Chapter Text
“So,” says Theresa as they stroll around the Duxford Air Museum, “which of these would you prefer to fly? And know that if you say the Spitfire I shall laugh at your lack of originality.”
It takes Martin a moment to formulate his thoughts because he is strolling around the air museum with a princess. A princess who is asking him about planes as she sips at her cheap takeaway coffee. It is only when she gives him an enquiring glance over the lid of her cup, eyebrow raised, that he realises he's been staring at her with his mouth hanging open. He suspects she knows exactly what he's thinking. It's not particularly reassuring.
“There's nothing wrong with Spitfires!” he exclaims. “They were really – you know – important, during the War.”
“Hm.” Theresa sounds unimpressed. “So you're picking a Spitfire? You will have to do better than that to convince me, Captain Crieff.”
She keeps calling him “Captain Crieff”, and his stomach flips every time. He knows he's blushing. It's an unexpected side effect of her remarkably fond teasing. “A-actually, I'd pick the Firefly Mk 1. It's a beautiful old plane.”
“I suppose so. Though I prefer the longer fuselage of the Mk. II.”
“That will have compromised the handling,” Martin argues, and Theresa shakes her head. They bicker good-naturedly and Martin can't believe how easy this is.
“What do you think then?” he asks. “Which plane would you fly?”
Theresa taps her lower lip in thought. It is a highly endearing gesture that Martin is realising is a habit. “The Avro Vulcan,” she says finally.
“A bomber?”
“Yes. Why shouldn't I?”
“The idea of you in a bomber is frightening,” he tells her honestly, and she laughs. Her nose crinkles when she laughs, and she pushes her curly hair back behind her ear. Martin can't help but wonder what it would feel like between his fingers.
They continue to walk around the museum, passing comments about the planes and bickering over wing shape, fuselage length and engine placement. She is fierce in her opinions, and clearly knows what she is talking about. Martin watches her study a Harrier, a small line between her eyes, and wonders how this woman could be interested in him. She's small and slight, her chin tilting upwards with a certain pride. Her dark curly hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she has freckles across her nose. She exudes the effortless confidence that Martin wishes he had. Even dressed in a turtle-neck jumper and jeans he can't imagine that anyone would be surprised that she is a princess.
They have lunch at a pleasant nearby café. Theresa orders Earl Grey and a croque monsieur - “I am rather international, I think” - and tells him about her family and growing up with seven younger siblings.
“I have to say,” she says thoughtfully, “I imagined that I would resent Maxi for being in line before me – especially after my mother had spent most of my life preparing me to be Queen – but it was rather a relief. I have to look after Maxi, of course, but all that expectation just- poof!” She gives a slight wave of her hands, “gone! There are still things I'm expected to do of course, but it's not as much. I can have some of my own interests now, when Maxi is at school.”
Martin considers this as he chews his sandwich. “Flying?” he asks once he's swallowed.
Theresa gives him a small smile. “Not yet. I would like to, of course, but my mother still insists it is not 'suitable'. I tell her that I am thirty-two years old, that I would like to do something of my choosing, but she has not yet changed her mind.” For the first time she looks sincerely downcast. Martin almost reaches for her hand but stops himself in time, leaving his hand on the table instead.
“My family didn't want me to fly either. Well, no, at first they were supportive, but when it – when it took me a long time they just wanted me to give up. I had to do it on my own.”
“Oh?” Theresa looks interested by this, and sympathetic. “That is – so you are lucky, but because of your hard work. That is the best kind of luck, I feel.”
He blinks at her, then smiles cautiously. “I suppose so,” he says slowly. She has a refreshingly different way of putting things. “Yes. Well, I was thinking... I mean, I'm allowed to -to take people up in the air, and there's an old chap who keeps his Cessna at the airfield. He said he'd lend her to me if I wanted so – would you – would you like to go up?”
Theresa beams. Her nose crinkles and there are lines around her eyes. “I would like that very much, Martin,” she says, pushing her hair behind her ear.
This time, Martin doesn't stop himself from taking her hand, and matching her smile with his own.