Archive of Our Own

✈

In the morning chaos and headache-worthy cacophony, one person was calm, still against the sea of rushing bodies. Carson sighed deeply and slid further down into the unforgiving blue plastic seat; you think she’d be used to them by now. Of course Carson was already at the gate. Work brought her here every week to commute to the New York office, and every second week to LA. 

Only her eyes looking over the top of Carson's laptop suggested any interest in the activity around her. Her attention only offered mild indifference to the screaming children, the squabbling couples, the occasional mental health incident- oh.

Today was a lucky day. 

Carson tried to hide the sharp intake of breath behind a readjustment of the small carry-on between her feet. She wanted to be inconspicuous, but noticed- she wanted to be noticed by one person in particular. 

Carson tried to be discreet, her eyes only flicked up in flits and moments. 

Jo was in their suit today- standard fair. They wore it every time, not a thread out of place and Carson was convinced it practically repelled any fluff or lint. 

Shirley spiced it up with the full jacket and blue scarf, seemed on par with her no-nonsense demeanor. The cabins ran like clockwork when Shirley was managing a flight.

And Greta...

Carson’s eyes lingered a little longer. 

Greta looked divine in her heels and nylons, the navy skirt constrained the crisp white shirt against her sinfully slim waist. Greta opted for the little button-up vest and signature red American Airlines scarf tied neatly around her neck.

Carson wriggled in her seat again as the trio of flight attendants drew closer, cutting effortlessly through the waiting passengers as they beelined towards the gate entrance, their matching tiny luggage bags rolling behind them. 

Carson smiled tightly, careful, pleased but not too much. Greta caught her eyes and smiled back, gave Carson a playful little bounce of her eyebrows. 

“Morning Carson,” Greta threw over her shoulder through a glittering smile. 

“Hi Greta.” Carson grinned back.

That’s enough. Don’t be weird. 

Not too fast, not too slow, with an appropriately bored scowl plastered onto her face, Carson slid her laptop into her bag and shuffled towards the gate, ready for the First Class call. 

With her ticket checked and the familiar airbridge trekked, Carson smiled politely to Shirley’s mechanical but impeccable greeting and handed the Crew Manager her suit bag to be hung up. Possibly the only enjoyable part of travelling so frequently for work was the upgradable seat. 

Carson tried not to look at Greta as she passed the tiny galley space, the fiery-haired flight attendant occupied with preparing the trays for the morning’s hot beverages.

Carson never got coffee before an early morning flight, because then she could ask Greta for one. 

Carson’s body moved on auto-pilot. She pulled her most current book out of her bag and slid it into the pocket in front of her, and tucked her bag under the seat. She was careful to ensure the pin-riddled cover and shoulder strap was visible. 

Despite the screen before her, Carson watched the flight attendants do the safety demonstration, especially when Greta was standing before her, somehow balancing in her heels while they taxied. 

Like today. 

Carson leaned on the armrest, politely interested (at least that’s how she hoped she appeared). Greta passed the few rows at the conclusion, shortened seatbelt still loose in her hand, silver and grey nothing compared to the pearlescent ruby of her nails.

Trays up. Bags under the seat please. 

Carson was rigid when Greta leaned into her to take the bag of the gentleman beside her to put in the overhead compartment. The cotton of Greta’s shirt was taut beneath the vest that rose as she reached up and Carson swallowed thickly. 

Beside Carson, the man dropped his Beats headphones over his ears and started scrolling through his phone. 

“You know...” The sultry voice from the aisle drew Carson’s gaze up to the soft smile bestowed from above. “I reckon you could do the demo for me by now; you’ve seen enough of them.”

Carson would probably do anything Greta asked, after she picked herself up off the floor. But today, boldness poked Carson sharply in the rib,

“Am I not supposed to watch the demo?”

“Of course. I do prefer it if you actually watch me.”

Carson pulled in a sharp breath and snapped her mouth closed again. She tried not to grimace when she bit her tongue and tasted the metallic saltiness.

