FIC: Gone Horribly Wrong [6/?]
Mar. 28th, 2012 12:43 am![[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 5
You can also find this fic on AO3
*
Come on, sweet-lips. A little wider now. Come on, I know you’re gagging for it.
Hold him, lads. Nice and steady.
Getting tired, love? Harder. Harder, I said.
Swallow it.
Martin awoke with a jolt of agony and struggled to catch his breath. He sat up, pressing a hand against his right side. It hurt badly enough to take his mind off the nightmare he’d just had.
No, not quite true. The nightmare was always with him. Five days and he hadn’t spent a single waking moment able to think of anything else. Even the pain, constant as it was, seemed like a fleeting thing against the red spikes of fear and humiliation that embedded themselves under his skin. But it was always worse at night. In daylight, in his conscious moments, he filled the hours with mindless, stupid television – there was a small, ancient black-and-white set in the kitchen, and he’d spent ages in front of it, watching news programmes, quiz shows, Coronation Street, anything full of chatter, and he was able to keep the worst of his memories at bay – though they were still there, snarling distantly, waiting for him to lower his guard. But at night, while he slept, they returned in full force, in horrifying slow motion, until he awoke gasping and shaking with terror, convinced he was back in the warehouse and Douglas was never going to come, never, and the men were holding him down and laughing and forcing his mouth open –
Martin pressed his hands to his face. How many more nights of less than three hours of sleep and terrifying dreams could he endure before he simply went mad? He couldn’t go on this way and function normally, and as for flying – that was completely out of the question. And that wasn’t even taking the pain into account. Loath as he was to admit it, even to himself, he knew the pain was getting worse, not better. He was scheduled to fly a group of City boys to New York in two days; six or seven hours of sitting still and upright would be utter torture. He had to see a doctor if he was going to be fit to fly.
Sighing, he felt his face with his fingertips. He hadn’t shaved since the night before he’d been kidnapped and had managed only the most rudimentary of baths, but it hadn’t been in him to take any pride in his appearance. He didn’t want to be a walking cliché, a non-functioning victim huddled in a dressing gown and weeping gently into a cup of tea. He heaved himself up, slung his threadbare dressing gown and towel over his shoulder (even that hurt) and headed down the attic stairs toward the bathroom.
Half an hour later, he made his way down to the kitchen, dressed in clean jeans and a comfortable pullover with the RAF emblem on the front. (He’d thrown away the jeans and anorak from the other night; he didn’t think he could look at them again without wanting to be sick. Besides, the anorak was – they’d –)
“Martin!” Stannie, one of the Ag students, greeted him with a smile. “Want some tea? I’ve just put the kettle on.”
“That’s very kind, thank you.” Gingerly, Martin sat at the table and offered her a wan smile. Stannie was nice – all the Ag students were nice, really. Mainly they left him alone, but sometimes they asked him down to their parties, even if they couldn’t really find much common ground with him. And they got younger and younger; it was amazing. They all looked like fifth formers to him now.
“Good to see you up and about. Feeling better, then?”
“Actually, not great. I’m going to the hospital.”
Stannie shook her head, and her unruly tumble of black curls bounced like a shampoo commercial. “Those tossers gave you a right going-over, didn’t they? I’m glad you’re going, though. You’ve been looking like shite, no offence. I’m headed that way myself in a bit. Do you need a lift?”
“No thanks. I’ve got to make another stop. Thanks all the same.” He would put that one off until the last possible moment. Facing Carolyn would be far worse than facing a battery of medical professionals. He drank his tea, sipping carefully because of his split lip, and ate a Jaffa cake Stannie pressed on him. She left him alone and read a thick textbook, now and then pausing to underscore certain passages. Martin was soothed by her presence and her lack of prying. Finally he stood up, digging his keys from his pocket.
“It’s a bit parky out there, Martin. Don’t you want another jumper?” Stannie was looking at him oddly.
“Oh….” Instinctively Martin’s hand went to his ribcage. It was such a long way to climb. “No, I think I’ll be okay.”
“Hang on. I’ll fetch one for you.” She grabbed his keys and was out the door in a flash before Martin could protest.
