FIC: Gone Horribly Wrong [7/?]
Mar. 30th, 2012 01:18 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 6
You can also find this fic on AO3
*
Visions of a hundred long past but fondly, if only vaguely, remembered drunken revelries danced in Douglas’ head as he pulled up to Martin’s digs in Parkside Terrace. He sat in the car a moment, looking up at the house as a means of procrastination. He’d dropped Martin off a time or two when his van wasn’t working, but he’d never been inside, nor really given the place more than a glance. It had probably been quite pretty at one time, red brick with white wood trimming and a neat pocket-handkerchief-sized patch of grass on either side of the brick walk. But now the brick was faded and crumbling, the paint blistered and peeling, the charming mullioned windows were now mostly plate glass, and the patches of grass were sadly bald in spots. Still, that was student housing; as long as the shower worked and there was electricity for the teakettle and toaster, the students rarely gave a toss whether the outside looked smart.
Douglas inspected the façade of the house a bit longer and then heaved a sigh. He might as well go in; if he sat out in his car staring upward much more the students would take him for a stalker of some kind. He hadn’t the first idea of what to say to Martin; he wasn’t a planner of conversations, as such, and he’d already apologised, but…perhaps he could just say that he’d spoken to Carolyn and popped round to see how Martin was feeling. Despite Martin’s perpetual misfortune, he really wasn’t a complainer; usually it was Douglas who dragged the truth out of him. If Martin fell into a well, he’d have phoned Douglas: Douglas, can I ask a favour? Could you bring a rope to this address? No, I don’t want to tell you why at the moment, could you just do it, please? Oh, for goodness’ sake, I fell down a well trying to move some farming equipment, all right? I think I’ve broken my leg, I need someone to pull me out, and Arthur’s not answering his phone. No, of course I realise that Icarus flew UP before he – oh, for the love of God, will you just come and pull me out, Douglas? There, I hope you’re quite satisfied….
A soft chuckle hitched its way out of Douglas’ throat before he realised he was perilously close to tears. Scowling, he relinquished his hold on the wheel, forced the car door open, and got out. What in God’s name was he doing here? If Martin had wanted to see him, he’d have phoned Douglas. Douglas had tried to get him to the hospital, he’d apologised – what more could Martin want from him that he hadn’t already done?
Hang on. Martin didn’t ask you to come. You’re here under your own steam.
Well, it was guilt; Douglas was willing to concede that. Try as he might, he hadn’t quite been able to banish the way Martin had looked the other night, bruised and cowed, standing between the pair of crooks like a lamb who knew he was headed for a future as someone’s lunch with a side of mint sauce. And Douglas felt responsible for him; resentful, to be sure, but responsible all the same. But still, if Martin hadn’t decided to stick his nose into Douglas’ affairs –
He’s your friend, you stupid, self-righteous prat. That’s why you’re here – because he’s your friend and you actually do care about him a great deal, whatever you might say or even do, and despite everything you’ve ever been taught, when a friend’s in distress you don’t tell him to pack up his troubles in his old kit bag and smile.
“Oh, shut up,” Douglas muttered. He slammed the car door and headed up the walk. The bell didn’t seem to work, so he knocked, and was rewarded a moment later by the sight of a simply gorgeous vision of a girl, all lush curves, toffee-coloured skin, and a cascade of jet curls. “Hello there. I’m Douglas Richardson. I’m a friend of Martin Crieff. I’d like to speak with him.”
“Ahh, you’re Douglas. Come on in, I was just about to take him a cup of tea and a nibble.” The girl stood aside so Douglas could enter, and she shut the door and beckoned him into a dilapidated kitchen. “So you’re his first officer, then? I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I’m flattered,” Douglas said, wryly noting that even Martin’s lovely housemate knew he was unquestionably the captain.
“Sit down,” she said, gesturing to a chair. “I’m Stannie. You’re quite lucky, actually – Martin just got back about an hour ago. Went to hospital.”
Warm relief flooded Douglas’ heart. “Did he? I’m glad to hear it.”
“High time, too. God, the sight of him, poor thing!” She looked over her shoulder at Douglas. “You look all right. You weren’t there when the place got robbed, then?”
Douglas wondered what sort of cock-and-bull story Martin had served up to her. “Ah – no. I’d left a while earlier. Frightfully lucky for me – not so much for Martin.”
Stannie clattered dishes in the sink. “What did they take?”
“What?” Douglas started.
“Martin said your airline got robbed. What did they take?”