“Um… Good. I- yeah...Well-”

“Isabelle says you don’t watch her.”

“Nothing against Isabelle, but just cause you aren’t allowed to have favourite passengers, doesn’t mean I can’t have my favourite crew members.”

Carson felt particularly proud of herself for that one, and Greta's teasing smile, the touch of her tongue to the corner of her open mouth, was Carson’s reward. The light press of fingertips to Carson’s shoulder, however, gave her little chance to revel.

“Mmm… You’re right, I’m not supposed to… but I do like seeing certain regulars. Especially the ones that like to watch me.” Mercifully, Greta diverted her attention before Carson had the chance to open her mouth and embarrass herself.

“Nice cactus,” Greta nodded to the strap of the laptop bag at Carson’s feet, encroaching on the aisle. “new one?”

“Yeah!”

“Alright, tell me.”

One of Carson’s most tried and true methods for starting a conversation with Greta: a new pin on her laptop bag. It started with an Air Canada lapel pin that Carson had found during a layover in Saskatchewan, that first attracted Greta’s attention to Carson and her quirky collection. By the end of that particular flight, Carson found an American Airline pin on her tray with a cup of tea and the one on Greta’s uniform mysteriously absent when Carson disembarked in LA.

“It’s like... a reference to one of my favourite shows.”

“What show?” Greta nudged the strap under the safety of the seat.

“The Good Place.”

“Oh.... Janet and her cactuses.” The butterflies in Carson’s stomach lifted and landed again, pleased that Greta knew. “I like that show too.”

✈

It was another three weeks before Carson saw Greta again. 

Although her divorce from Charlie was amicable, and Carson was still on good terms with him, it was difficult to move on from the relationship. 

The slow unravelling of Carson, the loving wife who growled at the futility of doing her hair, who liked her husband but got over her physical attraction to him alarmingly quickly, and sat with clenched knees in her dress at the airport, gave way to a Carson that liked suits without ties. One who no longer automatically apologised for trivial things and loved, loved the look of surprise when she met men at work who assumed Carson was one of them because of her rather gender-neutral first name. 

But with that transition came fits and waves of fluctuating perception of self. 

She was excited to get her new ‘She/They’ pin from Etsy and show it to Greta early that morning, but unfortunately Greta seemed to be covering Economy and Carson was left to Shirley’s care and Jo’s witty banter. 

It happened sometimes, but set the tone for a miserable day in the New York office. Carson only noticed she’d managed to lose her new pin during her lunch break. She had to excuse herself under the pretence of a phone call to step out and brush away the single tear they wouldn’t let their colleagues see. 

So by the time Carson stepped onto the flight back to Chicago, it was hard to express her pleasure at seeing Greta’s welcoming smile. Greta wordlessly took the suit bag with a clear front that was draped over Carson’s weary arm. It was brand new, a further push away from feminine for Carson. 

“Yours?”

“Yeah.”

“Bet you look dishy in it.”

Carson was never good at taking a compliment, and her usual go-to was either stuttering shyness, or humour. 

“Don’t let me forget it. I tried to sue the airline for losing my luggage once.”

The confusion on Greta’s face was instantaneous, “you what?”

“I lost my case.”

“You lost your- oh my god, Carson! Go!” Carson snickered when Greta gave her a shove to the shoulder, and a quick glance back caught the charming roll of Greta’s eyes, the amused shake of her head. 

And just like that, Carson’s mood lifted significantly. It let Carson settle into her seat, to wriggle her shoulders into a comfortable spot and adjust her headrest so she could hopefully nap a little. 

Carson had almost dozed off when Greta’s words in the galley registered in her mind. 

“No, hang on, that one is Carson’s. They’re gluten free.”

Wait. 

Did... Greta? Had they heard right?

Carson’s eyes popped open, greeted by dim lights and equally resting bodies around her. The movement appeared to attract Greta, who quietly approached when Carson rubbed her eyes with their palms. 

“Carson?” 

Oh man, their name whispered never sounded so good.

