He wins the coin toss and checks his watch. Thirteen hundred hours. Plenty of time for the rest of the day to remember that he is, in fact, Martin, and thus shouldn't be allowed the best of the cheese tray.

But the day must have amnesia, because not only does he win the cheese tray—in a bet with Arthur—Carolyn has decided to give him a raise. At first, Martin thinks she's going to double his salary of nothing—triple it, even, and how fun that must be for her to say—but since Gordon had died—since? Martin hadn't even heard—some of the old family funds had been freed up.

Captain Martin Crieff is now a professional. He checks his reflection after he's landed GERTI—that's right, landed, even though he'd also had control for takeoff—just to make sure he hasn't turned into Douglass.

He stops himself from thinking too much about why Douglass hadn't objected when Martin asked if he could land—it was likely that he'd owe him a colossal favor for the privilege, anyway—and cautiously hopes he'll be getting a new uniform.

He's walking across the tarmac when his phone rings. Frowning—he had powered it off before the flight, of course, so when had he turned it back on?—he digs it out of his pocket and takes the call.

The voice on the other end is soft and clever and a tad pink with something close to, but distinct from, shyness. "Did you have a nice flight?"

"Jim," Martin greets, or rather, squeaks, "how…how are you?"

He's thankful the man can't see his growing blush, the way it darkens his freckles and pops them off his skin. "You're turning red," says Jim, and Martin wonders why he sounds so certain.

"I thought…"

"You thought I wouldn't call? Oh, Martin."

Reflexively adjusting his cap, the captain enters the terminal, managing to catch the phone between his ear and shoulder whilst opening the door. He wonders if it looks as natural as it does in the movies. Probably not. He is still Martin, after all. "So, you had a good time with your food—I mean, with your food, eating me—eating food with me, then?"

The way that Jim giggles reminds Martin of spoiled milk. He shakes his head at the thought, and forgets it. "I'm working on a new flight simulator program," says Jim, "you're going to be my test pilot. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Jim, that would be—I'm sorry, I was about to say brilliant, but…you know, it would be. It would be brilliant."

Martin thinks it sounds like the best second date he's ever had. "Fantastic," says Jim, "I'll pick you up at Fitton when you get in and we can go back to mine."

"How do you know when I'm—"

"Don't worry about it, my dear," Jim soothes, "I've got it all sorted out. Go eat something, you must be famished. I'll see you tomorrow."

A click in Martin's ear. He's hung up, then. A bit dazed, he heads in the direction of the pilot's canteen when his phone beeps. It's a text from Carolyn, informing him that there had been a mix-up and he'd somehow been given a free lunch at one of the more posh airport restaurants. Shaking his head, Martin resolves to take full advantage of his strange luck, knowing that tomorrow would dawn as rotten as ever.

At least there was Jim.