[Fanfic, 100% OJ] Flowers and the Sky

Series: Flying Red Barrel

Genre: Slice of life

Length: 1481 words

B/D: Another quick little story. This one's a surprise gift for Airie, who had a birthday recently.

She has oil on her hands, in her hair, and in her blood. Her fingertips are tough and blunt, her knuckles always scuffed; sometimes, the ladies of the town mock her for having a workman’s hands. But they have never flown, as she has; no inch of metal has saved them from certain death, and they have never felt the terror of a bolt shearing off in the middle of the sky. The time she spends in the workshop is important, a mark of respect for her own life and her machine. It gives her the time she needs to contemplate both, and know them better: to listen to the heart of Red Barrel. If her hands lack grace, then so be it; they are graceful enough in the cockpit, and that is all she needs.

Perhaps she has chosen an odd day to linger in the workshop. The smell of fresh spring rain is giving way to the warmth of summer; some farms are already scattered with bales of straw and hay, and from above they look like a patchwork quilt of many colours. The sky is powder blue, the clouds few and fair. It’s her favourite type of day to fly, or even just to wander along the bumpy streets of the town and chat amiably to the familiar faces she finds. But instead she is underneath the belly of her plane, sweating in the midday heat.

She sighs, and sets her wrench aside to reach for one smaller. By the light of her torch, she can see a wedge of dull, burnt metal taunting her from the innards of her machine – probably a chunk of shrapnel left from some battle or another. It must have entered the plane from somewhere higher and fallen down, because there is a wave of pipes and wires cradling it. It all has to be disconnected, or worked around – a laborious job, but it will at least rid of of the worrying rattle that she’s been hearing. She prefers working on the fuselage, because it gives her an excuse to break out the welder’s torch. There is something entrancing in the sparks.

She works slowly and methodically. This pipe must be taken so that pipe must be drained, these wires disconnected but that bundle she can brush aside. Before long the ache has set into her shoulders, to be ignored until the job is done and then lamented later. Gradually, she makes her way into the belly of her machine, sipping from time to time on a cup of water that has grown warm on the workshop floor. The first draught of cold water after finishing a job is the sweetest taste she knows, but it will be a while coming.

Before long her mind contracts, sinking into that strange focus that artists share. Her hands know their business, guided by hours upon hours of practice; her mind is free to dream, to wander across libraries of pipe and screw and bolt, to picture the Red Barrel not as it is but as it might be. How will she improve it next? What face will it wear?

She doesn’t hear him come in. He is shod in supple leather, without the hobnails favoured by the other working men; his step is light, as befits a pilot. There is a saying that they who live in the sky should not tread too heavily upon the earth, or they risk being bound there. Superstition is a fine joke to a merchant or a guildmaster, but for pilots and sailors alike it is law; there is enough danger in taking to the sky and the sea without ceding one’s luck.

She only realises she is not alone when she reaches for her cup and realises the water is newly cold. Her fingertips linger on the side of the mug, and she takes a steadying breath before wheeling herself out from beneath the plane. She finds him sitting on an overturned crate in all his finery, smiling his cocky little smile.

“Every time I see you this plane seems to need touching up. Maybe the machine is reliable, but the pilot needs some work. Eh, Red Barrel?”

She smiles back, because she knows by now that the taunting is an act, and that even if it isn’t, he’s polite enough in other ways. He brought her a mug of clean, fresh water, after all, and stayed quiet to watch her work – smart enough not to speak, because mechanics surprised by sudden noises underneath a plane tend to end up with sore heads.

“Maybe so. I need to get her fixed up so I can get some practice in,” she replies, and puts her wrench aside. The corners of her mouth twitch in amusement. “But boy… I’m not sayin’ you don’t look good in that jacket, Blue Crow, but it makes me sweat just to look at you.”

He shuffles uncomfortably, and she knows she’s hit the mark. A cravat and jacket do not the airiest of summer ensembles make; even she has been edging quietly towards light linen shirts when outside of the plane and the workshop.

“It’s a necessary sacrifice. You have to look your best when you meet with your rival. That’s common sense,” he says loftily, although if he’s honest he wishes he had drawn a cup of water at the stop-pipe for himself. “Speaking of, you look like you’ve been soaking in an oil drum.”

“Aw, it’s not that bad. ‘Sides, I think a pilot can do with being slippery every once in a while. Might help me squeeze through enemy fire. Maybe that’s why I get shot down less than you do.”

“That’s got nothing to do with anything. I only get shot down by you, you know. For somebody who just ‘wants to fly freely’, you sure do pack on the firepower…” he grumbles.

She gulps down the remainder of her water, savouring the taste; it’s almost cold enough to make her teeth ache. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure? You just feeling lonesome?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he sniffs, scowling at his boots. “I’m just making sure you’re not slacking off. Iron sharpens iron, right? I have to make sure my rival isn’t sitting around town, simpering over some blacksmith because he gave her a bunch of tulips or something.”

“That’s… sweet, I think?” she replies, sitting back down on her trolley. “Anyway, I’m gonna be awhile fixing up the plane. If you’re sticking around, I’d be grateful for another cup of water. If not, been nice seeing you.”

“Tch. Are you joking? If I leave a slowpoke like you to do this without any help, you’ll be here until next week. You call out the tools, and I’ll pass them. Surprised you can even find anything in this messy workshop.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. Under her machine, he can’t see her smile. “You want to grab me the ratchet wrench? In the big old steel draw, on the left.”

They settle down to the task. The work doesn’t go much faster for having Peat there; his pride won’t let him look at the inner workings of his rival’s machine, and she’s not so keen showing him herself. Some things have to stay between a pilot and her plane. But at least there’s some banter, and stories to tell of glowing triumphs and near misses; the afternoon wicks away into the evening before they are done.

“I guess that wasn’t so bad,” he says, tightening his scarf outside the workshop. She can see the Blue Crow in the distance, settled in a patchwork field. “You’d make a better mechanic than you would a pilot.”

“Funny. I was thinking maybe I’d hire you for an assistant, since then at least you’d be doing something you’re good at,” she volleys back cheerfully. “Besides crash landing, that is.”

“Oh? You’ll get some practice at crash landings tomorrow. I’ll put a nice, big hole in your plane for you to repair. You’d better be ready, Red Barrel!”

His tone is friendlier than his talk, and she waves him goodbye amiably as he strides across the fields. She wipes her forehead with a rag, and it comes back black with grease: a bath is most definitely in order, and then the day will be as good as done. (She sleeps early and rises early, to make the most of the day’s light for flying).

It is not until she locks up the workshop, ready for bed, that she finds the flowers he left on the workbench: a bouquet of carnations, red for a rival’s admiration. Or perhaps just to match her plane? She whistles to herself; she’ll have to remember to buy a vase tomorrow. She’s not the type of girl to get flowers often.

But then, she’s not the type for simpering, either.

A/N: This is the first time I've done a story with the Red Barrel characters by themselves. Marc has always struck me as a cheery country girl, and it's a little hard not to have her slip into a drawl. But this was fun to write, and I think it turned out pretty well. I don't have a cover image for FRB, though, so it looks a little bare up there.