“Hi.” Carson's voice sounded husky to her own years, deeper but not unpleasantly so. Carson tried again; “Hi... What’s up?”

“I think this is yours?” Greta offered her open hand, a white flower sitting in the palm.

“Oh my god! Thank you… And…” Carson looked up, and the small space of the cabin got infinitely smaller and all Carson could see was Greta. “Yeah, thank you... For accepting.” 

“My pleasure Carson.”

Greta’s smile was enchanting, and Carson let herself pretend it might mean something more. But they didn’t want to get Greta in trouble with Shirley, opted to swipe up her bag into her lap with a chuckle. “Damn, I’m running out of room.”

Greta pointed directly to their tiny Bisexual flag pin, “What about near here? This looks good to me.”

“I do like that one.”

“Mm… Agreed. I like it too. I’m more of a peach and pink kind of girl though.”

“Sounds kinda perfect.”

Carson didn't even let themself feel silly as she stumbled over her words when Greta touched her wrist on the way out, offering a - dare Carson say 'warm' - smile and the suit bag they nearly forgot. She practically floated all the way home to her tiny apartment now knowing that Greta was a lesbian. It still felt like a fruitless little crush, but Carson was glad they hadn’t fallen for a straight woman.

✈

The summer vacation rush had forced Carson to retreat to the Admirals Lounge, seconded into the only spare chair against the East-facing window that didn’t quite hinder the blistering sun.  She slumped low in the brown leather seat, relaxed to anyone that bothered to look, but they felt tense. 

Carson wondered how they might look to anyone else around them with her knees spread intrusively into the walkway - a now habitual ‘man-spreader’ - and pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows, top buttons undone and- and... and their suspenders once hidden by their jacket now loose at Carson’s hips. 

Her glasses slid down her sweaty nose again and Carson could no longer bother to push them back up, too engrossed in composing an email on the laptop on their thighs. 

“That’s hot.”

Carson jolted so violently in her seat, her laptop tipped forwards and fell, caught only by the snap of her knees. Her glasses however, weren’t so lucky, landing in their lap.  Carson’s cheeks burned when she registered Greta standing practically between their legs, a hand on her hip and bottom lip bit between her teeth.

“Sorry?”

“You look hot... sitting in the sun there.”

“Oh- ah... yeah.” Carson closed the laptop, a diversion from the mish-mash of thoughts going insane in her head.

“You got an early one today?”

“Uh... No. No. My usual.”

Greta frowned curiously, popped her hip to the side and flicked her wrist to look at the impractically tiny watch on her narrow wrist. “Gate doesn’t open for an hour.”

Carson scratched the palm of their hand nervously, “Guess I am a bit early.”

Greta bent at the waist with a questioning frown. “Here to pick up girls?”

Carson managed to choke on air and it was a mixed blessing when the seat beside her vacated; Greta actually demurely sat down beside them, ankles neatly crossed like she’d had lessons from Queen Clarisse herself, allowing time for Carson to recover some composure and then lose it instantly again.

“No! I uh, no... No. That’s not- uh, not my game play. Flings aren’t my thing.” 

Greta touched a finger to her chin and- fuck! Was that the wrong thing to say?

“In this profession, flings are easy. Short overnight stops, never have to take anyone back home. And by rule: never with passengers.”

The need to apologise circumvented the pang of disappointment. “I’m sorry, Greta. I didn’t mean... I don’t think you’re-”

Greta quickly covered their forearm, silencing Carson as if she had a ‘mute’ button on their wrist.

“It’s okay, Carson. A lot of the time it’s the only thing close to a relationship a hostess can have. But it gets boring pretty quick. Just not as fun when I still come home to an empty house.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean. About coming home to nobody.”

“I remember.”

The comment dampened Carson's rampant nerves, her frown deep, “What do you mean?”

“You used to be married, right?” Greta waved her fingers at Carson’s hand, the wedding band tanline long gone. “I’ve liked watching this... change. In you. But Chicago’s a small town.”

“Uh...” 