He sat down again, but it didn’t help. It hurt to sit, it hurt to stand, it hurt to lie down. He looked absolutely horrid, possibly because he’d hardly eaten or drunk a thing in five days, possibly from shock and pain, but whatever it was, he’d had difficulty meeting his own gaze in the mirror as he’d shaved. His face was a horrible greyish colour and it looked as if he’d crossed the line from thin to gaunt overnight. He was afraid they’d ask him questions at the hospital, but he’d frightened himself asking Phil, one of the vet students, what the possible risks of untreated broken ribs might be; Phil had delightedly given him lurid descriptions of animals with pierced organs, punctured arteries, and internal hemorrhaging, and Martin decided it would be worse to let it go. And James bloody Herriot, Phil was not.
Stannie came back with Martin’s thick oatmeal-coloured woollen cardigan, an unexpected gift from Carolyn last Christmas. Martin accepted it gratefully and pushed his arms into the sleeves, suppressing a groan. “Thanks, Stannie.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a lift, Martin? You look….” She bit her lip.
Martin gave her a tired smile. He knew very well how he looked. “I’m fine. Thanks.” He retrieved his keys and made his way down the outside stairs, holding the rail with every step.
*
The wait, thankfully, wasn’t terribly long, and he was in a curtained-off room within two hours, sitting on an uncomfortable bed and eyeing the doctor who pushed back the curtain, clipboard in hand. He was compact, forty or so, with greying light-brown hair. “Martin? Hi. Dr. Corbett. So, what seems to be the problem – broken ribs, you think?” He scanned the clipboard.
“I think so, yes.”
Dr. Corbett looked up at him and frowned. “I’ll want to take a look at that eye, too, and your lip. When did this happen?”
“Ah…five days ago.”
“Has it been hurting all the while?” The doctor set down the clipboard and washed his hands in the sink.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” Corbett dried his hands and drew on a pair of latex gloves. “Can I ask you to take off your shirt and jumper, please?”
Martin froze. “I…I thought I’d get an X-ray or…or something like that.”
“Well, you might, though X-rays don’t tend to help us much where broken ribs are concerned. It would probably be a CT scan, MRI if things look desperate, but first I need to do a brief physical examination before I can determine whether we need to send you for a scan. It might be a bit uncomfortable, but probably not much worse than you’ve been experiencing thus far.” Corbett smiled. “Do you need some help getting that off?” he asked with a gesture toward Martin’s clothes.
“No! Er…I mean, sorry, no. I’ve got it.” Martin carefully pulled off his jumper, then grasped the bottom of his pullover and lifted it. He’s going to know what happened. He bit his lower lip and almost yelped from the sudden pain. He yanked off the shirt to disguise it and sat miserably on the bed, his face averted so he wouldn’t have to witness the intense scrutiny of his battered body.
Corbett studied him silently for a moment. His eyes flickered to Martin’s face; Martin could feel the inspection, the wordless cataloguing of his injuries. Finger-shaped bruises on his face, his neck, his upper arms. The split lip. Cuts on his chest and jaw – one of them had worn a ring, and Martin had counted himself lucky he hadn’t lost any teeth. The angry, scabbed lacerations on his wrists from twine and tape. The blackish-red bruise from the kick to his chest that had spread out like a winter sunset.
Timidly, Martin met Corbett’s gaze and saw a mix of anger and sympathy – no, pity - in the man’s eyes. He looked down and plucked at a loose thread in the seam of his jeans.
“Right. Well, that looks nasty, so I expect we’ll be sending you for a scan, but in the meantime, let’s just take a look here. I guess I don’t have to ask exactly where it hurts.” Corbett stepped close, and Martin flinched. “It’s okay,” Corbett said softly. “I’m just going to press very gently. I’ll do my best not to hurt you.”
Martin nodded.
“Okay.” Corbett rested one hand on Martin’s shoulder and touched his ribcage. “Now, do me a favour? Breathe in and out as you normally would.” He nodded. “A little deeper, please.”
Martin had always hated going to the doctor. Aside from his inner ear abnormality (perfectly air-worthy!) he’d always been fairly healthy, but doctors made him anxious; they asked questions and made him perform, and Martin’s testing anxiety had never served him well under any circumstances. He took a deep breath, wanting to do well, wanting to be outstanding, and a bright silver icepick drove itself into his side. He gasped and grabbed at the doctor’s arm. Oh, God, I’m going to faint.
“Martin. Martin, it’s okay.” Corbett’s hands were on his back, supporting him. He was no taller than Martin, but he held Martin as easily as he might a kitten. “Here, let’s have a lie-down for a moment.” He eased Martin to the bed, fetched a blanket from a shelf, and covered his upper body. “I can do this just as well with you lying down.”
“I’m sorry,” Martin whispered.
