Fandot Secret Santa @hellyeahjohnfinnemore | for moneycll
↳ Prompt: cabin pressure steampunk au
once upon a time, in a world were no planes exist, Gerti - a very dapper, very brave little dirigible - is sent on an adventure by Her Majesty, Queen Carolyn The First. Now, we witness the tale of Gerti attempting to fly around the world in only 80 days with the help of her best friend and loyal sidekick Sir Arthur Shappey, Wing Commander. But what is that? Evil Red Baron Gordon and his Nefarious Yucky Bad Jaded Atrocious Malicious Syndicate (N.Y.B.J.A.M.S.) are scheming an intrigue to stop Gerti from succeeding….will the brave little dirigible and her friends make it in time?
Santa is sorry for being late, but we hope you will enjoy this.
From Bookworm
The snow begins only a few minutes after Herc arrives and doesn’t stop for the four hours he finds himself waiting and mentally forbidding the snow from stopping GERTI’s flight. It’s a wet, messy snow that seems to flop apathetically onto the ground and forces him to get the key to the portacabin from Dirk the groundskeeper, who proves roughly the size of a bear and is somewhat intimidating. And that’s where he spends the intervening hours while he sits in the swivel chair and stares vacantly at the mound of slightly crumpled paperwork on the desk and scrolling through Facebook on his phone. At some point during this saga of boredom he loses interest in the occasional thrum of a plane motor passing over above.
He’s beginning to feel his brain turning to something the consistency of porridge when the door bangs open to admit Dirk and a blast of damp frigid air. “Thought you’d like to know they’re landing now,” Dirk grunts, and withdraws.
Herc crosses to the window and looks out. He can hear GERTI’s motor now, distinctive in its slight sputter, and see her lights circling over the airfield. He hugs his coat closer around his shoulders and opens the door, wincing as the cold air hits his face. As GERTI circles ever lower, he takes up a place beside the portacabin door, where he’ll be out of the way as the dilapidated little plane touches down, spraying snow slushy with salt on either side. The ground crew appear, maneuvering the steps into position before disappearing into the warmth of the buildings.
It takes only a moment longer (presumably after the shortest post-landing check in history) for the cabin door to open and Douglas and Martin spill out, followed closely by Carolyn. He thinks that his heart might have skipped a beat as he sees her framed in the light from the cabin, and he wonders how he could possibly have been so lucky to meet her.
She waits until after Douglas has expressed his incredulity over Herc’s location and says, “What on earth are you doing here, Herc?”
“Lovely to see you too, Carolyn,” he says.
“Yes, quite,” she says. “But you haven’t answered my question. What are you doing miles from home in the snow in my airfield at night?”
“What a touching reunion,” Douglas says as he meanders into the portacabin with Martin.
Herc ignores him and says to Carolyn, “Waiting to see you.”
“But I told you we were delayed,” she says.
“I know. But, as you had to stay in Poland several hours beyond what you were expecting and missed a chance to attend an opera with me, I thought you might like a welcoming committee.”
“Are most of your welcoming committees composed of one person?” she asks.
He holds out his hand to help her down the last step. “I suppose I could rally a crowd if you want your triumphant return celebrated. Although I’m not sure that the crew here find it something to be celebrated, and I don’t know if the general public wishes to come out to an airfield in this weather.”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Herc,” she says, ignoring his outstretched hand and brushing past him. “Or rather, hone your sarcasm by yourself while I see if Douglas is doing his paperwork.”
“Douglas is fifty-four, Carolyn,” Herc points out. “Don’t you think he might be able to handle it himself?”
Carolyn turns around and looks at him evenly. “No, I don’t,” she says. “If I don’t watch him like I’m a reincarnation of Argus, he will pretend to work on it for five minutes and then hide it in his impressively large stack of similarly-unfinished papers. And before you suggest that Martin can supervise him, let me remind you that Martin has never convinced Douglas to do something he doesn’t want to do without results that I would much rather remain blissfully unaware of.”