Carson wasn’t sure of the connection, but it’s the longest conversation she’s ever had with Greta and certainly the most personal one. She’d willingly shave her head right now to keep it going. Greta, thankfully, wasn’t deterred by Carson’s blank stare. 

“I think you know Jo and I are good friends.” 

“You two seem to have a lot of fun together up front, so that makes sense.”

“But I’m also good friends with Esther too.”

“The pilot?”

“Uh huh. I think you know her fiancé, Max Chapman?”

Ah ha! Now Carson understood!

“Oh! I mean- Yeah uh... Max and I work together. Kinda gym buddies sometimes.”

The blatant rake of Greta’s eyes down Carson’s body both incapacitated them and vacated every coherent thought from their mind. “I’m not surprised... See? Small world, huh.”

“That’s- that's not a bad thing, really?”

“No... No it’s not.”

✈

Another month passed before Greta cornered Carson again. Surprisingly, this time, it was on the last  flight home from LA. The intensity of the long week must have shown itself in Carson’s posture, hunched so far over her phone on the tray their nose was nearly on the screen, fingers anxiously fisted in her brown waves. Greta’s chirp beside them lifted Carson’s strained, bleary eyes up. 

“Need a pick-me-up?” Greta hopped the perfectly balanced tray of gin and whiskey on her fingertips.

“Uh, no. Thank you though. Never. No...”

Carson assumed Greta left, their eyes pulled back to the urgent email on their phone. The light pinch to her shoulder told Carson otherwise. 

“Come with me.” Greta beckoned Carson to follow with a come-hither as she retreated to the galley. Carson snapped the cover on her phone closed and unfastened their seatbelt. The smirk Jo gave her when they appeared in the tiny doorway, with the tray of alcoholic beverages that Greta had just been holding, set Carson’s heart racing and sweat formed on her brow despite the perpetually recycled air conditioning on board.

Still, Carson found Greta in the centre of the galley pouring coffee into a cup that seemingly came from nowhere.

“Here.” 

The coffee was far stronger than Carson normally took it, but who the fuck was she to complain? Not when Greta leaned back against the wall beside them, barely a foot between their bodies. 

“So... You don’t drink?”

Carson shook her head and maybe the grueling week wore down their resolve, maybe it was the bitterness of the drink in her hand... who knew? “Not when there’s a tall drink of water on my flights.”

Greta didn’t miss a beat. Her perfectly manicured eyebrows popped, she folded her arms and leaned infinitesimally closer,

“Don’t you like the short little plastic cups? I do.”

Was there a parachute on board? Because Carson might need a fast escape: “I guess I’ll just have to stay thirsty then.”

As if by divine intervention, a shudder of turbulence rocked them both to the Starboard side. A blob of hot, dark liquid bounced from the cup onto the collar of Carson’s shirt and the sensitive skin of her neck. 

“Ow- Shit!”

“Oop!” The cup was extracted from Carson’s hand, the rare touch of cool fingers on theirs a further shock that made Carson’s insides clench. “Steady there, handsome. Come with me.”

‘Come with me’ didn’t seem to fit the three steps they took to the port side.  Greta cut a quick glance out into the quiet of First Class, an action Carson noticed but didn’t repeat, too engrossed in undoing the uppermost button.

“Damn, this one is my favourite,” Carson grumbled as they pulled the shirt from their chest, trying to assess the extent of the blooming brown on white. The jutting bone of her clavicle retained its warmth, burned when their fingers pressed into it.

“Ah!”

A firm grip to Carson’s shoulder positioned her back against the wall, a wad of paper towel offered under their nose.

“Here. Or I can...”

“You can?”

When fluids are compressed, they often experience an increase in energy, resulting in heat. Carson felt that in the very air between them. The gap between their bodies closed to beyond what could be considered professional when Greta stepped closer, touched a hand to their collar.

“May I?”

Carson was sure Greta saw the bob in her throat when she swallowed and nodded her head vigorously, a sharp contrast to the dainty pull at their collar and slow dab, dab, dab of the paper towel. Another bout of turbulence rocked their bodies, which must have been when Greta gripped their collar tightly and swayed into their chest, so close Greta’s scarf came to rest against Carson’s lapel.