“Not to worry. I’m just going to have a quick listen to your lungs, all right?” He smiled at Martin and set his scope in his ears. He slid the scope under the blanket and laid it against Martin’s chest. “Just breathe normally, please.” He listened for a moment and sighed, then took the scope off and stuffed it in his coat pocket. “Okay, Martin, I’m going to send you for a CT scan. I think they’re just cracked, but we want to make absolutely certain.”
“All right.”
“Let’s get that settled straight away, then I can have a look at the rest of you while we’re waiting for Radiology to do their magical interpretive dance.” Corbett smiled and patted Martin’s shoulder.
*
He couldn’t think why hospitals had to be so cold, especially if they only issued flimsy gowns to their patients. Martin pulled up the two thin blankets and waited for Corbett to come back, dreading what would almost surely happen next.
Of course, it did.
“So,” Corbett said, pulling up a wheeled stool. “How did this happen?” He patted the side of the bed. “Can you swing your legs out for me?”
Cautiously Martin complied, shivering with cold. “I got –“ Martin took a breath. “Robbed. And beaten. Obviously. I mean – I don’t mean that in a nasty way, I just –“ He stopped and lowered his head. One day you’ll just open your mouth and fall in, you berk. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Dr. Corbett didn’t seem offended. He took Martin’s right calf in his hand and lifted it, supporting his foot with his other hand. “Were you at work, or home…?”
“Um…at work. Why?”
“It looks like they decided to hang on to you for a while,” Corbett said, running his fingertips over the welts on Martin’s ankle. “Any loss of feeling in your feet or hands?”
“No. Not that I’ve noticed.”
“Have you been taking paracetamol or any other painkillers?”
“No, I –“ I can’t afford it, he’d been about to say, but that wasn’t quite true, was it? He had four hundred pounds in his granddad’s old watch case on his dresser. Four hundred pounds that Eddy Groves had slipped into his pocket.
His cut. He hadn’t been robbed; he’d been paid.
For a moment he thought he was going to be sick. He gripped the blankets and closed his eyes, then shook his head. “No.”
Corbett had moved on to Martin’s wrists. “That must have been very frightening.”
Martin swallowed. “Um. Yes. Yes. It was.”
Corbett stood. “I just want a look at that lip, okay?” With the utmost care, he tilted Martin’s chin up and examined him. “Can you open your mouth for a moment?” He prodded a bit more, but gently, without further comment, and finally sat down. “Okay, Martin, I think we’re about done. I’m a bit concerned about your lungs, as I detected some fluid in them. When you’ve got a broken rib, you’ve absolutely got to breathe deeply to stave off pneumonia, even if it hurts.”
“Can you wrap my ribs?”
“No, that actually hurts more than it helps. The rib’s got to heal naturally. Now as I said, I don’t think it’s but cracked – still, we’ve got to make certain. Can I ask what you do for a living?”
“I’m a pilot,” Martin said, and at that couldn’t prevent a tiny smile. It hurt his mouth, but God, it was the only thing that made him feel human.
“Really!” Corbett smiled. “Civil aviation, or –“
“Yes. I’m a captain with a charter airline.” Airdot.
“Wow. That’s very impressive. I’ve seen those instrument panels and broken into a cold sweat just looking at them. Well, you’re probably keen to return to work as soon as possible, but that’s a lot of sitting in one place without moving, so I’m going to ground you for a couple of weeks.” Corbett smiled again. “We’ll outfit you with painkillers, and if the CT scan goes well, you should be as right as a trivet in about six weeks. I’m going to put a few stitches in your lip, too, and give you some topical antibiotic for those ligature marks on your wrists and ankles. They don’t really need a dressing, just keep them clean.”
“All right.”
“Martin, one more thing.”
Martin tensed.
“I want you to know that what I’m about to say is absolutely confidential, and you can tell me to piss off if you feel like it, but I’m seeing some signs of other trauma.”
“Like what?” Martin felt himself flushing. God, was it so obvious?
“Mainly it’s physical or emotional reactions to being touched. It’s okay,” Corbett said, “it happens to plenty of victims of physical violence, and you haven’t said so, but it looks like you went through quite an unpleasant ordeal. But I’d like to know if what I’ve seen is the extent of your injuries. I can do a more thorough examination if you like.”
“No. No, I don’t want one.”
“Okay,” Corbett said gravely. “I wanted you to know that it’s available, if you want it.”
Martin shook his head. “No. I mean, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not true. I mean, it’s – they didn’t – it’s not what you think.”