“In that case, if Douglas needs to be watched like a toddler—“
“He does,” Carolyn interjects.
“I’ll accompany you,” Herc continues. “The portacabin is ten feet away; we ought to be able to make that walk last five minutes.”
“Hercules, even you cannot be soppy enough to attempt to turn that walk into a date,” she says.
“Of course not,” he says. “Not a date. Merely a walk to your office so you can babysit your first officer.”
They set out towards the portacabin. The snow makes a disconsolate squelching noise under their feet, and his leather-clad feet are uncomfortably wet, but suddenly even the edges of the asphalt where the mounded snow is crusted with grime seem to glisten in the orange glow of the street lamps. The snow settles on their hair and jackets and he has a disconcerting urge to brush it off of Carolyn’s collar. Behind them in the aeroplane the hoover, manned by Arthur, growls into life.
Suddenly Carolyn says, “But why, Herc? Whatever possessed you to spend your evening waiting here?”
He stops in the snow and looks down at her. “Because I love you,” he says simply.
“Herc, please.” Carolyn looks almost pleading. “You’re beginning to sound like Mr. Darcy.”
“It’s true,” he says.
“Be that as it may, I don’t have any desire to listen to you declare it,” she says. “I’m starting to be afraid that I’m about to find myself in some horrible romantic comedy.”
“Nevertheless, I fear I can’t withdraw the information,” he tells her.
She’s beginning to look miserable. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
“Then I’ll wait until you do know what to say, whenever that is,” Herc says. He has a feeling that the wait will be worth it.
Christmas Eve finds Douglas firmly resolved that he will not spend the next day being merry, and that everyone will know it. Everyone, in this case, is all three of his coworkers and all two employees he’s seen in the hotel so far.
To be fair to Carolyn, she hadn’t meant to make them spend Christmas in a hotel that resembled nothing so much as a charcoal burner’s lean-to. The plan had been to fly a man who is disgustingly rich (disgustingly rich because his money doesn’t belong to Douglas) back to his family’s hunting lodge in rural Canada on the day before Christmas Eve, make a brief stopover that night, and fly back in time to spend Christmas Day in England. Everything had gone swimmingly (apart from the disgustingly rich client getting annoyed at Arthur’s tendency to serenade them all with Christmas carols), right up to the point when they were informed that the airport was shutting down because the gently falling snow outside was scheduled to turn into a blizzard. After a short argument (courtesy of Carolyn) with the airfield manager, they had transferred operations to the smallest and cheapest hotel Douglas’ phone could point them to. Once there, Carolyn books two rooms and gives the smaller one to her pilots.
Douglas is even less impressed when he sees the room. It has just space for one bed, one dresser with a television looming above it, and one scantily-stuffed armchair in the far corner. It’s dark and smells strongly of dogs and has a suspicious stain on the floor which he decides to ignore. He doesn’t even want to think about the state of the oddly thin bedding.
“At least it’s not the worse place we’ve been in,” Martin offers. “I mean, there aren’t cockroaches on the walls this time.”
“Because it is, of course, comforting to remember that we, as two professional pilots, usually stay in rooms that look like a drug raid waiting to happen,” Douglas says.
“It’s not that bad,” Martin says. “At least it’s warm.”
That is one point in favor of the experience, but Douglas chooses not to recognize that. Instead he tosses his pitifully light satchel on the bed and says, “Anyway, it’s late and there’s obviously nothing to here but wait for our inevitable death by hypothermia. Do you want the shower first?”
Martin is halfway across the room when the door bursts open and Arthur says in a voice of breathless excitement, “Isn’t this brilliant, chaps?”
“In what way, Arthur, is being stuck in a hotel that looks like it has risen from the bowels of hell brilliant?” Douglas asks.
“Cause it’s cozy like an—an igloo! And it’s Christmas, and we all get to spend it together!”