“Tell me something.”

Fuck, Carson had to speak now? 

“Uh, sure?” They squeaked out.

“You fly for work, right?”

“Unfortunately. I wish I could do it all online.”

“And you work for Baker?”

“I do.”

“So why do all the rest of the bookings from Baker end up in Economy, but you always go Business or First? You must be important.”

She was, that was true. Carson reported directly to the CEO, after all. But ego wasn’t Carson’s style if she could help it.

“I just cover the cost of the upgrade out of my pay.”

“Really?”

“I like the peace... extra space. And the service is much better.”

Greta smirked knowingly. “Even three returns every two weeks?”

“It’s fine. Not like I have a partner or kids. I don’t even have a goldfish.”

“And you don’t drink either.”

“Who needs fancy wine when I can have questionable coffee? Or better yet: iced coffee. ”

“Oh? Big fan of iced beverages? Controversial.”

“They hit the spot. Its all very scientific.”

Another jostle and Carson’s hands lifted to steady Greta by the waist. They stopped short, clenched, thrust back against the wall behind them with a noticeable ‘thunk’.

“And do you often feel thirsty when you fly, Carson?”

“Only on-”

No. No, she can’t say it. It felt like a ‘make or break' kind of comment and Carson would rather chew dirty glass found in a gutter than to lose the easy playfulness they’d built. 

But Greta was having none of it.  

“Go on. Don't be shy. What were you going to say?”

Greta was so close, and Carson was not God’s strongest soldier by a long shot: “...Only when you’re on duty.” At Greta’s silence, the still of her hand, images of polite smiles and cold shoulders flooded Carson’s mind. She’d made a mistake. “I’m sorry! That was- sorry, I don’t wanna be one of those creepy passengers or anyth-”

Once again, Greta found their ‘mute’ button. This time with a placating pat to Carson’s chest.

“You’re not, Carson. Not by a long shot. Your eyes would water at how many handjobs I see every week.” Carson was sure their face was a picture of horror, so naturally Greta elaborated. “Who needs a blanket on a two-hour after lunch? Nobody who is napping, I can tell you. Or worse, the fucking tray table ones. Disgusting. The ones that ‘accidentally’ touch my ass are probably the most infuriating. You’re a perfect gentleman by comparison, I promise.”

“Oh- uh, that’s good... I think.”

“Just... it might be best to have a ‘no flirting’ rule onboard. Keep it professional, you know?” There was nothing else to nod and agree. Of course... yeah. This was Greta’s job after all. Maybe they saw each other regularly, maybe their social circles had the tiniest of overlaps, but that was it. Greta stepped back and Carson felt the cooling decompression between them again. “We’re not far off descending, so time to go back to your seat.”

“Yeah, I um... right.”

It was only when Carson stood waiting for the cabin to open an hour later, their knee resting up on the seat beside her laptop bag, elbows propped up on her own headrest and that of the one in front, that Greta’s wording hit Carson. 

Onboard? 

Carson timed it carefully, waiting for First to mostly clear, for the little gap before Economy barged through like a riot with a battering ram. They couldn’t see Greta, only Shirley speaking to Esther and Jo standing politely up the front bidding the disembarkers a good night.

The disappointment of maybe missing Greta only nibbled at Carson for a moment; they found the beautiful hostess waiting on the airbridge.

“You ah... You said ‘onboard’.” God, Carson hoped Greta knew what she was talking about. Carson didn’t want to explain, not with the rumble of Economy on their ankles.  “What about... before and after?”

Carson wouldn’t be so rude as to call Greta a vixen, but right now... ooh. The way Greta grinned and bit her tongue between her teeth was a damn tease. 

“I knew you’d figure it out eventually.” Greta grinned with a- with a damn wink. “Admirals is still open... if you’re thirsty.”

Carson didn’t dare speculate as to what Greta meant by that, but she did turn on her heel, found the nearest locker to secure their bags, and headed straight for the Lounge.

