FIC: Gone Horribly Wrong [3/?]
Mar. 18th, 2012 11:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Gone Horribly Wrong
Author: Alex
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: John Finnemore, Pozzitive Productions for le BBC.
Summary: From a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme. Douglas gets in a little over his head in regards to his smuggling, but it's Martin who suffers for it.
Warnings: Nonconsensual sex.
Notes: This is my very first Cabin Pressure fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.
Continued from Part 2
You can also find this fic on AO3
*
Douglas stared down at his croque-monsieur. Really it was the most extraordinary feat of French cookery, elevating the humble ham and cheese sandwich to the loftiest heights of flavour simply by employing the proper proportions of rosy ham, piquant, complex Gruyère, airy bread, and the faintest delicate drizzle of Béchamel sauce.
Pity he wasn’t able to eat it. Nor had he been able to eat the langoustines with orange-saffron butter, asparagus mousse, and sweet potato puree he’d ordered for lunch, nor the dainty pastel-colored macarons in the ribbon-tied box on his bedside table. In fact, he hadn’t managed more than a few mouthfuls of sparkling water, and even that had made him want to surrender the contents of his stomach. He had been in Paris for twenty-four hours, his insides had contracted to a tight, horrid knot, and anyone who said that Paris was the epicentre of love and romance had been spewing utter rubbish, because the adverts and brochures never told you that if it wasn’t bloody freezing or beastly hot, it was pissing rain, with dreary grey skies that only made the city greyer and drearier than it already was. April in Paris, my arse.
Despite the rain and because he’d been unable to sleep, he’d walked the streets, drifting along aimlessly, looking into the windows of expensive shops without really seeing their contents. The only time he’d taken notice was when he’d passed by the Hermès shop on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The windows had been crammed with an artful display of luxury goods, clothes and bags and scarves, and Douglas had felt the pain in his stomach double, treble, then spear upwards and down until he thought he was going to pass out. He managed to stand upright and walk with dignity, if not speed, back to the Avenue Montaigne and the Plaza Athenee, where he collapsed into a chair and wiped the sweat from his face with a shaking hand.
He’d put his foot in it. No question. In a life abundantly blessed by good luck and because of that, nearly immune to the sense of receiving special treatment – really, when one demands perquisites and pleasures and is accustomed to receiving them, it’s difficult not to take at least some luck for granted – he’d fucked things up good and proper. He should have done his utmost to keep everyone away from the airfield – everyone who might have been pushing and curious, at any rate. Arthur, heaven preserve his simple soul, would have stumbled upon the smugglers and offered to make them snacks, and if they’d held him hostage they’d have been engaged in a rousing game of Yellow Car by the time they got back to their warehouse lair.
But Martin….
“Martin.” Even saying his name made Douglas cringe with shame and anxiety. Of course it had been Martin who’d tripped and fallen face-first into this latest bout of rotten luck. Come to it, it was Martin’s spectacular bad fortune that had imposed itself on Douglas, not the other way round. Only Martin would have a story so redolent of piteous failure that it shot past the unlikely and landed solidly in the realm of the truly preposterous, and yet, knowing Martin, was totally plausible. Earnest, prissy Martin, with his manuals and his van and his bloody inner ear dysfunction, who got his nose out of joint at the slightest departure from standard operating procedures, who despite his pride in his captaincy had none of the hubris a proper pilot should possess in vast, overweening supply, was a golf club in a lightning storm, an ant under the magnifying glass of some cosmically cruel child, a field mouse cornered by a hungry barn cat – in short, a walking invitation to disaster.
And he was in desperate trouble, and it was all Douglas’ fault.
Sit tight, Martin, Douglas begged silently. For God’s sake, don’t get lippy with them or try to do anything brave – Even as he tried to imagine this, Douglas couldn’t prevent a snort. Poised equally between two glasses of water, Martin would die of thirst and an agony of indecision. But still, with his luck, who knew what might happen? Eddy and his boys were ruthless. It had sounded as if they’d given poor Martin a good thumping to keep him quiet, and there had been a cold, steady light in Eddy’s dark eyes as he’d promised to tear Martin apart. The pain in Douglas’ stomach sharpened, and he bent over, breathing hard. I’ll make sure you’re okay, and I promise I won’t torment you for at least a month. Just be quiet and still and do everything they say.