“In an igloo,” Douglas says.
Arthur nods.
“Made of drywall and cement.”
Arthur looks lost for a moment, then says, “Maybe it’s not exactly like an igloo. Still brilliant, though!”
Martin, who has stopped to listen to the conversation, says, “Yes, it is brilliant, Arthur,” with a pointed glance at his first officer.
Arthur disappears into the hallway, presumably to return to the room he’s sharing with his mother. As he closes the door, Martin asks, “Why can’t you at least act like you’re happy, Douglas?”
“Because,” Douglas says, “I ought to be spending Christmas with my daughter, not with a bunch of idiots I spend most of my time in a metal cupboard with.”
“Right,” Martin says. “You know, I was about to be sympathetic, until you called us idiots.” And he goes into the bathroom.
When Douglas gets out of the shower (which runs either scalding hot or freezing cold), Martin is already curled up in bed. Douglas climbs in beside him and looks down at him for a moment. He looks almost angelic, with his red curls spread over the pillow. His heart melts a little, but he’s not about to change his mind this late in the evening. Instead he rolls to his designated side of the bed and tries to fall asleep.
He accomplishes that quickly enough, but wakes up to a bony elbow in his kidneys and Martin’s voice whispering his name in a panicked tone. The next thing he’s aware of is a sultry female voice in the room, which is—definitely not right. He comes suddenly and fully awake and stares into the dark. The room is lit by a flickering, luminous light. It takes only a moment longer to realize that both light and voice are issuing from the television. It’s a moment after that that through the wall he hears Carolyn snap, “Oh, shut up.”
He stumbles out of bed and grabs for the remote. As an extra measure, he yanks the plug from the wall before collapsing back into bed. Martin has propped himself up on one elbow and mumbles, “Television?”
“It’s been vanquished,” Douglas says.
The second time he wakes up, it’s because of Martin again. This time Martin is pressed up against his back. It doesn’t take long to determine why, though. The air against his face feels like they’ve gone to bed in Antarctica, and the chill is quickly seeping down through the blanket. He twists around to look at the clock on the nightstand and is greeted by a black void. The power is out. At least, he thinks, the television won’t turn back on. Unless it’s possessed. Which it might be. But since that hasn’t yet been proven he feels safe burrowing deeper under the covers.
The third time he wakes up, it’s to a rousing chorus of “I Saw Three Ships” outside the door, just before it bangs against the wall and Arthur tumbles inside waving a flashlight that’s giving off a dull red glow.
“What time is it, Arthur?” he asks, and realizes that if he’d wanted to spend Christmas with his daughter, he’s getting the same experience with the steward.
“Six o’clock,” Arthur says. “Or is it eighteen hundred? It’s one of them, anyway.”
“Six o’clock, Arthur. It’s six o’clock,” Martin mumbles, and pulls the blanket tighter around himself.
“And where did you get that flashlight?” Douglas asks.
“Albert—he’s the guy at the front desk, he’s brilliant—found it and said I could use it. And then I just sort of put my handkerchief over the top so it’s red and it looks like a Christmas light.”
“Yes. Exactly like a Christmas light. Now, Arthur, if you would like to take your Christmas cheer elsewhere, Martin and I can get dressed and join the party,” Douglas suggests.
Over breakfast half-an-hour later (which turns out to be cold cereal, since the power is still out), Arthur says, “It really is like an igloo now, isn’t it?”
Douglas looks out at the white curtain driving past the window. “In some respects, yes.”
“Like the North Pole,” Arthur says. “Except without elves. And reindeer. And presents.”
“You’ll get your presents when we get home, Arthur,” Carolyn points out. “We didn’t bring them because we are not actually a sleigh.”
“And we didn’t realize we would need emergency presents,” Douglas says.
“Nah, it’s not important,” Arthur says, although Douglas notes that his lip trembles a little as he says it. “Anyway, we can all sing Christmas carols and stuff. Besides, I made these!”
