[Fanfic, 100% OJ] Small Talk

Series: Flying Red Barrel

Genre: Slice of Life

Length: 2191 words

B/D: I said I'd do a Flying Red Barrel story to celebrate its re-release on steam; it took a while because I had other projects with deadlines, and I had to scale down the idea a bit, but here it is! I really have to get a cover image for this series one of these days.

It’s another warm day.

Low humidity, a slight breeze. Good visibility. A fine day for flying, especially with an open cockpit. It’s easier to reach altitude when the air is cold, but the Blue Crow was never made for comfort. Comfort leads to complacency, and the last place he wants to get complacent is the pilot’s seat.

As nice as it would be in the air, it’s a little too warm for him on the ground. The jacket isn’t helping, but he’d rather sweat than be seen without it. Besides, the thick fabric stops the strap of his satchel from cutting into his shoulder. (He’s always looking for practical reasons to justify his fashion choices).

Inside the satchel are a selection of heavy books. Mathematics, mostly. The old Guild always taught them to fly by feel, and they’ve gotten far enough on that alone, but Islay is pushing for better education. If nothing else, she says, knowing the numbers will give them context to their guesswork. At the very bottom of the bag is a little birdwatcher’s almanac, with little pen and ink drawings of each specimen. A little treat for himself.

His trip concluded, he threads his way back toward his plane through the narrow streets. He’s not that familiar with the town, although he likes it well enough. It’s a little more modern than he’s used to. Trendier, he supposes. The library is the only thing that really sticks out to him: a tall, round, imposing building that takes pride of place in the town square. It brings to mind the smell of old books and well-polished oak. One of these days, he’s going to relax there and spend some time reading in one of the secluded little window seats. Another treat.

He keeps to the side streets as he goes, walking where the shade is thickest. The route takes him through the older parts of the commercial district, and on either side of him there are shops with dimly lit interiors and wide glass windows. Apothecaries, watchmakers, old sweet shops… some of them interest him, although not enough to stop and explore.

He regrets that, a little. It feels like life has gotten so busy now that he’s scrabbling just to keep up. He’s had no time to look around and actually take in the places he flies to; he has the whole world beneath his wings, but he’s not experiencing any of it.

From what he can tell, he’s not the only one. People have begun to joke that Islay spends so much time filing paperwork that the local tavern is going bust without her patronage; her tinted glasses do not quite conceal the dark circles forming beneath her eyes.

Marc, too, is developing a reputation as a ferocious workaholic. Not that she wasn’t already. If she’s not up in the sky, she’s tinkering in her workshop, quietly refining the Red Barrel and patching its wounds. When she talks, she talks about flying. Her eyes are always on the horizon.

It’s that kind of thing that makes him feel he might never catch up to her. How can he get ahead of someone who spends all their time moving forward? People say he should work smarter, not harder, but she keeps working smarter too.

He sighs, and shakes the thought away. If he’s not careful, people will start calling him the Brooding Blue Crow. He’s gotten enough silly nicknames without courting more.

“Oh, look over there. Is he not one of yours, Marc?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He frowns as he hears familiar voices, loud enough that he knows they’re directed at him. Even though he knows it’s irrational, it irritates him that somebody saw him when he was thinking about that kind of thing. He hates the idea of them catching him in an unguarded moment.

After a moment of looking around, he spots Marc and Fernet sitting at a table on a terrace cafe. They’re dressed for the summer, unlike him: sandals and short skirts, bare legs and shoulders. He’s struck by how tan Marc is in comparison to Fernet’s pale skin.

Marc raises a hand in greeting. “Howdy, Blue Crow. I’d start running if I were you.”

“Running, in this weather? Are you trying to kill the poor boy?” Fernet asks, shooting her friend a dark look before returning her gaze to him. “Here, sit down and I’ll order you some iced coffee. And for goodness’ sake, take that jacket off. I’m sweating just looking at you.”

He reflexively takes a step forward. Fernet has that effect on people. Whatever else can be said about her, she knows how to give orders in a way that compels people to follow them.

Of course, when he knows he’s being pushed, it’s in his nature to push back. “I didn’t know pigs could sweat."

“Oh, har, har,” Fernet says archly, and rolls her eyes. “Stop being ridiculous and take a seat. You look like you’re about to collapse. Marc, tell him.”

“I’m not telling him to do anything.” She pauses. “But you do look a little tired, Blue Crow. Sure you don’t wanna take a load off?”

He clicks his tongue because he knows he’s beat, and reluctantly takes a chair. He finds himself sitting down more heavily than he thought he would. “Like you’re one to talk, Red Barrel. I’ve heard you’ve been taking deliveries seven days a week.”

Marc opens her mouth to speak, but Fernet silences her with a regal glare. “That’s quite enough of that. Pardon me, Peat, but Marc and I have a prior agreement that she’s not to discuss work today. Or flying, since that constitutes work.”

Marc looks away, and nibbles distractedly on an almond biscotti. He raises his eyebrows.

“Any reason for that?” he asks.

“Because she never talks about anything else! If she keeps going this way, her conversational skills will atrophy. And besides, what’s the point of making her take a day off if she spends it thinking about her job? It’s madness!”

“You made her take a day off?”

“Absolutely. She’d never take one otherwise. Honestly, I’ve half a mind to go and have a chat with that Islay of yours. They’re relying on you far too much. At this rate, you’re going to fritter away your youth. You’ll end up old and bitter if you aren’t careful.”

“You said you’d leave Islay out of this,” Marc says reproachfully. “She doesn’t need any more work.”