Douglas dragged his fingers through his hair, unwillingly conjuring up an image of Martin in the grasp of one of Eddy’s henchmen, scared and powerless, his eyes wide with fear and then hurt as Douglas casually insulted him. Christ, if that was their last moment together –
He pulled out his mobile and called Martin’s number. Maybe they’d let him answer it, just to preserve the fiction that everything was fine.
“Hi, this is Martin. Martin Crieff. Captain Martin Crieff. I can’t come to the phone right now – things to do, people to see, aeroplanes to fly.” There was a lift in Martin’s voice; he’d smiled at that last.
Douglas wanted to cry.
“Please leave a message and I’ll phone you back as soon as I can. Thanks. Bye.”
“Martin.” Douglas’ throat caught, and he coughed. “Martin, it’s Douglas. If you…if you get this message, and if you’re in a position to call me back, please do so as soon as it’s humanly possible. I just wanted to make sure that everything was okay. That is, I…I hope everything’s okay. Please call me.” He rang off and stared at the mobile, willing it to ring, willing it to deliver Martin’s voice on the other end, frightened and intimidated, but upright and breathing and….
He couldn’t think of it any longer. Moving into the immaculately appointed bathroom, he stripped and, placing the mobile on the polished golden edge of the travertine sink, well within grabbing distance on the second ring, he stepped into the shower and turned it on high. An obliging spray of hot water enveloped him from three sides, and steam billowed up in clouds. He soaped himself vigorously with some luxurious fragrant Parisian stuff, and felt as never before every shift of his body, the ripple of water against his limbs, his nerve endings prickling at the extreme temperature. He kept the water running for ages, stopping only when he thought he’d shrivel like a sultana. He stepped onto the thick plush bathmat, put on the heavy white towelling robe and slippers, and went back into his room to order a croque-monsieur and a tall glass of Orangina. He gazed for a long, unblinking moment at the minibar, and then turned on the television. Letting his food grow cold, he watched French television, finally falling asleep as the morning sun seeped through the drapes and the dubbed voices of Bart and Homer Simpson resounded in his ears.
Va te faire shampouiner, Homer.
Espèce de sale petit....!
*
He awoke three hours later with a pounding headache and a horrid taste in his mouth. He reached for the Orangina, now flat, and sipped, then checked his mobile, afraid it had rung while he’d slept even though he’d turned the volume up to deafening levels.
No messages.
The sick feeling returned as he punched in Martin’s number again.
“Hi, this is Martin. Martin Crieff. Captain Martin Crieff. I can’t come to the phone right now – things to do, people to see, aeroplanes to fly. Please leave a message and I’ll phone you back as soon as I can. Thanks. Bye.”
“Martin, it’s Douglas again. Look, I know you might not be able to come to the phone, but if you…if anyone gets this, it’s very important that I speak to you. I just want to talk to you for a moment. Please…please call me back.”
What if they’d hurt him? Even…no. God, no, please no.
He punched in Eddy’s number and waited, and finally heard a sleepy voice. “Hello?”
“Eddy?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Douglas.”
“Douglas! How are things? The driver hasn’t arrived already, has he? I thought he wasn’t expected until tonight.”
“No, he’s not arrived yet.”
“There’s nothing wrong, is there?” An oily film of false concern had insinuated itself into Eddy’s voice, all but coating the mobile.
“Not on my end, no.”
“Enjoying the food? The hotel? For my money you can’t beat the George Cinq, but I suppose the Athenee has its points. I’ve always thought there was something a little vulgar about it, though – all those blondes with excessive jewellrey and fluffy white dogs. Still, there’s Alain Ducasse and that’s all right –“
“The food’s fine,” Douglas interrupted, not caring how brusque he sounded. “Eddy, I’d like to speak to Martin, please.”
“You – you called me to speak to Martin?” There was a pause. “Douglas, even with the time difference, it’s quite early. I’m not out of bed yet.”
“I just –“
“I’m at home, Douglas,” Eddy went on patiently. “You didn’t think I brought him home with me, did you?”
“No! No, of course not.” Christ, I hope not. “I just…look, Eddy, I just want to make sure that he’s okay, right?”
“Why shouldn’t he be okay? When I saw him last, he was perfectly fine, quite snug and secure. Don’t worry, we’re keeping him safe for you, Douglas. Just be certain that you don’t do anything stupid, and little Martin will be just fine.” Eddy yawned. “He’s really a captain? And you’re the co-pilot?”
“That’s right.” For the first time, Douglas found himself bristling on Martin’s behalf. He didn’t like the way Eddy said snug and secure.