“Oh – some petty cash, a few trinkets here and there.” A nasty pang of icy guilt stabbed into Douglas’ chest and lodged there, obliterating the relief he’d felt a moment ago. He hadn’t fully appreciated the extent to which Martin was willing to lie for him. “Not much value, when you come right down to it.”
“God, poor Martin,” Stannie sighed, and set a mug of tea on a tray along with a little jug of milk, a bit of sugar in a twist of a paper napkin, and a bowl of what looked like mulligatawny soup and a slice of buttered bread on a plate. “I can’t remember if he likes sugar or not, so I didn’t put any in,” she said apologetically. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind taking it up to him, if you’re going to have a chat? He looked all done in when he arrived – could barely drag himself up the stairs.”
“It’s awfully kind of you to feed him up.” Douglas gave her a speculative look.
“I just feel bad for him, that’s all. You’re the first person who’s ever come to see him – as far as I’ve noticed, anyway. He could do with a friend. He’ll be glad you came.” She smiled at him. “It’s ready to go if you don’t mind hauling it.”
“Of course not, I’d be delighted.” Douglas stood and took the tray, reasonably certain he could lug it up a few flights of stairs. “It was lovely to meet you, Stannie.”
“It was nice to meet you too, Douglas. Martin thinks the world of you.” She sat at the table, gave him another brilliant grin, and buried her nose in a gigantic textbook.
Now what did that mean? Douglas wondered as he carried the tray up four increasingly narrow and rickety flights of stairs. He had a difficult time imagining Martin being effusive about him, or anyone or anything other than flying. Perhaps she was just being friendly, encouraging him because he was the first visitor of Martin’s she’d ever seen. A bit sad, that.
Douglas got the tray up the stairs without spilling a single drop of soup or tea or upsetting the bread. If Arthur ever decided to leave the glamorous world of airdot stewards, Douglas could always take it up as a sideline. He shifted the tray to one arm, panting a little (all those bloody stairs! No wonder Martin was as thin as a pin), and knocked softly.
There was no answer. Douglas waited a bit, then knocked again.
Nothing.
Perhaps Martin was asleep. Douglas thought about turning round and going back downstairs, then decided against it. He grasped the doorknob and tried it. It turned reluctantly in his hand. He pushed the door open as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb Martin’s slumber; he’d just leave the tray and head out.
The room was dark, and it took Douglas a moment to see that Martin was sat up in bed, huddled in the blankets of his single bed tucked under the eaves, cowering against the wall and staring at him as if he were Satan incarnate. “Martin?”
A deep, shivering intake of breath came from the figure on the bed. “Douglas?”
“Yes. Are you all right?”
“Er…yes. Yes, I’m fine. I just – I didn’t know who you were at first, that’s all.”
“I’ve brought you some tea. Have you got a light in here?”
There was another shuddering breath. “Right beside the door.”
Douglas found the light switch and turned it on. A single bare bulb abruptly glared an unfriendly and unflattering yellow from a chain in the middle of the long, narrow attic room. Douglas took a quick look round and got a fleeting impression of secondhand-shop furniture, stacks of books, and a myriad of aviation posters covering astonishingly hideous flowered wallpaper that some Swinging Sixties individual had made a hash of gluing up in an effort to make the attic mod and gear and groovy. The squalor of it made Douglas turn away. He focused his attention on Martin and proffered the tray. “Your very attractive housemate Stannie prepared tea and soup for you, and I just happened to stop by. Hungry?”
“Yes,” Martin replied quietly. “I am, a bit.”
Douglas looked for a table and found none. He settled for dragging a spindly chair next to the bed and set the tray on it after pushing aside a discarded pair of jeans. “Here we are. A repast fit for a king.” He thought of the langoustines he hadn’t eaten in Paris, and his stomach clenched unpleasantly.
“That looks lovely.” Martin slid over on the bed. “Here, sit down. I think it’ll support both of us.” He gave Douglas a weary smile.
Douglas was about to refuse, then decided to stay, just for a moment. Just to make sure Martin was all right. “Thank you. I hear you went to the hospital.”
“Yes.” Martin took a careful spoonful of soup.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Douglas picked up the napkin with its sugar twisted inside. He could have told Stannie that Martin liked two sugars and generous lashings of milk. He poured the sugar in the tea and stirred briskly, then added the milk. “And what’s the prognosis?”
“Two cracked ribs, some bruising obviously, but nothing permanent. I got some painkillers and some antibiotics.”
“I see.”