“Okay.” Corbett’s voice was soft. “I’m not going to press you to do anything you don’t want to do.” He got up and went to the cubicle desk, opening the drawer and shuffling around inside. He laid some leaflets on the edge of the desk. “I’m going to pop over to Radiology to check on the progress of that scan; I think we might be ready. Go ahead and get dressed. Take these home and have a look at them. There’s a bit about wound care, some breathing exercises and so on. And I’m going to give you a prescription for some painkillers, and some lovely samples to take home straight away. You definitely don’t want to fly while you’re taking them, okay?” He smiled at Martin. “And I’ll give you a fit note for work. Give it to your employer and have them call me with any questions. I’ll put my mobile number on it. You can call me with any questions or concerns as well. Anything at all.”
Martin was heartened by his kindness and tact. “Okay.”
“Right, I’ll be back with all that in a bit.” Corbett patted Martin on the shoulder and left in a swish of blue-dotted curtain.
Martin slid off the bed and dressed slowly. He felt a bit better; Corbett might have suspected something, but he hadn’t pressed unduly, and after all, it wasn’t as if Martin had suffered any internal trauma. Perhaps he was being overdramatic about it all. Right now the whole thing felt hazy and indistinct, and he thought possibly if he could maintain his present mindset, everything would be okay. Maybe the painkillers would help with the nightmares, too; if he could sleep deeply, he’d be less likely to have bad dreams.
He picked up the leaflets and thumbed through them idly. Wound care, how to breathe in the event of rib injury, a leaflet on nutrition (that was vaguely insulting, though he supposed he did look undernourished). Anxiety care, self-help in surviving trauma, survivors of rape and sexual assault.
Martin’s heart stuttered and contracted in his chest. He pressed his lips together, unmindful of the pain, and screwed his eyes shut.
It wasn’t, really. It wasn’t as if they’d….
With slow deliberation, Martin tucked the rape leaflet between nutrition and wound care, folded the lot, and tucked it into his back pocket. He climbed back onto the hard bed and pulled the blankets up again. He was so cold.
*
The painkillers were doing a lovely job. Martin felt almost good; not high, but unconcerned about the pain for the first time, and maybe part of that was because the CT scan had come back okay after all – no floating bits of rib or punctured organs whatsoever. And Dr. Corbett had put two stitches in his lip, given him the samples and the medical certificate for work, and packed him off with a final offer of his mobile in case Martin wanted to talk. Martin had thanked him politely and left without so much as a backward glance.
The chat with Carolyn had been dreadful, but he’d managed. She’d stared at his injuries with a sharp, discerning eye and asked more pointed questions than he wanted to answer, but he’d dodged them pretty well. Only when she asked if Douglas knew about it did Martin falter. For a moment he’d had the urge to spill everything, to lay the blame squarely at Douglas’ feet, but something stopped him. He didn’t know what, he didn’t want to examine it or think about it, but he had an image of Carolyn sacking Douglas and Martin couldn’t…he couldn’t do that to Douglas.
Why can’t you? You wouldn’t have got in the whole mess if he hadn’t been mucking about with smugglers.
He didn’t know why. He just couldn’t, that was all.
Martin buried his head more deeply into his pillow. The leaflet said it was all right to lie on the side with the cracked rib, which he hadn’t done for fear of making it worse, but it actually did help him breathe a bit better. He’d slept a while and now lay in a sort of pleasant haze, for the first time devoid of fear. For days he’d locked his door, terrified that Eddy Groves and his thugs would come back and…hurt him again. Every noise in the creaky, drafty old house sent him into new paroxysms of anxiety, but tonight he’d left the door unlocked and not even the loud banging and thumping from below bothered him. Much.
He started at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. A man’s tread. He sat up, wincing, and threw a panicked glance at the tiny attic window. He’d fit through it, but he’d likely tumble down the eave, fall three storeys, and break his foolish neck.
So much for not being afraid. He clutched the blankets and waited.
A soft knock sounded on the door.
Surely the students wouldn’t just let Eddy in without a fuss? And he wouldn’t be alone, would he? He’d have his flunkies with him, ready to do some more damage. Unless they had guns, and had forced their way in. Maybe everyone was tied up downstairs and Eddy had come to the attic alone, knowing that Martin would be easy to manhandle.
The knock sounded again.
Martin’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged. He heard his heartbeat fluttering rapidly in his ears. Please go away.
The knob turned slowly, and the door opened.