“Hm. I wouldn’t have thought it. He doesn’t seem the pilot type. Right, look. Give me two hours and call me back, and I’ll let you speak to him.”
A huge sigh of relief loosed itself from Douglas’ lungs. “Fine.”
“Not to worry. If all goes well, you get Martin back safe and sound. I have faith in your competence, Douglas.”
He didn’t like the way Eddy said Douglas, either, or Martin, for that matter. “All’s well on this end, I assure you.”
“Marvelous. Get some sleep, you sound wretched. Chat later.” Eddy rang off, leaving Douglas staring at the glowing screen.
*
Knowing full well that any pilot who deprived himself of sleep was just asking for trouble, Douglas tried to catch a few nods, setting his alarm to ring at precisely eleven, but despite the tightly closed drapes, sleep refused to come. He stared at the soft backlit glow of the carriage clock beside the bed and huddled between Pratesi sheets, still in his towelling robe. He rang Eddy at the appointed time, growling a curse when Eddy didn’t pick up.
“Hello. Leave a message and I’ll return your call.”
Short and sweet. “Eddy, it’s Douglas. It’s been two hours, and – well, call me back, please.” It took the most extraordinary effort not to bang the phone on the night table. He rubbed eyes burning with fatigue and waited.
A half hour later, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Douglas! Sorry about that, I was unavoidably detained.”
I’m sure you were. Miserable sod. “That’s fine.”
“I’m just driving up now. I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous, that.”
Eddy laughed. “Isn’t it? Honestly, though – if this goes well, there’s no reason that you and I shouldn’t be able to come to some more permanent arrangement. More work for you.”
There’s nothing I’d rather less, thank you very much. He couldn’t risk telling Eddy that now, though. If Martin was hurt because of Douglas’ carelessness or flippancy, Douglas would never, ever forgive himself. “Gosh. That sounds interesting.”
“And lucrative. But we can discuss it when you get back.” There was a scrape and a bang. “Morning, Tony. How’s our guest?” A brief mumble sounded in the distance. “Quiet as a mouse, Tony tells me. That’s….” Eddy’s voice trailed off.
Douglas frowned. He hadn’t lost the signal, of all things? “Hello?”
“Fuck.”
Douglas’ heart dropped.
*
Continued in Part 4
Author: Alex
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: John Finnemore, Pozzitive Productions for le BBC.
Summary: From a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme. Douglas gets in a little over his head in regards to his smuggling, but it's Martin who suffers for it.
Warnings: Nonconsensual sex.
Notes: This is my very first Cabin Pressure fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.
Continued from Part 2
You can also find this fic on AO3
*
Douglas stared down at his croque-monsieur. Really it was the most extraordinary feat of French cookery, elevating the humble ham and cheese sandwich to the loftiest heights of flavour simply by employing the proper proportions of rosy ham, piquant, complex Gruyère, airy bread, and the faintest delicate drizzle of Béchamel sauce.
Pity he wasn’t able to eat it. Nor had he been able to eat the langoustines with orange-saffron butter, asparagus mousse, and sweet potato puree he’d ordered for lunch, nor the dainty pastel-colored macarons in the ribbon-tied box on his bedside table. In fact, he hadn’t managed more than a few mouthfuls of sparkling water, and even that had made him want to surrender the contents of his stomach. He had been in Paris for twenty-four hours, his insides had contracted to a tight, horrid knot, and anyone who said that Paris was the epicentre of love and romance had been spewing utter rubbish, because the adverts and brochures never told you that if it wasn’t bloody freezing or beastly hot, it was pissing rain, with dreary grey skies that only made the city greyer and drearier than it already was. April in Paris, my arse.
Despite the rain and because he’d been unable to sleep, he’d walked the streets, drifting along aimlessly, looking into the windows of expensive shops without really seeing their contents. The only time he’d taken notice was when he’d passed by the Hermès shop on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The windows had been crammed with an artful display of luxury goods, clothes and bags and scarves, and Douglas had felt the pain in his stomach double, treble, then spear upwards and down until he thought he was going to pass out. He managed to stand upright and walk with dignity, if not speed, back to the Avenue Montaigne and the Plaza Athenee, where he collapsed into a chair and wiped the sweat from his face with a shaking hand.