A heavy silence fell between them. Martin sipped at his tea. “It was good of you to come and see me. I thought you were flying Eric Broughton to Perthshire.”
“Yes, that was in the plan. Unfortunately, Mr. Broughton came down with a bit of tummy distress, and so the bucks and bunnies of Scotland are providentially safe. Until next week, most likely.”
“Perhaps we can warn them.”
“I rather think Mr. Broughton’s shooting skills will take care of that in any event.”
Martin smiled into his tea, and Douglas had the oddest impulse to lean close and kiss him. In fact, he experienced a distinct and wholly shocking response from John Thomas, who seemed to agree.
Good God. Where did that come from?
Thoroughly disconcerted, Douglas got to his feet and moved close to one of Martin’s posters, affecting to study it while Martin continued to eat. Where on earth had that come from? Granted, it wasn’t the first time Douglas had exhibited a preference for the male persuasion (nor the second, nor the twentieth or fiftieth, to be perfectly candid – Douglas considered himself agreeable to most pleasures, provided the timing was right) – but Martin? Martin was hardly his type. Douglas’ experience and inclinations leaned toward fellow sky gods, attractive and confident with not a little touch of laissez-faire, rather like Douglas himself. Well, he never said he wasn’t narcissistic, really.
But Martin?
Douglas turned and surreptitiously examined Martin. Funny how a person grew on one. Martin was small-boned, slight really, and no-one would accuse him of being magazine-model material with that shock of ginger hair and long, bony face…but it was a nice face, upon further consideration, the sort one didn’t grow tired of. His tip-tilted blue eyes always brimmed with emotion of one kind or another, and his mouth, when it wasn’t swollen and split, was rather pleasant to look at with its deep bow and full lower lip. Quite handsome, actually.
Get ahold of yourself, Douglas Richardson, immediately.
“How’s the soup?”
“Oh, it’s lovely. Did Stannie make it?”
“I think it came from Tesco, to be frank, but it smells quite nice.” Douglas sighed. “Martin, listen. About the other night –“
“I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“But I do. Look, I spoke to Carolyn, and to your housemate. I know you covered for me.”
Martin shrugged.
“Why?”
Martin set his empty soup bowl on the tray. “Do we have to discuss this now, Douglas?”
“I’m curious, that’s all. For all that I appear to be blissfully unaware of favours done for me, Martin, I am in fact quite conscious that you were under no obligation to conceal my activities. In further point of fact, you’d have been perfectly within your rights to have me sacked.”
“I….”
“Particularly after what you endured.”
Martin stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about what they did to you, Martin, after you tried to escape. God – I really wish you hadn’t.”
Martin wrapped his arms around himself. “Yes, I know.”
“Not that it wasn’t brave, mind you, but what were you thinking?”
“I thought I could phone you, and then phone the police.” Martin took another shivering breath. “Douglas, I really don’t –“
Douglas moved back toward the bed. “Martin, listen to me. I’m sorry. I’d never have had that happen to you. I know you must be furious with me, which is why I’m positively astounded that you took it upon yourself to protect me, but I want you to know that I’m sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.” He knelt beside the bed and rested his hand upon Martin’s, briefly squeezing his fingers, trying not to see the ugly rope burns on Martin’s wrist. “If there’s anything I can do to make amends – anything at all – just say the word.” He took a deep breath and waited.
Martin looked down at Douglas’ hand. His mouth trembled, and he blinked hard. “I’m not angry at you, Douglas. I know it wasn’t your – I mean, I know you didn’t mean for it to happen.” Timidly, he brought his other hand round and patted Douglas’.
“Can I do anything for you?”
“No,” Martin said quietly. “No, but thank you. I know you arranged to have my van fixed and brought back. I appreciate that.”
“Think nothing of it.” Douglas stifled the impulse to touch Martin’s cheek. God, isn’t he lovely. He drew back and got to his feet. “It’s getting dark. I’ll let you sleep.”
Martin smiled up at him, wincing slightly. “Damn lip. Thank you. Would you take the tray down?”
“Of course.” Douglas picked up the empty tray and inadvertently pushed the jeans onto the floor. Paper fluttered from the pockets. “Oh dear. Sorry, let me get that.”
“No, I’ll – “ Martin leaned forward, then hissed with pain and grabbed his ribs. “God.”
“Not to worry.” Douglas set the tray down and picked up four or five different coloured leaflets. “Oh, dreary hospital instructions.”