*
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 5
You can also find this fic on AO3
*
Come on, sweet-lips. A little wider now. Come on, I know you’re gagging for it.
Hold him, lads. Nice and steady.
Getting tired, love? Harder. Harder, I said.
Swallow it.
Martin awoke with a jolt of agony and struggled to catch his breath. He sat up, pressing a hand against his right side. It hurt badly enough to take his mind off the nightmare he’d just had.
No, not quite true. The nightmare was always with him. Five days and he hadn’t spent a single waking moment able to think of anything else. Even the pain, constant as it was, seemed like a fleeting thing against the red spikes of fear and humiliation that embedded themselves under his skin. But it was always worse at night. In daylight, in his conscious moments, he filled the hours with mindless, stupid television – there was a small, ancient black-and-white set in the kitchen, and he’d spent ages in front of it, watching news programmes, quiz shows, Coronation Street, anything full of chatter, and he was able to keep the worst of his memories at bay – though they were still there, snarling distantly, waiting for him to lower his guard. But at night, while he slept, they returned in full force, in horrifying slow motion, until he awoke gasping and shaking with terror, convinced he was back in the warehouse and Douglas was never going to come, never, and the men were holding him down and laughing and forcing his mouth open –
Martin pressed his hands to his face. How many more nights of less than three hours of sleep and terrifying dreams could he endure before he simply went mad? He couldn’t go on this way and function normally, and as for flying – that was completely out of the question. And that wasn’t even taking the pain into account. Loath as he was to admit it, even to himself, he knew the pain was getting worse, not better. He was scheduled to fly a group of City boys to New York in two days; six or seven hours of sitting still and upright would be utter torture. He had to see a doctor if he was going to be fit to fly.
Sighing, he felt his face with his fingertips. He hadn’t shaved since the night before he’d been kidnapped and had managed only the most rudimentary of baths, but it hadn’t been in him to take any pride in his appearance. He didn’t want to be a walking cliché, a non-functioning victim huddled in a dressing gown and weeping gently into a cup of tea. He heaved himself up, slung his threadbare dressing gown and towel over his shoulder (even that hurt) and headed down the attic stairs toward the bathroom.
Half an hour later, he made his way down to the kitchen, dressed in clean jeans and a comfortable pullover with the RAF emblem on the front. (He’d thrown away the jeans and anorak from the other night; he didn’t think he could look at them again without wanting to be sick. Besides, the anorak was – they’d –)
“Martin!” Stannie, one of the Ag students, greeted him with a smile. “Want some tea? I’ve just put the kettle on.”
“That’s very kind, thank you.” Gingerly, Martin sat at the table and offered her a wan smile. Stannie was nice – all the Ag students were nice, really. Mainly they left him alone, but sometimes they asked him down to their parties, even if they couldn’t really find much common ground with him. And they got younger and younger; it was amazing. They all looked like fifth formers to him now.
“Good to see you up and about. Feeling better, then?”
“Actually, not great. I’m going to the hospital.”
Stannie shook her head, and her unruly tumble of black curls bounced like a shampoo commercial. “Those tossers gave you a right going-over, didn’t they? I’m glad you’re going, though. You’ve been looking like shite, no offence. I’m headed that way myself in a bit. Do you need a lift?”
“No thanks. I’ve got to make another stop. Thanks all the same.” He would put that one off until the last possible moment. Facing Carolyn would be far worse than facing a battery of medical professionals. He drank his tea, sipping carefully because of his split lip, and ate a Jaffa cake Stannie pressed on him. She left him alone and read a thick textbook, now and then pausing to underscore certain passages. Martin was soothed by her presence and her lack of prying. Finally he stood up, digging his keys from his pocket.
“It’s a bit parky out there, Martin. Don’t you want another jumper?” Stannie was looking at him oddly.
“Oh….” Instinctively Martin’s hand went to his ribcage. It was such a long way to climb. “No, I think I’ll be okay.”
“Hang on. I’ll fetch one for you.” She grabbed his keys and was out the door in a flash before Martin could protest.
He sat down again, but it didn’t help. It hurt to sit, it hurt to stand, it hurt to lie down. He looked absolutely horrid, possibly because he’d hardly eaten or drunk a thing in five days, possibly from shock and pain, but whatever it was, he’d had difficulty meeting his own gaze in the mirror as he’d shaved. His face was a horrible greyish colour and it looked as if he’d crossed the line from thin to gaunt overnight. He was afraid they’d ask him questions at the hospital, but he’d frightened himself asking Phil, one of the vet students, what the possible risks of untreated broken ribs might be; Phil had delightedly given him lurid descriptions of animals with pierced organs, punctured arteries, and internal hemorrhaging, and Martin decided it would be worse to let it go. And James bloody Herriot, Phil was not.
