You've already enticed him with the clam chowder of Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco, the Space Needle in Seattle, the Griffith's Observatory in LA (appealing to his nerd side, you sly dog, you), and, oh hoo hoo, the roaring night life that Las Vegas has to offer.

The glint in his eyelights is unmistakable, so you start planning a trip for two up the West Coast of the US.

You run up to him one day with a whole folder of ideas and travel guides and coupons for the most popular tourist attractions in a number of cities. He makes playful mockery of your organisation, and pulls you into his lap to look through the folder with you. He's already outlining his favorites (there's a whole section just on Las Vegas Strip clubs), when you get to the end of the folder and there are flight details and quotes where you've highlighted the cheapest options.

His permagrin falters a bit. He completely forgot he had to get on a plane to do this. He remembers his first time seeing one, streaking ungracefully across the night sky, and his socket twitches. But he looks down at your smiling face, no worry or fear whatsoever, only excitement. He knew you'd done this before, you flew a lot and nothing had happened, ever. And, like a scared child gaining reassurance from a parent, he shoves his doubt aside and tells you to go ahead and book it.

The day comes and you've taken it upon yourself to drag both of you out of bed at 3am to be ready for the airport shuttle to pick you up at 4am sharp. He groans like he's been woken from death, whereas in reality he's hardly slept at all. One part insomnia, one part excitement, and one hundred parts suppressed anxiety.

The nag sits with him where his stomach would be as he watches his bags go along the conveyor belt behind the lady in the nice uniform, as he listens to you explain that they go into the plane well before anyone boards. He goes through security and the anxiety grows when he has to separate from you to go through a special security check for monsters. He growls low at the guard who jokes about his teeth being dangerous weapons, not in the mood for humour for once. But, he heeds your advice to just comply with these guys and avoid trouble. He meets you after the check and slides an arm around you, reluctant to let you go again.

You lead him to the gate, nice and early, and sit him down while you go and get you two some food. He calms down somewhat as he bathes his sub-par airport fries in mustard and laughs when you shush his jokes about bombs and hijacking.

At your cue, because he's been tuning out the annoying voice over the intercom, you both line up to board. He's fine as he goes through the gate, over the skybridge and into the plane, distracted by analysing the engineering of everything. You almost think you'll have to stop him from touching the control panel for the skybridge, but he just lingers over it curiously as he waits for the passengers in front of him to board.

His huge frame only just fits through the rows of seats, and you would find it comical if you couldn't feel the annoyance radiating from him, the poor soul.

He pushes his way into a window seat, and you take the middle seat next to the stranger in the aisle. He complains to you at full volume, and your only response is that this is how it is unless you wanna pay for first class. He tries to just pull you into his lap again, but you have to tell him no because the flight attendant will tell you off, and that he needs to put his seat belt on. Rattling bones seem to scare the stranger in the row you share, so you try to calm him by taking his hand and intertwining your fingers with his. You point out the window at the wing of the plane, and, in an effort to distract him again, you tell him to watch it as you take off. You even ask him about how he thinks the plane flies, hoping to get him talking about physics (even though you usually don't understand a word of it), but he only mutters something about pressure and the fuck-off huge engines.

His breathing is short and strained. If anything, he can't stand the waiting - he just wants to go. Why are we standing at the gate for thirty minutes? Come on, glowy wand guy, wave the fuckin things so we can go. He scoffs at the shitty rave down on the tarmac.

He sits, rigid in his seat as the plane taxis to the runway. The flight attendants are doing their rehearsed safety demonstration, and because you've flown a lot before you're only half paying attention, but you notice Red is watching intently. His eyelights dart to the exits, and you have to grip his hand to try and ground him again. You're guessing that he wants out, and you're very right.

Red has never been more desperate to teleport in his life.

Really the only thing stopping him is you, that grip of your hand on his phalanges is what's keeping him here, attached to this godforsaken machine. He closes his sockets as the plane lines itself up, but they snap back open when he feels himself start rocketing forward. He's desperate not to lose face and scream, so he clenches his jaw and almost breaks the armrest with a death grip instead.  He looks over at you, expecting you to be as shocked as he was, but you're not. All you've done is plant your feet more firmly to the ground and leaned back in your seat. You lean over to him to hug his arm and take a look out the window. He follows your gaze just as the plane plane rises from the runway and he gasps unwittingly, feeling his bones resist the sudden lift. He watches the ground fly swiftly away, and his vision is filled with the sudden aerial view of the city. He falls silent, and his fear is replaced with a strange mix of awe and adrenaline(or the monster equivalent.) he'd never been 50 feet above sea level before, let alone soaring through the fuckin air. He watched as things became smaller and smaller, until he could no longer pick out specific streets or cars, and it just became landscape under him.

The plane speeds through the air, and you point to the wings again to remind him to watch them. As the pilot makes slight adjustments to the aircraft’s trajectory, the parts of the wings are shifting and whirring, moving the plane up or down. His eyelights gaze over the mechanisms curiously, trying to glimpse the machinery beyond the metal plates. He listens to you explain that the tail of the plane probably does the same thing, moving the plane side to side instead. You aren't exactly fluent in flight mechanics, in fact you find yourself wondering just how planes actually fly, so you only offer the basics. Which you realise are probably also wrong.

The rest of the flight is easy. He inhales his tiny plane meal and asks for seconds, downs the free booze, and, surprisingly, there's only minimal grumbling about not being able to smoke anywhere on the plane. He doesn't mind the long hours of being sedimentary, he does that at home every chance he gets anyway. You do notice, however, that he hardly ever takes his eyes off the plane window. Not even to watch his movie, or when you cuddle into his side for a nap.

When you ask him why, he responds semi-jokingly that he's checking the fuckin thing’s still flying. You chuckle and pat him reassuringly, but his eyelights go straight back to the carpet of clouds beyond.

You explain to him the landing procedure beforehand so he has some idea of it before it happens. There's gonna be a big thunk, maybe two, but it's okay it just the wheels hitting the tarmac. Then the guy's gonna pull the break so we can slow down as we come into the airport.

He nods, but he still grips the armrest like it owes him money as the plane glides back down to Earth. He shoves his way off the plane as soon as he's able, basically dragging you at his heels. You give the affronted passengers a few apologetic looks, but you know it's better for everyone as soon as he's in the terminal.