“Douglas –“
“Isn’t it the height of fun? Oh – wound care. Gosh, that’s some lovely light reading. Proper nutrition – surprising rice and cheese tray dregs not included.” Douglas chuckled.
Martin leaned against the wall, looking utterly miserable. “Douglas, please,” he whispered.
“Trauma, well, yes, r –“ Douglas stopped and stared at the last leaflet. The words printed on the paper glared up at him. He took a breath, but it seemed devoid of oxygen. He turned toward Martin, whose face was white with two hectic spots of color on his cheeks. He tried to say Martin’s name and failed.
“They’re just a bunch of – I mean, I think it’s standard issue for people who, um…I….” Martin looked around the room as if his meager possessions would somehow protect him. “It’s not what you think.”
A vast and deep chill permeated Douglas’ bones. “Then why do you have this?”
“They just gave it to me, for God’s sake. It’s not – “ Martin twisted his arms together in front and pulled them close as if trying to hide as much of himself as possible. “The doctor just pulled a handful of leaflets from a drawer and gave them to me. It’s nothing, really.”
“Martin –“
“It’s nothing.” Martin’s breathing was becoming ragged. “Honestly, Douglas.” He looked down and grasped the blankets with restless hands.
Douglas saw a tear slide down Martin’s nose. He saw, beneath the pale skin, the blue shadows beneath his eyes that underscored a tremendous loss of sleep. He remembered Martin’s fear as he stood between the two goons, the fear as Douglas opened his attic-room door. He saw the trembling, thin fingers, the cruel marks on his wrists, the shaking lips, and knew. “Oh, dear God,” he whispered. “Christ almighty.”
“Douglas, I’m really…very tired.” Martin’s voice was a low rasp. “I think I need to sleep.”
“Martin.” Douglas stood rooted to the spot. “Martin….”
“Please, Douglas,” Martin begged, “please go. I can’t…I can’t….” He covered his face with his hands. He didn’t move; no sound emerged from behind his fingers.
A huge, throbbing thud hammered in Douglas’ ears. Mechanically, he set the leaflets down and picked up the tray again. “Martin.” Is that all you can say, you stupid, STUPID arsehole?
Martin turned toward the wall and lay down, curled beneath the blankets.
Go to him. Say something. Anything, for Christ’s sake.
Douglas tried to speak and couldn’t. His throat was like sandpaper, his tongue like iron. Guilt and shame strangled him into silence and immobility. It was an age before he could back out of the room and quietly click off the light. He trudged downstairs and took the tray into the kitchen.
Stannie was still at the table, reading. She looked up. “How’s he doing? A bit better with the painkillers, I hope?”
Douglas set the tray on the table. “Yes,” he rasped. “Yes, I think so.”
“He ate everything – good on him.”
“Yes, it was very good of you. I must go.” Douglas turned and moved toward the door like a somnambulist.
“Nice to meet you!” Stannie called, but Douglas didn’t respond. He fumbled with the door until it opened, went down the walk, and thumbed off the car alarm. He sat in the Lexus until the trembling in his hands subsided and his vision cleared, not caring that he was attracting odd looks from the students in the house.
He started the car and put it into gear, driving off slowly. He opened the windows for air and tried to concentrate on the road.
Rape and sexual assault.
He passed a shaking hand over his mouth and distantly wondered if he was going to be sick. He felt weak, as if all his cells were shrivelling. Had he been clearer, thinking sharply as was his wont, he would have been frightened, but his despair and desolation were so profound he was nearly insensate.
Martin.
What they’d done to him. Those bastards.
He had murder in his heart.
Find Eddy Groves. Tear his throat out with your bare hands.
Some kernel of pragmatism implanted itself amongst the rage and hatred. Stupid, stupid. There are four of them and one of you. They’ll kill you. Get hold of yourself.
He couldn’t, though. He couldn’t just get hold of himself, couldn’t be cool, competent Douglas Richardson, quick with a riposte and a solution for every problem. Not now.
Your fault.
He felt sick again.
A light shone alongside the road. Convenience store. He pulled in, feeling a siren call he dared not name. He moved toward the counter, gestured with a hand whose shaking he managed to control. Just.
Douglas left the store clasping the bottle of Talisker close, cradled like the most precious of treasures.