He’d put his foot in it. No question. In a life abundantly blessed by good luck and because of that, nearly immune to the sense of receiving special treatment – really, when one demands perquisites and pleasures and is accustomed to receiving them, it’s difficult not to take at least some luck for granted – he’d fucked things up good and proper. He should have done his utmost to keep everyone away from the airfield – everyone who might have been pushing and curious, at any rate. Arthur, heaven preserve his simple soul, would have stumbled upon the smugglers and offered to make them snacks, and if they’d held him hostage they’d have been engaged in a rousing game of Yellow Car by the time they got back to their warehouse lair.
But Martin….
“Martin.” Even saying his name made Douglas cringe with shame and anxiety. Of course it had been Martin who’d tripped and fallen face-first into this latest bout of rotten luck. Come to it, it was Martin’s spectacular bad fortune that had imposed itself on Douglas, not the other way round. Only Martin would have a story so redolent of piteous failure that it shot past the unlikely and landed solidly in the realm of the truly preposterous, and yet, knowing Martin, was totally plausible. Earnest, prissy Martin, with his manuals and his van and his bloody inner ear dysfunction, who got his nose out of joint at the slightest departure from standard operating procedures, who despite his pride in his captaincy had none of the hubris a proper pilot should possess in vast, overweening supply, was a golf club in a lightning storm, an ant under the magnifying glass of some cosmically cruel child, a field mouse cornered by a hungry barn cat – in short, a walking invitation to disaster.
And he was in desperate trouble, and it was all Douglas’ fault.
Sit tight, Martin, Douglas begged silently. For God’s sake, don’t get lippy with them or try to do anything brave – Even as he tried to imagine this, Douglas couldn’t prevent a snort. Poised equally between two glasses of water, Martin would die of thirst and an agony of indecision. But still, with his luck, who knew what might happen? Eddy and his boys were ruthless. It had sounded as if they’d given poor Martin a good thumping to keep him quiet, and there had been a cold, steady light in Eddy’s dark eyes as he’d promised to tear Martin apart. The pain in Douglas’ stomach sharpened, and he bent over, breathing hard. I’ll make sure you’re okay, and I promise I won’t torment you for at least a month. Just be quiet and still and do everything they say.
Douglas dragged his fingers through his hair, unwillingly conjuring up an image of Martin in the grasp of one of Eddy’s henchmen, scared and powerless, his eyes wide with fear and then hurt as Douglas casually insulted him. Christ, if that was their last moment together –
He pulled out his mobile and called Martin’s number. Maybe they’d let him answer it, just to preserve the fiction that everything was fine.
“Hi, this is Martin. Martin Crieff. Captain Martin Crieff. I can’t come to the phone right now – things to do, people to see, aeroplanes to fly.” There was a lift in Martin’s voice; he’d smiled at that last.
Douglas wanted to cry.
“Please leave a message and I’ll phone you back as soon as I can. Thanks. Bye.”
“Martin.” Douglas’ throat caught, and he coughed. “Martin, it’s Douglas. If you…if you get this message, and if you’re in a position to call me back, please do so as soon as it’s humanly possible. I just wanted to make sure that everything was okay. That is, I…I hope everything’s okay. Please call me.” He rang off and stared at the mobile, willing it to ring, willing it to deliver Martin’s voice on the other end, frightened and intimidated, but upright and breathing and….
He couldn’t think of it any longer. Moving into the immaculately appointed bathroom, he stripped and, placing the mobile on the polished golden edge of the travertine sink, well within grabbing distance on the second ring, he stepped into the shower and turned it on high. An obliging spray of hot water enveloped him from three sides, and steam billowed up in clouds. He soaped himself vigorously with some luxurious fragrant Parisian stuff, and felt as never before every shift of his body, the ripple of water against his limbs, his nerve endings prickling at the extreme temperature. He kept the water running for ages, stopping only when he thought he’d shrivel like a sultana. He stepped onto the thick plush bathmat, put on the heavy white towelling robe and slippers, and went back into his room to order a croque-monsieur and a tall glass of Orangina. He gazed for a long, unblinking moment at the minibar, and then turned on the television. Letting his food grow cold, he watched French television, finally falling asleep as the morning sun seeped through the drapes and the dubbed voices of Bart and Homer Simpson resounded in his ears.
Va te faire shampouiner, Homer.
Espèce de sale petit....!
*
He awoke three hours later with a pounding headache and a horrid taste in his mouth. He reached for the Orangina, now flat, and sipped, then checked his mobile, afraid it had rung while he’d slept even though he’d turned the volume up to deafening levels.
No messages.
The sick feeling returned as he punched in Martin’s number again.
