
For a moment, Martin considered asking exactly what kind of plans a blanket fort could possibly require, but in the end he kept his mouth shut. That was the sort of conversation with Arthur that could go on a very long time. He shuffled off to the bathroom, casting a dubious glance at the greenish something along the bottom of the shower curtain. If he didn’t look too closely, he could convince himself it was decoration.
He stood still in the shower, letting the water pound his back. At least it was hot; that was something. He rested his head against his arms and closed his eyes, swaying a little on his feet. The rush of the water was loud, but it couldn’t quite drown out the anxious, babbling circle of his thoughts. He scrubbed impatiently at his face. When he finally stepped out of the shower, his skin was pink with heat but he didn’t feel any calmer.
Dressed in soft cotton sleep trousers and a battered old tee, Martin gave his hair a cursory rub with the towel, leaving it sticking up in odd, damp curls. He found Arthur lying on the bed on his belly, feet stuck in the air, wearing pyjamas and watching telly. Arthur grinned at him. “Want to watch this with me?” he asked. “Everything’s in Spanish but you can kind of follow what’s happening. I just make up the bits I don’t understand. That lady is either trying to kill her husband, or trying to steal her friend’s boyfriend. I haven’t decided yet. But she’s definitely not a nice lady. You can tell. She has evil eyebrows.”
Martin gave him a faint smile. “Thanks, but no. I’d really like to get some sleep.”
“Okay,” Arthur said. He slid to one side, making room on the bed.
Martin hesitated, then shrugged and settled down beside him. The room was chilly, especially after his long shower, but Arthur radiated heat. The old mattress sagged toward the center and soon Martin’s hip was resting against Arthur’s side. He felt solid and oddly reassuring.
He dozed, lulled by the murmur of the television and the steady sound of Arthur’s breathing. The next time he opened his eyes, the sky was dark outside the lone window. The television was off and the room was dark, Arthur visible only as an outline in the faint moonlight.
“You awake, Skip?” he asked in a loud whisper.
“Mmm. It’s cold.” He wriggled, lifting the covers, and they managed to get underneath. The sheets were even cooler against his skin and he huddled, trying to curl into the patch of warmth left by Arthur’s body. His knee bumped Arthur’s leg and he jerked back.
“You are cold,” Arthur said. He rolled, his body suddenly pressed all along Martin’s side. His arms slipped around Martin’s waist and gathered him in.
“Hey!” Martin protested, tensing awkwardly. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you a cuddle,” Arthur replied, in a tone that said this was rather obvious but he was happy to explain anyway. “To warm up.”
“Arthur, you can’t just… do that.”
“Why not?”
Martin blinked. Arthur was quite warm, and his chest was really very nice to lean on, and his hand was broad and firm on Martin’s back. If he turned his head just a little, it would fit perfectly into the hollow of Arthur’s shoulder. He did, and took a deep breath. Arthur smelled of tea and salt and chocolate. The scent was familiar; a little piece of home in the dingy, anonymous hotel room. Arthur’s hand ran in a long, steady stroke up and down his spine and Martin sighed, relaxing into it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper cuddle.
Arthur wriggled, settling them more comfortably in the cocoon of blankets. His cheek rubbed against Martin’s hair, and Martin slid his own arm tentatively around Arthur’s waist. Arthur made a small, happy sound and squeezed him closer.
“This is nice, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Martin answered. He closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of Arthur pressed close. Strong hands on his back, the quiet, soothing rhythm of his breathing; even the warm weight of his arm made some small, parched part of him open up and soak it in.
“Better than a blanket fort?”
“Much better.”
Arthur smiled; Martin could feel the curve of his cheek against his temple. “Good night, Skip.”
“Good night, Arthur.”