He dives under the table and returns with hats. Somewhere he’s found four sheets of newspaper which he’s attempted to turn red with a colored pencil and folded into four hats. As Douglas puts his on, he begins to think that this day might not be utterly terrible after all.
It gets even less terrible when a hotel employee (possibly Albert) sidles in and flips a switch. The room is suddenly bright and Martin grins. “Oh, and Arthur? I’ve got a present for you.” A faint scent of scorched dust fills the air. “Heat!”
“Wow!” Arthur says. “Thanks, Skip!”
Douglas sits up indignantly. “That’s supposed to be my present!”
Douglas had been looking forward to Christmas for months. How on Earth had it all gone so wrong? And would he be able to repair the damage he’d done before it was too late?
Teen, 19k, Martin/Douglas, Angst with a Happy Ending
As Luck Would Have It (Happy New Year, Glowbug :-)
Martin: I am going to ask for a pay rise.
Douglas : Ah yes, the talk. Face to face, heart to heart, CEO to CEO.
Martin: What?
Douglas: You both are running a small profit-making company, aren´t you?
Martin: Extremely small. Especially the profit part. (a beat) Douglas, do you think she´d be flattered if I asked her for pointers?
Douglas: Oh, Carolyn is very happy to give pointers. Though most people just call them orders.
Martin: Wish me luck.
Douglas: How did it go?
Martin: Well, really well. After all, I am still young, healthy, unmortgaged and not a sole carer.
Douglas: By the sound of it, you can count yourself lucky she didn´t talk you into paying her.
Martin: Ha-ha. Never. Not even close. Ehm. (a beat) Close shave, really.
Douglas: Oh dear.
Martin: I didn´t really expect a raise, but still, some extra cash would have been nice. Christmas gifts, and all that.
Douglas: Come to think of it, I never shopped for a princes. What´s it like?
Martin: I suppose it would be really nice, if I was a monarch.
Douglas: Oh, cheer up. Something will come up.
Martin: At this point even Grinch would help.
Carolyn: Douglas, we weren´t supposed to land in Zurich for another thirty minutes. Are you smuggling perishables again?
Martin: At least three crates worth. And he almost made me fly through a storm.
Herc: (entering the flying deck) Four hours turnaround is entirely unreasonable, especially when you have three hours of opera planed. How come you´re shaved off only half an hour, Douglas? Have you been pussyfooting around storm clouds again?
Carolyn: Three hours of opera? I suppose I should call myself lucky you didn´t sandwich a snowboarding course into the interval.
Herc: Don´t be ridiculous. We have a ice carving workshop scheduled for the interval.
Martin: No pay, no cash for Christmas gifts, but a boss with a chainsaw. Now my life´s complete.
Herc: Oh, stop whining. As soon as you have dropped us off at the Opera house, you can have my car.
Martin: That´s … that´s awfully nice of you Herc. Thank you. But what for?
Douglas: Tonight, Theresa is getting Maxi a watch for Christmas. What you think Herc, Bahnhoffstrasse?
Herc: There´s no other place.
Martin: How did you know that? Never mind, that´s great, I can pick her up! Drive her around a bit. For four hours. She´ll be thrilled.
Douglas: Seeing how the two of you met, she probably would. But you can drive her here. By the time you arrive, the dinner will be ready.
Martin: Dinner?
Arthur: Dinner for two, Skip. Served on board.
Douglas: Of an antique aircraft, no less.
Martin: So the crates…?
Arthur: Douglas cooked. Didn´t let me touch a thing.
Douglas: Oh, it´s just some jelly from New Delhi, cattle from Seattle…
Douglas/Arthur/Herc: Merry Christmas, Martin.
Martin: Thank you. But I don´t have anything for you guys.
Douglas: Oh, never mind that. Just don´t name your firstborn “Hercules”.