Stannie came back with Martin’s thick oatmeal-coloured woollen cardigan, an unexpected gift from Carolyn last Christmas. Martin accepted it gratefully and pushed his arms into the sleeves, suppressing a groan. “Thanks, Stannie.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a lift, Martin? You look….” She bit her lip.
Martin gave her a tired smile. He knew very well how he looked. “I’m fine. Thanks.” He retrieved his keys and made his way down the outside stairs, holding the rail with every step.
*
The wait, thankfully, wasn’t terribly long, and he was in a curtained-off room within two hours, sitting on an uncomfortable bed and eyeing the doctor who pushed back the curtain, clipboard in hand. He was compact, forty or so, with greying light-brown hair. “Martin? Hi. Dr. Corbett. So, what seems to be the problem – broken ribs, you think?” He scanned the clipboard.
“I think so, yes.”
Dr. Corbett looked up at him and frowned. “I’ll want to take a look at that eye, too, and your lip. When did this happen?”
“Ah…five days ago.”
“Has it been hurting all the while?” The doctor set down the clipboard and washed his hands in the sink.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” Corbett dried his hands and drew on a pair of latex gloves. “Can I ask you to take off your shirt and jumper, please?”
Martin froze. “I…I thought I’d get an X-ray or…or something like that.”
“Well, you might, though X-rays don’t tend to help us much where broken ribs are concerned. It would probably be a CT scan, MRI if things look desperate, but first I need to do a brief physical examination before I can determine whether we need to send you for a scan. It might be a bit uncomfortable, but probably not much worse than you’ve been experiencing thus far.” Corbett smiled. “Do you need some help getting that off?” he asked with a gesture toward Martin’s clothes.
“No! Er…I mean, sorry, no. I’ve got it.” Martin carefully pulled off his jumper, then grasped the bottom of his pullover and lifted it. He’s going to know what happened. He bit his lower lip and almost yelped from the sudden pain. He yanked off the shirt to disguise it and sat miserably on the bed, his face averted so he wouldn’t have to witness the intense scrutiny of his battered body.
Corbett studied him silently for a moment. His eyes flickered to Martin’s face; Martin could feel the inspection, the wordless cataloguing of his injuries. Finger-shaped bruises on his face, his neck, his upper arms. The split lip. Cuts on his chest and jaw – one of them had worn a ring, and Martin had counted himself lucky he hadn’t lost any teeth. The angry, scabbed lacerations on his wrists from twine and tape. The blackish-red bruise from the kick to his chest that had spread out like a winter sunset.
Timidly, Martin met Corbett’s gaze and saw a mix of anger and sympathy – no, pity - in the man’s eyes. He looked down and plucked at a loose thread in the seam of his jeans.
“Right. Well, that looks nasty, so I expect we’ll be sending you for a scan, but in the meantime, let’s just take a look here. I guess I don’t have to ask exactly where it hurts.” Corbett stepped close, and Martin flinched. “It’s okay,” Corbett said softly. “I’m just going to press very gently. I’ll do my best not to hurt you.”
Martin nodded.
“Okay.” Corbett rested one hand on Martin’s shoulder and touched his ribcage. “Now, do me a favour? Breathe in and out as you normally would.” He nodded. “A little deeper, please.”
Martin had always hated going to the doctor. Aside from his inner ear abnormality (perfectly air-worthy!) he’d always been fairly healthy, but doctors made him anxious; they asked questions and made him perform, and Martin’s testing anxiety had never served him well under any circumstances. He took a deep breath, wanting to do well, wanting to be outstanding, and a bright silver icepick drove itself into his side. He gasped and grabbed at the doctor’s arm. Oh, God, I’m going to faint.
“Martin. Martin, it’s okay.” Corbett’s hands were on his back, supporting him. He was no taller than Martin, but he held Martin as easily as he might a kitten. “Here, let’s have a lie-down for a moment.” He eased Martin to the bed, fetched a blanket from a shelf, and covered his upper body. “I can do this just as well with you lying down.”
“I’m sorry,” Martin whispered.
