r_scribbles (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
r_scribbles) wrote2013-01-28 09:20 pm
r_scribbles) wrote2013-01-28 09:20 pm
Entry tags:
Cabin Pressure Fic - Medals (also with brief hello)
Hello! Hello to the 4 or 5 of you who are still here! I've been busy. Very busy doing stuff. I had some sketches commissioned for last season's Newsjack and things have snowballed from there. I've done some bits of work on Radio 4's Dilemma & The News Quiz, I'm back with Newsjack next month & in the meantime I'm freelancing for Huffington Post UK's Comedy Section with my friend Amanda.
Here is me at BBC Radio Comedy's Christmas Party with a nice man, a few hours before falling over drunk in front of the same nice man.
SO YES, THERE'S THAT. Not much time to do fanfic any more. However, after listening to Vaduz I had to do a little something because I already love Theresa so much (And Herc & Carolyn! Oh God! I was biting my fist). So there's this. Originally posted over on the CP Anon Meme. Theresa awards Martin Medals for sex.
MEDALS
Seven days, four hours since he’d seen her last.
Ten days, seventeen hours til they were booked to fly her to a diplomatic reception in Montenegro and he’d get to see her again.
Was that pathetic, that he was still counting in hours? It was probably a bit pathetic. At least he’d stopped counting in minutes, after date number 2. But then dates one and two had been less than 24 hours apart, what with her needing to go back home. It was one thing counting down the minutes when the next date was only going to be the next evening, it was a whole different kettle of fish when you were suddenly faced with a dateless gap of two weeks and four days. He gnawed at the end of his biro a little, looking up from his paperwork at the little clock on the portacabin’s wall.
Twenty-seven minutes past the hour. Which meant, in three minutes it would be half past and he’d be able to round the countdown down to ten days and sixteen hours.
God, seconds went slowly when you watched them.
Would they even have time for another date, in Montenegro? She’d be working, after all. And when she wasn’t working, she’d be being his passenger and he would be working. Oh, it didn’t matter. Well. It sort of mattered. But he’d get to see her, and that was the main thing.
Twenty-eight minutes past the hour. Hell, that was practically half past, wasn’t it?
He mentally rounded the countdown down to just ten days and sixteen hours.
‘Finally tiring of paperwork, Martin?’
Douglas’ voice from the doorway startled Martin a little and made him bite down rather harder than he’d intended on the end of his biro.
‘And there was me thinking that when Martin Crieff had tired of paperwork, he would tire of life.’ He sat down opposite, setting his crossword on the table.
‘Maybe I’ve just reached that age in a pilot’s life where it loses its appeal,’ Martin replied, spitting out little shards of biro plastic.
‘If that was a reference to my own approach to record keeping, then I’m afraid what you’ve failed to take into account is that I’ve always never enjoyed doing paperwork. Mind if I borrow a pen?’
Douglas glanced at the biro Martin held out to him.
‘One that isn’t half-smeared across your mouth, that is.’
Martin frowned, checked his now very inky reflection and sighed.
‘Aren’t we the distracted one?’ Douglas passed him a handkerchief. ‘Clock watching, pen chewing… you spelled your own name wrong yesterday.’
‘I’m… just a bit tired.’
‘Still? Martin, it’s been a week. How badly did that woman wear you out on your last date?’
‘What?!?’
‘Just a joke.’
‘Oh.’
‘Or, is it?’
‘Douglas…’
‘Well, obviously we all know why you’re so distracted…’
‘Tired,’ insisted Martin.
‘A dry spell of at least five years, possibly more, and now the heavens have opened for Captain Crieff. Two dates in twenty four hours, the day following which you might as well have erected a neon sign above your head flashing a big arrow and the words “just had sex” …’
‘Douglas!’
‘And then, a wait of half a month to see her again.’ He paused. ‘I bet you’re still counting down to Montenegro in hours, aren’t you?’
Martin opened his mouth, closed it again, thought for a second and then opened his mouth once more.