✈

The ring of condensation that Carson traced on the bar with her fingertip widened and started to catch, her glass of sprite now only a pile of uneaten ice in the bottom of the glass; it had been years since she wanted a drink this badly. But still, she waited. It had only been - they flicked their wrist, bent at the elbow to expose that face of the Tudor Black Bay GMT - 26 minutes.

Maybe a lemon, lime and bitters? That didn’t count as a drink, did it? 

“You know-”

“Ah!”

Greta scoffed a laugh, suddenly beside Carson with her carry-on and loosened scarf on her lovely neck. “You know... you could just ask for my number instead of paying for upgrades.”

Well it was a damn fine thing that Carson hadn’t been drinking because they surely would have choked on it by now. 

“What about ‘no flings with passengers’?”

“Who said anything about a fling, Carson?”

“Right uh... Sorry. I didn’t mean to assume.”

Greta hooked an elbow onto the bar, right atop the circle of moisture that Carson had been tracing. “You free tonight? Like free free?”

For an evening with Greta? Carson could live like time stood still just for them. 

“Yeah?”

“Wanna grab some dinner?”

Did Carson need oxygen to live?

“I’d really like that.” 

“Then walk with me so I can put my stuff away.” Greta beckoned Carson to follow with a curl of her painted finger. Carson followed, of course, at a respectable distance half a step behind, hands thrust anxiously into the pockets of their jacket. Her shoes squeaked on the questionably clean tile when they suddenly stopped at a nondescript door with a swipe access reader. “Wait here. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

It was the longest ten minutes of Carson’s life. They checked their emails. Twice. Scrolled Twitter for barely thirty seconds before shifting to Insta, then Tik Tok, then back to Twitter. She tied her laces, scowled at the remaining coffee stain in the polished metal of a handrail. 

But eventually, Greta returned. Admittedly, it took Carson an extra second to recognise her. 

Gone was the uniform, the heels and perfect makeup, the long tresses haphazardly thrown up into the messiest of buns. Now she appeared before Carson in faded skinny jeans with frayed splits in both knees, a Cubs hoodie and Adidas Stan Smith shoes that made her shorter, albeit she was still fairly tall compared to Carson.

Greta had freckles. 

She was beautiful.

“Well, thank you.” Greta beamed as she pulled the cuffed sleeves of her hoodie over her cutely clenched fists.

Oh fuck! Had she said that out loud?!

A finger poking out of the end of Greta’s sleeve was pointed right at Carson’s nose, “Just so you know... I’m paying this time, so I don’t owe you anything, and we’re not having sex afterwards.”

Despite the very blunt warning, there was no part of Carson that wanted to argue. So she nodded, tucked her hands into her pocket and offered an elbow to Greta, who thankfully took it. It seemed less presumptive than offering a hand. “Understood. Thank you though. For dinner.”

“You still haven’t asked for my number, Carson.”

They headed through the subdued arrivals gate to the terminal exit where a line of Ubers was waiting. 

“How about I give you mine?”

As Carson read out her number to Greta and waited for her to create the new contact, to send a text that Carson received with a vibration in their pocket, a thought occurred.

‘this time’ 

It was cold outside and Carson stood firm as Greta snuggled into their side.

“Hey Greta?”

“Mm?”

Being bold had brought Carson this far, although, yeah, with Greta’s help too. They looked down at their shoes and kicked a flattened cigarette butt aside. What was another ten seconds of bravery?

“No sex. Absolutely no argument from me on that. But... but is kissing okay?”

A poke, poke to their shoulder lifted their wary eyes to Greta, who had leaned in closer. There were no thoughts in Carson’s mind as Greta pressed the pad of her finger under their chin and lifted it up though so Greta could angle her face down and, and- 

...and she kissed Carson. 

Nothing crazy. Just a light touch but damn! When Carson left the office and prepared to fly home, this was not how they imagined their evening. 

Greta pulled back, only barely. “Ooh yeah. I think kissing is okay. For now.”

✈