Chapter Text
Arthur notices for the first time in Austin.
There’s been a bomb scare at the airport and all the flights are grounded while a swarm of TSA agents converges on the terminal. Mum is scowling because the delay means they might have to find a hotel for the passengers. Douglas is grouchy because he won’t get to pass his fourteen cases of Nutella to his friend in customs; not with the increased scrutiny on all their baggage.
The passengers seem divided on the matter; most of them are tired of hanging about the airport and have exhausted the limited entertainment offered by shops and moving walkways. One of them, who is eleven and became instant friends with Arthur on the flight over, thinks it is an adventure and especially loves the working dogs sniffing everything. Arthur agrees with her heartily.
The only person who doesn’t seem to mind much one way or the other is Martin. He draws himself into a small space in the crowded waiting area, at the end of one of the long rows of seats. He keeps his overnight bag beside him like a barricade. He reads a book, sips coffee, and waits.
Eventually there is a rustle of movement, a squawked overhead announcement, and lines form at the security screening area. Mum chivvies the passengers into a line, tells them what gate to head for, and then joins the rest of MJN in the crew line. Her mood brightens now that it looks like they’ll get to leave today, and even Douglas perks up a bit when he notices the crew line is far shorter than the ones for passengers.
Martin, on the other hand, stares at the screening process ahead of them and hunches his shoulders. “This is ridiculous,” he says. “We don’t need pat-downs. We’re flight crew! We shouldn’t have to go through this process.”
“Martin, do shut up,” Mum says impatiently.
“I’m just saying—”
“Don’t,” Douglas says, cutting him off. “Think about this. Look at the TSA agents. Do they look happy to you?”
Martin frowns and says nothing. Arthur looks, curious. “Wow, they really don’t,” he says. “They’re all kind of squinchy around the eyes.”
“Yes,” Douglas says. “Those are the faces of people working overtime, processing a lot of grumpy and impatient passengers. Those are people who are still concerned about the bomb scare. They don’t like this any more than you do, and will require very little reason to hold us all here for hours.”
“But,” Martin begins.
“No,” Mum says, rounding on him. “If you cause another delay like the one in Boston…”
“That was one time,” Martin protests. “And it was ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous or not, it kept us grounded all morning,” Douglas replies. “I, for one, do not intend to spend a single minute longer in this airport than I absolutely have to. So keep quiet, do as you’re told, and don’t cause a fuss.”
Martin subsides, folding his arms over his chest with a defeated sigh. The line shuffles forward.
“Don’t worry, Skip,” Arthur says. “Look, I think our line is going pretty fast.”
“I’m not worried,” Martin says. “I just… don’t think this is necessary. It’s beneath my dignity as a captain. Standing there in the middle of an airport while some random stranger puts his hands…” His jaw tightens and a line appears between his eyebrows. “Never mind. Let’s just get through this.”
Their line does indeed move at a decent pace. Flight crew, well familiar with airport screening, know how to behave and what not to carry in their hand luggage. Soon they are at the head of the line. Mum goes through first, bearing the scan and pat-down in stoic silence. Douglas gives the agents a polite smile, follows instructions, and is swiftly passed to the other side.
Arthur is next, and he giggles a bit as the agent passes his hands over his stomach. The agent raises a questioning eyebrow. “Tickles,” Arthur explains. This actually gets him a tired smile, and he is ushered to the secure area once his scan is complete. He turns to watch Martin come through.
Martin approaches with a grim stride. He stares straight ahead, back taut and upright, jaw set in a hard line. He leans away from the hands as much as possible. His face is blank but he fairly quivers with tension; the security agents give him an even more thorough pat-down because of it. One stands in front of him and runs his hands lightly over his chest, into the dip of his waist, and over his thighs. Another is behind and touches his shoulders, the small of his back, and down to his knees. He tugs at Martin’s trouser legs and peers at his ankles. Martin’s lips press into a thin line; he appears to be holding his breath.
When he finally gets through, he picks up his bag from the rack and walks toward the gate. He doesn’t look at any of them. Mum and Douglas are already moving, impatient to get to the plane and prepare for the flight, but Arthur trails a bit, watching Martin.
“Skip?”
“What.” Martin’s voice is flat and unhappy.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“It’s just, you don’t look fine,” Arthur says.
“Well, I am,” Martin replies. He walks a little faster.
Arthur casts a sidelong look at him as they hurry through the airport. He reaches out, tentative, and touches his shoulder. Martin jerks away, giving him a startled glance. “Don’t,” he says.
“Sorry,” Arthur says. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. Fine. Yes.” Martin weaves around a clump of passengers, drawing his arms in close to his body to avoid brushing against them. Arthur follows, frowning.
Martin is probably just grumpy about the delay, he reasons. And the extra security screening. Nobody seems to like that. He’ll be better once they’re in the air. Flying always cheers him up. Yes, Arthur decides, he’ll be okay.
But he can’t quite forget the tight, miserable look on Martin’s face.