‘I don’t think it’s very courteous to just discuss what Theresa and I have… you know. Or if we have at all, yet.’
‘You bloody have.’
‘You don’t know that!’
‘You came to the airfield the next morning in the same taxi, from the same hotel.’
‘I stayed at her hotel, that doesn’t mean anything. People stay overnight at hotels. That’s sort of the whole point of hotels.’
‘She was looking terribly relaxed.’
‘She enjoys flying with us!’
‘Yes. I’ve noticed.’ Douglas paused for a moment. ‘I also noticed the friction burns on your knees when you threw coffee down yourself and had to quickly change.’
‘Douglas, that is incredibly disrespectful! Theresa is a Princess!’
Douglas shrugged. ‘Royalty are good at getting people to kneel.’
Martin gaped. ‘I’m having no further part in this conversation! This is a place of business, not a changing room or… or… or wherever it is that people discuss their conquests. Not that she’s a conquest, she’s my date… well, actually I suppose technically she’s my girlfriend now since yes we are trying to make a go of it, and yes it is quite tough going with the distance thing, thank you so much for asking, and she’s great, I mean really very great and and and funny and just great and…’
‘You already said “great”.’
‘Well, she is! And she’s also an ambassador for her country and very dignified, and as such deserves respect for the privacy of her personal life, vis-à-vis, what she and I do or do not do on our dates.’
Douglas calmly held up his hands. ‘Very well. I shall enquire no further into the affairs of Her Serene Highness and Sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Martin frowned back down at his paperwork.
‘Afternoon, chaps!’ Arthur burst in, his usual bounce barely hampered by the large, heavy looking box in his hands. ‘This came for you, Skip.’ He set it down on top of Martin’s paperwork. ‘It’s from Vaduz, so it’s probably something from Theresa.’
‘Hmph,’ added Carolyn quietly, following in after her son.
‘Please don’t “hmph” my girlfriend, Carolyn.’
‘You heard the way she spoke to me. I’ll “hmph” her as much as I like.’
‘Oh,’ said Arthur, ‘but she probably only did that so she could….’
‘…test the waters,’ butted in Martin, anxiously. ‘Make an impression. We’ve got lots more bookings for Liechtenstein as a result of it, haven’t we?’
Carolyn quirked an eyebrow. ‘Well. As a result of something.’
‘And she pays well.’
‘Yes, well that’s why I only “hmphed” her quietly.’
There was a pause. Martin was only too aware that everybody else in the portacabin was looking at him expectantly.
‘What?’
‘Well, open it, then,’ prompted Carolyn. ‘I want to know what sort of present an Alpine Princess sends her impoverished pilot boyfriend.’
‘Really?’
‘No.’ Carolyn nodded in her son’s direction. ‘But he does.’
‘I bet it’s a crown!’ added Arthur, gleefully.
‘It won’t be a crown.’
‘It was heavy enough to be a crown, Mum.’
‘Look at the size of the box! And it rattled.’
‘Maybe it’s a broken crown.’
‘Why would she send him a broken crown?’
‘Could have got broken in the post.’
Martin sighed, and unwrapped the package, if only to put an end to the whole broken crown argument.
‘Goodness,’ cooed Douglas, suddenly peering over Martin’s shoulder as he opened the box. ‘More medals.’
‘What the…?’
‘She’s going to run out of room on you to pin those soon, Martin.’
‘Wow!’ Arthur picked one of them up out of the box. ‘I thought she’d already given you all the medals.’
‘These are brand new.’ Douglas picked up another, turning it over. ‘Has she had them specially minted?’
Arthur gave his an experimental lick. ‘Nope! Just tastes like metal to me.’
Martin shook his head fondly, picking up the third medal. Theresa and her little jokes. What on earth were these ones going to be for? He peered at the inscription and froze. The memory – once hazy and sleep-addled – leapt with a horrible sudden clarity into his mind.
Rolling over in bed. The sight, the sound, the smell of her. Sweat prickles on her breasts as her breaths gradually slowed. The slight sting of the nail marks on his shoulder. Her hand combing through his hair.