Peat narrows his eyes. So that’s how she got Marc to agree. It rubs him the wrong way, and his fists clench. “Oi, Fernet. It sounds like you’re overstepping your mark, here.”

“So what?” she sniffs. “I know you two are capable, but you’re still children. You need somebody looking out for you. If Islay won’t do it, then I will.”

He makes to stand up, affronted, but Marc lunges over the table to grab his arm. “Leave it, Peat. She’s got her heart in the right place. It isn’t worth arguing about. Let’s just… let’s just talk about something else, alright?”

“Like what?” he asks.

A tense silence descends on the table as Marc furrows her brow, groping for a topic. It quickly becomes apparent that she can’t find one. He’d love to help, but he comes up blank himself. What do they normally talk about, other than work, flying, and planes?

He comes to the gradual realisation that, by and large, they don’t. It strikes him as being deeply bizarre, somehow. They see each other pretty often, so there should be something, but it’s just… a gap.

As they founder, Fernet folds her arms and watches. Her posture says everything. She could bail them out so easily, but that would prove that she’s right – that their social skills are starting to regress under the strain of their workload. Neither of them wants to give her that ground.

“So, uh… what’s in the bag?” Marc asks, after forty-five endless seconds.

“Books,” he replies curtly.

“What about?”

He pauses. He doesn’t want to tell her about the maths textbooks. She’s taken to to the subject irritating quickly, ever since Islay first started pushing for it; he’s putting it down to her habit of tinkering, which he assumes must take some level of mathematical knowledge. (His approach to modifying his plane has historically been to add things and then see if it flies. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t. He’s working on it.)

“Birds,” he says at last. “One of those illustrated encyclopedias. I pick them up from time to time.”

“Oh? Oh! Right! You’re the Blue Crow, so of course birds are your thing. What’s your favourite type of bird?”

“Guess.”

“Oh. Right. Duh.” She scratches her head awkwardly, and makes frantic motions at him with her eyes. Your turn.

“How’s your drink?” he asks.

She looks down at her glass as if it’s the first time she’s ever seen it. “Uh, it’s coffee.”

“Yeah, but how is it? Good?” he prompts.

She takes a sip. “It, uh. It sure is coffee.”

Silence reigns for another ten seconds, until Fernet finally unfolds her arms in a show of mercy.

“It’s an iced cappucino. Quite chic at the moment. I’m usually a tea drinker myself, but I thought to come out and try it. Honestly speaking, it’s a touch too bitter for me. I prefer the mocha. How about you, Peat? Do you drink coffee?”

“From time to time.”

“And I bet you take it black, don’t you? I’ve heard that pilots generally do. I know Marc takes hers with a little sugar. She’s forever leaving her mugs around the workshop, you know.”

Marc shoots her a dirty look. “Don’t tell him that!”

“It doesn’t surprise me. She’s always turning up for practice with straw in her hair,” he replies.

“She’s just that kind of girl, I’m afraid. The state of her bedroom! Last time I went over, she’d just left her underwear on the floor for anybody to step on–”

“Fernet!” Marc says sharply, cheeks glowing. “Look, it’s my house, alright, and you never even warned me you were coming over. So what if I had some… uh… things on the floor? Most of it goes in the hamper. I’ve got stuff to do, I can’t waste all my time cleaning all day – Peat! Stop smirking!”

“I’m not smirking,” he said, although he wasn’t sure if he was lying or not.

“I bet you do it with your stuff all the time!” she accuses hotly.

“And have to re-iron my jacket? No thanks. I keep my clothes in good condition.”

“But I bet you can’t cook, right?” she asks slyly. “I heard from Islay that you buy dinner at the tavern every night.”

“What’s cooking got to do with anything?! Are you trying to pick a fight, Red Barrel?”

“You’re the one trying to pick a fight with me!” she bites back. “And Fernet, you’re just as bad!”

Before they know what’s happened, their formerly awkward conversation has become a lively argument. At some point Fernet orders them another round of iced coffee, and he drinks it without even tasting it. The caffeine must have had an effect, though; by the time the conversation slows, he’s feeling much more lively even in the heat.

“Ahem. Well, at least we’ve managed to get some proper talk out of you two,” Fernet says eventually, while they catch their breath. “And I hope this has given you some idea of what I feel like, Marc.”

Marc stares blankly at her. The almond biscotti she was nibbling have long disappeared.

Fernet smiles, although it’s a little wistful. “It was tough to start a conversation when it wasn’t about flying, yes? That’s how I feel talking with you, sometimes. I can’t really speak about guild work or piloting a plane, so it feels as though there’s no shared ground to touch on. I think other people probably experience that, too.”

Marc says nothing, but looks sheepish, and that’s probably enough.

“It’s fine to be driven, but I worry that you – both of you, I mean to say – are going to end up pushing people away if you don’t slow down from time to time. I know you’re both busy, but try to take an interest in things outside of work now and then, okay?”

He sighs awkwardly, but doesn’t argue. In his heart of hearts, he knows she’s right. If they keep going this way, they’ll end up like Islay and Sherry – talented professionals with drinking problems.

The silence goes on a little longer. When Fernet decides it’s gone on long enough, she clears her throat and says: “Well. Apart from each other, I mean.”

The argument which had died down flares into glorious life; they round on her immediately, and then on each other. She smiles to herself as she sips her coffee, although she really does prefer tea on the whole.

They need somebody to look out for them, and she has every intention of being that person. But nobody said she can’t have a little fun while she’s doing it.

A/N: In the end, this ended up being one of those dialogue scenes I use to sketch out the characters more and understand them better, but I think there's definitely a place for that. I don't have time to do these as often nowadays, so it has a comfortable kind of feeling to me.