“Not to worry. I’m just going to have a quick listen to your lungs, all right?” He smiled at Martin and set his scope in his ears. He slid the scope under the blanket and laid it against Martin’s chest. “Just breathe normally, please.” He listened for a moment and sighed, then took the scope off and stuffed it in his coat pocket. “Okay, Martin, I’m going to send you for a CT scan. I think they’re just cracked, but we want to make absolutely certain.”
“All right.”
“Let’s get that settled straight away, then I can have a look at the rest of you while we’re waiting for Radiology to do their magical interpretive dance.” Corbett smiled and patted Martin’s shoulder.
*
He couldn’t think why hospitals had to be so cold, especially if they only issued flimsy gowns to their patients. Martin pulled up the two thin blankets and waited for Corbett to come back, dreading what would almost surely happen next.
Of course, it did.
“So,” Corbett said, pulling up a wheeled stool. “How did this happen?” He patted the side of the bed. “Can you swing your legs out for me?”
Cautiously Martin complied, shivering with cold. “I got –“ Martin took a breath. “Robbed. And beaten. Obviously. I mean – I don’t mean that in a nasty way, I just –“ He stopped and lowered his head. One day you’ll just open your mouth and fall in, you berk. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
Dr. Corbett didn’t seem offended. He took Martin’s right calf in his hand and lifted it, supporting his foot with his other hand. “Were you at work, or home…?”
“Um…at work. Why?”
“It looks like they decided to hang on to you for a while,” Corbett said, running his fingertips over the welts on Martin’s ankle. “Any loss of feeling in your feet or hands?”
“No. Not that I’ve noticed.”
“Have you been taking paracetamol or any other painkillers?”
“No, I –“ I can’t afford it, he’d been about to say, but that wasn’t quite true, was it? He had four hundred pounds in his granddad’s old watch case on his dresser. Four hundred pounds that Eddy Groves had slipped into his pocket.
His cut. He hadn’t been robbed; he’d been paid.
For a moment he thought he was going to be sick. He gripped the blankets and closed his eyes, then shook his head. “No.”
Corbett had moved on to Martin’s wrists. “That must have been very frightening.”
Martin swallowed. “Um. Yes. Yes. It was.”
Corbett stood. “I just want a look at that lip, okay?” With the utmost care, he tilted Martin’s chin up and examined him. “Can you open your mouth for a moment?” He prodded a bit more, but gently, without further comment, and finally sat down. “Okay, Martin, I think we’re about done. I’m a bit concerned about your lungs, as I detected some fluid in them. When you’ve got a broken rib, you’ve absolutely got to breathe deeply to stave off pneumonia, even if it hurts.”
“Can you wrap my ribs?”
“No, that actually hurts more than it helps. The rib’s got to heal naturally. Now as I said, I don’t think it’s but cracked – still, we’ve got to make certain. Can I ask what you do for a living?”
“I’m a pilot,” Martin said, and at that couldn’t prevent a tiny smile. It hurt his mouth, but God, it was the only thing that made him feel human.
“Really!” Corbett smiled. “Civil aviation, or –“
“Yes. I’m a captain with a charter airline.” Airdot.
“Wow. That’s very impressive. I’ve seen those instrument panels and broken into a cold sweat just looking at them. Well, you’re probably keen to return to work as soon as possible, but that’s a lot of sitting in one place without moving, so I’m going to ground you for a couple of weeks.” Corbett smiled again. “We’ll outfit you with painkillers, and if the CT scan goes well, you should be as right as a trivet in about six weeks. I’m going to put a few stitches in your lip, too, and give you some topical antibiotic for those ligature marks on your wrists and ankles. They don’t really need a dressing, just keep them clean.”
“All right.”
“Martin, one more thing.”
Martin tensed.
“I want you to know that what I’m about to say is absolutely confidential, and you can tell me to piss off if you feel like it, but I’m seeing some signs of other trauma.”
“Like what?” Martin felt himself flushing. God, was it so obvious?
“Mainly it’s physical or emotional reactions to being touched. It’s okay,” Corbett said, “it happens to plenty of victims of physical violence, and you haven’t said so, but it looks like you went through quite an unpleasant ordeal. But I’d like to know if what I’ve seen is the extent of your injuries. I can do a more thorough examination if you like.”
“No. No, I don’t want one.”
“Okay,” Corbett said gravely. “I wanted you to know that it’s available, if you want it.”
Martin shook his head. “No. I mean, I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not true. I mean, it’s – they didn’t – it’s not what you think.”