‘Was that all right?’
‘No. That was magnificent. I never accept just “all right”.’
‘You’re just saying that.’
‘You want more proof? I will give you a medal for sex.’
‘Liechtenstein has medals for sex?’
‘It will. And you will have them. And titles! I can think of at least two things you just did that deserve titles.’
‘You’re teasing me.’
‘Always. Do you like being teased?’
‘By you?’
‘By me.’
‘Always.’
Arthur’s cheery cry wrenched Martin from the memory. ‘I didn’t know there was a part of Liechtenstein called Cunnilingus!’
Carolyn’s eyes widened. ‘What? What makes you say…’
Arthur held out the medal. ‘Apparently, Skipper’s the Count of it, now.’
Carolyn took the medal from her son. She bit down on her lip and started to go a very funny colour indeed.
‘Archduke of…’ Douglas blinked at the medal in his own hand. ‘Gracious, Martin. And on the second date as well. I never imagined you’d have it in you. Although I do have to say, I’m jolly impressed.’
‘Scuse me…’ Carolyn’s voice was thin and strained as she dashed out of the portacabin. To give her credit, she did at least wait until the door was shut to burst into a fit of helpless laughter. Not that that spared anybody in the portacabin from hearing her shrieks of mirth, but, Martin decided later on, it was a nice gesture at the time.
‘Very dignified, these Royals,’ said Douglas, gently placing the medal back in the box. ‘Very private. Awe inspiring.’
‘It was a romantic gift,’ said Martin, quietly. ‘A personal little gift between… well, between lovers, might as well say it since everyone knows, now.’
‘Oh, Skip.’ Arthur handed back the third medal. ‘Even I already knew about that.’
‘Really?’
‘You had Just-Had-Sex Face for days. You know – that little smile people get and they think nobody knows why they’re smiling but everybody really does but nobody says? And you got medals! That’s brilliant. Nobody’s ever given me medals for sex.’
‘Me neither,’ added Douglas. ‘Nor have I ever contemplated going to the trouble of actually getting something minted and engraved for the purposes of teasing. Until now.’
‘What? No! Douglas, what are you going to do?’
Douglas already had his phone out. ‘Your girlfriend,’ he said, ‘has just beaten me hands down at the noble sport of Martin Teasing. I think that deserves a trophy.’
The End
Here is me at BBC Radio Comedy's Christmas Party with a nice man, a few hours before falling over drunk in front of the same nice man.
SO YES, THERE'S THAT. Not much time to do fanfic any more. However, after listening to Vaduz I had to do a little something because I already love Theresa so much (And Herc & Carolyn! Oh God! I was biting my fist). So there's this. Originally posted over on the CP Anon Meme. Theresa awards Martin Medals for sex.
MEDALS
Seven days, four hours since he’d seen her last.
Ten days, seventeen hours til they were booked to fly her to a diplomatic reception in Montenegro and he’d get to see her again.
Was that pathetic, that he was still counting in hours? It was probably a bit pathetic. At least he’d stopped counting in minutes, after date number 2. But then dates one and two had been less than 24 hours apart, what with her needing to go back home. It was one thing counting down the minutes when the next date was only going to be the next evening, it was a whole different kettle of fish when you were suddenly faced with a dateless gap of two weeks and four days. He gnawed at the end of his biro a little, looking up from his paperwork at the little clock on the portacabin’s wall.
Twenty-seven minutes past the hour. Which meant, in three minutes it would be half past and he’d be able to round the countdown down to ten days and sixteen hours.
God, seconds went slowly when you watched them.
Would they even have time for another date, in Montenegro? She’d be working, after all. And when she wasn’t working, she’d be being his passenger and he would be working. Oh, it didn’t matter. Well. It sort of mattered. But he’d get to see her, and that was the main thing.
Twenty-eight minutes past the hour. Hell, that was practically half past, wasn’t it?
He mentally rounded the countdown down to just ten days and sixteen hours.
‘Finally tiring of paperwork, Martin?’