“Hi, this is Martin. Martin Crieff. Captain Martin Crieff. I can’t come to the phone right now – things to do, people to see, aeroplanes to fly. Please leave a message and I’ll phone you back as soon as I can. Thanks. Bye.”
“Martin, it’s Douglas again. Look, I know you might not be able to come to the phone, but if you…if anyone gets this, it’s very important that I speak to you. I just want to talk to you for a moment. Please…please call me back.”
What if they’d hurt him? Even…no. God, no, please no.
He punched in Eddy’s number and waited, and finally heard a sleepy voice. “Hello?”
“Eddy?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Douglas.”
“Douglas! How are things? The driver hasn’t arrived already, has he? I thought he wasn’t expected until tonight.”
“No, he’s not arrived yet.”
“There’s nothing wrong, is there?” An oily film of false concern had insinuated itself into Eddy’s voice, all but coating the mobile.
“Not on my end, no.”
“Enjoying the food? The hotel? For my money you can’t beat the George Cinq, but I suppose the Athenee has its points. I’ve always thought there was something a little vulgar about it, though – all those blondes with excessive jewellrey and fluffy white dogs. Still, there’s Alain Ducasse and that’s all right –“
“The food’s fine,” Douglas interrupted, not caring how brusque he sounded. “Eddy, I’d like to speak to Martin, please.”
“You – you called me to speak to Martin?” There was a pause. “Douglas, even with the time difference, it’s quite early. I’m not out of bed yet.”
“I just –“
“I’m at home, Douglas,” Eddy went on patiently. “You didn’t think I brought him home with me, did you?”
“No! No, of course not.” Christ, I hope not. “I just…look, Eddy, I just want to make sure that he’s okay, right?”
“Why shouldn’t he be okay? When I saw him last, he was perfectly fine, quite snug and secure. Don’t worry, we’re keeping him safe for you, Douglas. Just be certain that you don’t do anything stupid, and little Martin will be just fine.” Eddy yawned. “He’s really a captain? And you’re the co-pilot?”
“That’s right.” For the first time, Douglas found himself bristling on Martin’s behalf. He didn’t like the way Eddy said snug and secure.
“Hm. I wouldn’t have thought it. He doesn’t seem the pilot type. Right, look. Give me two hours and call me back, and I’ll let you speak to him.”
A huge sigh of relief loosed itself from Douglas’ lungs. “Fine.”
“Not to worry. If all goes well, you get Martin back safe and sound. I have faith in your competence, Douglas.”
He didn’t like the way Eddy said Douglas, either, or Martin, for that matter. “All’s well on this end, I assure you.”
“Marvelous. Get some sleep, you sound wretched. Chat later.” Eddy rang off, leaving Douglas staring at the glowing screen.
*
Knowing full well that any pilot who deprived himself of sleep was just asking for trouble, Douglas tried to catch a few nods, setting his alarm to ring at precisely eleven, but despite the tightly closed drapes, sleep refused to come. He stared at the soft backlit glow of the carriage clock beside the bed and huddled between Pratesi sheets, still in his towelling robe. He rang Eddy at the appointed time, growling a curse when Eddy didn’t pick up.
“Hello. Leave a message and I’ll return your call.”
Short and sweet. “Eddy, it’s Douglas. It’s been two hours, and – well, call me back, please.” It took the most extraordinary effort not to bang the phone on the night table. He rubbed eyes burning with fatigue and waited.
A half hour later, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Douglas! Sorry about that, I was unavoidably detained.”
I’m sure you were. Miserable sod. “That’s fine.”
“I’m just driving up now. I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous, that.”
Eddy laughed. “Isn’t it? Honestly, though – if this goes well, there’s no reason that you and I shouldn’t be able to come to some more permanent arrangement. More work for you.”
There’s nothing I’d rather less, thank you very much. He couldn’t risk telling Eddy that now, though. If Martin was hurt because of Douglas’ carelessness or flippancy, Douglas would never, ever forgive himself. “Gosh. That sounds interesting.”
“And lucrative. But we can discuss it when you get back.” There was a scrape and a bang. “Morning, Tony. How’s our guest?” A brief mumble sounded in the distance. “Quiet as a mouse, Tony tells me. That’s….” Eddy’s voice trailed off.
Douglas frowned. He hadn’t lost the signal, of all things? “Hello?”
“Fuck.”
Douglas’ heart dropped.
*
Continued in Part 4