“Okay.” Corbett’s voice was soft. “I’m not going to press you to do anything you don’t want to do.” He got up and went to the cubicle desk, opening the drawer and shuffling around inside. He laid some leaflets on the edge of the desk. “I’m going to pop over to Radiology to check on the progress of that scan; I think we might be ready. Go ahead and get dressed. Take these home and have a look at them. There’s a bit about wound care, some breathing exercises and so on. And I’m going to give you a prescription for some painkillers, and some lovely samples to take home straight away. You definitely don’t want to fly while you’re taking them, okay?” He smiled at Martin. “And I’ll give you a fit note for work. Give it to your employer and have them call me with any questions. I’ll put my mobile number on it. You can call me with any questions or concerns as well. Anything at all.”
Martin was heartened by his kindness and tact. “Okay.”
“Right, I’ll be back with all that in a bit.” Corbett patted Martin on the shoulder and left in a swish of blue-dotted curtain.
Martin slid off the bed and dressed slowly. He felt a bit better; Corbett might have suspected something, but he hadn’t pressed unduly, and after all, it wasn’t as if Martin had suffered any internal trauma. Perhaps he was being overdramatic about it all. Right now the whole thing felt hazy and indistinct, and he thought possibly if he could maintain his present mindset, everything would be okay. Maybe the painkillers would help with the nightmares, too; if he could sleep deeply, he’d be less likely to have bad dreams.
He picked up the leaflets and thumbed through them idly. Wound care, how to breathe in the event of rib injury, a leaflet on nutrition (that was vaguely insulting, though he supposed he did look undernourished). Anxiety care, self-help in surviving trauma, survivors of rape and sexual assault.
Martin’s heart stuttered and contracted in his chest. He pressed his lips together, unmindful of the pain, and screwed his eyes shut.
It wasn’t, really. It wasn’t as if they’d….
With slow deliberation, Martin tucked the rape leaflet between nutrition and wound care, folded the lot, and tucked it into his back pocket. He climbed back onto the hard bed and pulled the blankets up again. He was so cold.
*
The painkillers were doing a lovely job. Martin felt almost good; not high, but unconcerned about the pain for the first time, and maybe part of that was because the CT scan had come back okay after all – no floating bits of rib or punctured organs whatsoever. And Dr. Corbett had put two stitches in his lip, given him the samples and the medical certificate for work, and packed him off with a final offer of his mobile in case Martin wanted to talk. Martin had thanked him politely and left without so much as a backward glance.
The chat with Carolyn had been dreadful, but he’d managed. She’d stared at his injuries with a sharp, discerning eye and asked more pointed questions than he wanted to answer, but he’d dodged them pretty well. Only when she asked if Douglas knew about it did Martin falter. For a moment he’d had the urge to spill everything, to lay the blame squarely at Douglas’ feet, but something stopped him. He didn’t know what, he didn’t want to examine it or think about it, but he had an image of Carolyn sacking Douglas and Martin couldn’t…he couldn’t do that to Douglas.
Why can’t you? You wouldn’t have got in the whole mess if he hadn’t been mucking about with smugglers.
He didn’t know why. He just couldn’t, that was all.
Martin buried his head more deeply into his pillow. The leaflet said it was all right to lie on the side with the cracked rib, which he hadn’t done for fear of making it worse, but it actually did help him breathe a bit better. He’d slept a while and now lay in a sort of pleasant haze, for the first time devoid of fear. For days he’d locked his door, terrified that Eddy Groves and his thugs would come back and…hurt him again. Every noise in the creaky, drafty old house sent him into new paroxysms of anxiety, but tonight he’d left the door unlocked and not even the loud banging and thumping from below bothered him. Much.
He started at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. A man’s tread. He sat up, wincing, and threw a panicked glance at the tiny attic window. He’d fit through it, but he’d likely tumble down the eave, fall three storeys, and break his foolish neck.
So much for not being afraid. He clutched the blankets and waited.
A soft knock sounded on the door.
Surely the students wouldn’t just let Eddy in without a fuss? And he wouldn’t be alone, would he? He’d have his flunkies with him, ready to do some more damage. Unless they had guns, and had forced their way in. Maybe everyone was tied up downstairs and Eddy had come to the attic alone, knowing that Martin would be easy to manhandle.
The knock sounded again.
Martin’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged. He heard his heartbeat fluttering rapidly in his ears. Please go away.
The knob turned slowly, and the door opened.
*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-03-28 07:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-28 03:35 pm (UTC)