Douglas’ voice from the doorway startled Martin a little and made him bite down rather harder than he’d intended on the end of his biro.
‘And there was me thinking that when Martin Crieff had tired of paperwork, he would tire of life.’ He sat down opposite, setting his crossword on the table.
‘Maybe I’ve just reached that age in a pilot’s life where it loses its appeal,’ Martin replied, spitting out little shards of biro plastic.
‘If that was a reference to my own approach to record keeping, then I’m afraid what you’ve failed to take into account is that I’ve always never enjoyed doing paperwork. Mind if I borrow a pen?’
Douglas glanced at the biro Martin held out to him.
‘One that isn’t half-smeared across your mouth, that is.’
Martin frowned, checked his now very inky reflection and sighed.
‘Aren’t we the distracted one?’ Douglas passed him a handkerchief. ‘Clock watching, pen chewing… you spelled your own name wrong yesterday.’
‘I’m… just a bit tired.’
‘Still? Martin, it’s been a week. How badly did that woman wear you out on your last date?’
‘What?!?’
‘Just a joke.’
‘Oh.’
‘Or, is it?’
‘Douglas…’
‘Well, obviously we all know why you’re so distracted…’
‘Tired,’ insisted Martin.
‘A dry spell of at least five years, possibly more, and now the heavens have opened for Captain Crieff. Two dates in twenty four hours, the day following which you might as well have erected a neon sign above your head flashing a big arrow and the words “just had sex” …’
‘Douglas!’
‘And then, a wait of half a month to see her again.’ He paused. ‘I bet you’re still counting down to Montenegro in hours, aren’t you?’
Martin opened his mouth, closed it again, thought for a second and then opened his mouth once more.
‘I don’t think it’s very courteous to just discuss what Theresa and I have… you know. Or if we have at all, yet.’
‘You bloody have.’
‘You don’t know that!’
‘You came to the airfield the next morning in the same taxi, from the same hotel.’
‘I stayed at her hotel, that doesn’t mean anything. People stay overnight at hotels. That’s sort of the whole point of hotels.’
‘She was looking terribly relaxed.’
‘She enjoys flying with us!’
‘Yes. I’ve noticed.’ Douglas paused for a moment. ‘I also noticed the friction burns on your knees when you threw coffee down yourself and had to quickly change.’
‘Douglas, that is incredibly disrespectful! Theresa is a Princess!’
Douglas shrugged. ‘Royalty are good at getting people to kneel.’
Martin gaped. ‘I’m having no further part in this conversation! This is a place of business, not a changing room or… or… or wherever it is that people discuss their conquests. Not that she’s a conquest, she’s my date… well, actually I suppose technically she’s my girlfriend now since yes we are trying to make a go of it, and yes it is quite tough going with the distance thing, thank you so much for asking, and she’s great, I mean really very great and and and funny and just great and…’
‘You already said “great”.’
‘Well, she is! And she’s also an ambassador for her country and very dignified, and as such deserves respect for the privacy of her personal life, vis-à-vis, what she and I do or do not do on our dates.’
Douglas calmly held up his hands. ‘Very well. I shall enquire no further into the affairs of Her Serene Highness and Sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Martin frowned back down at his paperwork.
‘Afternoon, chaps!’ Arthur burst in, his usual bounce barely hampered by the large, heavy looking box in his hands. ‘This came for you, Skip.’ He set it down on top of Martin’s paperwork. ‘It’s from Vaduz, so it’s probably something from Theresa.’
‘Hmph,’ added Carolyn quietly, following in after her son.
‘Please don’t “hmph” my girlfriend, Carolyn.’
‘You heard the way she spoke to me. I’ll “hmph” her as much as I like.’
‘Oh,’ said Arthur, ‘but she probably only did that so she could….’
‘…test the waters,’ butted in Martin, anxiously. ‘Make an impression. We’ve got lots more bookings for Liechtenstein as a result of it, haven’t we?’
Carolyn quirked an eyebrow. ‘Well. As a result of something.’
‘And she pays well.’
‘Yes, well that’s why I only “hmphed” her quietly.’
There was a pause. Martin was only too aware that everybody else in the portacabin was looking at him expectantly.
‘What?’
‘Well, open it, then,’ prompted Carolyn. ‘I want to know what sort of present an Alpine Princess sends her impoverished pilot boyfriend.’
‘Really?’
‘No.’ Carolyn nodded in her son’s direction. ‘But he does.’
‘I bet it’s a crown!’ added Arthur, gleefully.
‘It won’t be a crown.’
‘It was heavy enough to be a crown, Mum.’
‘Look at the size of the box! And it rattled.’
‘Maybe it’s a broken crown.’
‘Why would she send him a broken crown?’
‘Could have got broken in the post.’
Martin sighed, and unwrapped the package, if only to put an end to the whole broken crown argument.
‘Goodness,’ cooed Douglas, suddenly peering over Martin’s shoulder as he opened the box. ‘More medals.’
‘What the…?’
‘She’s going to run out of room on you to pin those soon, Martin.’
‘Wow!’ Arthur picked one of them up out of the box. ‘I thought she’d already given you all the medals.’
‘These are brand new.’ Douglas picked up another, turning it over. ‘Has she had them specially minted?’
Arthur gave his an experimental lick. ‘Nope! Just tastes like metal to me.’
Martin shook his head fondly, picking up the third medal. Theresa and her little jokes. What on earth were these ones going to be for? He peered at the inscription and froze. The memory – once hazy and sleep-addled – leapt with a horrible sudden clarity into his mind.
Rolling over in bed. The sight, the sound, the smell of her. Sweat prickles on her breasts as her breaths gradually slowed. The slight sting of the nail marks on his shoulder. Her hand combing through his hair.
‘Was that all right?’
‘No. That was magnificent. I never accept just “all right”.’
‘You’re just saying that.’
‘You want more proof? I will give you a medal for sex.’
‘Liechtenstein has medals for sex?’
‘It will. And you will have them. And titles! I can think of at least two things you just did that deserve titles.’
‘You’re teasing me.’
‘Always. Do you like being teased?’
‘By you?’
‘By me.’
‘Always.’
Arthur’s cheery cry wrenched Martin from the memory. ‘I didn’t know there was a part of Liechtenstein called Cunnilingus!’
Carolyn’s eyes widened. ‘What? What makes you say…’
Arthur held out the medal. ‘Apparently, Skipper’s the Count of it, now.’
Carolyn took the medal from her son. She bit down on her lip and started to go a very funny colour indeed.
‘Archduke of…’ Douglas blinked at the medal in his own hand. ‘Gracious, Martin. And on the second date as well. I never imagined you’d have it in you. Although I do have to say, I’m jolly impressed.’
‘Scuse me…’ Carolyn’s voice was thin and strained as she dashed out of the portacabin. To give her credit, she did at least wait until the door was shut to burst into a fit of helpless laughter. Not that that spared anybody in the portacabin from hearing her shrieks of mirth, but, Martin decided later on, it was a nice gesture at the time.
‘Very dignified, these Royals,’ said Douglas, gently placing the medal back in the box. ‘Very private. Awe inspiring.’
‘It was a romantic gift,’ said Martin, quietly. ‘A personal little gift between… well, between lovers, might as well say it since everyone knows, now.’
‘Oh, Skip.’ Arthur handed back the third medal. ‘Even I already knew about that.’
‘Really?’
‘You had Just-Had-Sex Face for days. You know – that little smile people get and they think nobody knows why they’re smiling but everybody really does but nobody says? And you got medals! That’s brilliant. Nobody’s ever given me medals for sex.’
‘Me neither,’ added Douglas. ‘Nor have I ever contemplated going to the trouble of actually getting something minted and engraved for the purposes of teasing. Until now.’
‘What? No! Douglas, what are you going to do?’
Douglas already had his phone out. ‘Your girlfriend,’ he said, ‘has just beaten me hands down at the noble sport of Martin Teasing. I think that deserves a trophy.’
The End