*
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 6
You can also find this fic on AO3
*
Visions of a hundred long past but fondly, if only vaguely, remembered drunken revelries danced in Douglas’ head as he pulled up to Martin’s digs in Parkside Terrace. He sat in the car a moment, looking up at the house as a means of procrastination. He’d dropped Martin off a time or two when his van wasn’t working, but he’d never been inside, nor really given the place more than a glance. It had probably been quite pretty at one time, red brick with white wood trimming and a neat pocket-handkerchief-sized patch of grass on either side of the brick walk. But now the brick was faded and crumbling, the paint blistered and peeling, the charming mullioned windows were now mostly plate glass, and the patches of grass were sadly bald in spots. Still, that was student housing; as long as the shower worked and there was electricity for the teakettle and toaster, the students rarely gave a toss whether the outside looked smart.
Douglas inspected the façade of the house a bit longer and then heaved a sigh. He might as well go in; if he sat out in his car staring upward much more the students would take him for a stalker of some kind. He hadn’t the first idea of what to say to Martin; he wasn’t a planner of conversations, as such, and he’d already apologised, but…perhaps he could just say that he’d spoken to Carolyn and popped round to see how Martin was feeling. Despite Martin’s perpetual misfortune, he really wasn’t a complainer; usually it was Douglas who dragged the truth out of him. If Martin fell into a well, he’d have phoned Douglas: Douglas, can I ask a favour? Could you bring a rope to this address? No, I don’t want to tell you why at the moment, could you just do it, please? Oh, for goodness’ sake, I fell down a well trying to move some farming equipment, all right? I think I’ve broken my leg, I need someone to pull me out, and Arthur’s not answering his phone. No, of course I realise that Icarus flew UP before he – oh, for the love of God, will you just come and pull me out, Douglas? There, I hope you’re quite satisfied….
A soft chuckle hitched its way out of Douglas’ throat before he realised he was perilously close to tears. Scowling, he relinquished his hold on the wheel, forced the car door open, and got out. What in God’s name was he doing here? If Martin had wanted to see him, he’d have phoned Douglas. Douglas had tried to get him to the hospital, he’d apologised – what more could Martin want from him that he hadn’t already done?
Hang on. Martin didn’t ask you to come. You’re here under your own steam.
Well, it was guilt; Douglas was willing to concede that. Try as he might, he hadn’t quite been able to banish the way Martin had looked the other night, bruised and cowed, standing between the pair of crooks like a lamb who knew he was headed for a future as someone’s lunch with a side of mint sauce. And Douglas felt responsible for him; resentful, to be sure, but responsible all the same. But still, if Martin hadn’t decided to stick his nose into Douglas’ affairs –
He’s your friend, you stupid, self-righteous prat. That’s why you’re here – because he’s your friend and you actually do care about him a great deal, whatever you might say or even do, and despite everything you’ve ever been taught, when a friend’s in distress you don’t tell him to pack up his troubles in his old kit bag and smile.
“Oh, shut up,” Douglas muttered. He slammed the car door and headed up the walk. The bell didn’t seem to work, so he knocked, and was rewarded a moment later by the sight of a simply gorgeous vision of a girl, all lush curves, toffee-coloured skin, and a cascade of jet curls. “Hello there. I’m Douglas Richardson. I’m a friend of Martin Crieff. I’d like to speak with him.”
“Ahh, you’re Douglas. Come on in, I was just about to take him a cup of tea and a nibble.” The girl stood aside so Douglas could enter, and she shut the door and beckoned him into a dilapidated kitchen. “So you’re his first officer, then? I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I’m flattered,” Douglas said, wryly noting that even Martin’s lovely housemate knew he was unquestionably the captain.
“Sit down,” she said, gesturing to a chair. “I’m Stannie. You’re quite lucky, actually – Martin just got back about an hour ago. Went to hospital.”
Warm relief flooded Douglas’ heart. “Did he? I’m glad to hear it.”
“High time, too. God, the sight of him, poor thing!” She looked over her shoulder at Douglas. “You look all right. You weren’t there when the place got robbed, then?”
Douglas wondered what sort of cock-and-bull story Martin had served up to her. “Ah – no. I’d left a while earlier. Frightfully lucky for me – not so much for Martin.”
Stannie clattered dishes in the sink. “What did they take?”
“What?” Douglas started.
“Martin said your airline got robbed. What did they take?”
“Oh – some petty cash, a few trinkets here and there.” A nasty pang of icy guilt stabbed into Douglas’ chest and lodged there, obliterating the relief he’d felt a moment ago. He hadn’t fully appreciated the extent to which Martin was willing to lie for him. “Not much value, when you come right down to it.”
“God, poor Martin,” Stannie sighed, and set a mug of tea on a tray along with a little jug of milk, a bit of sugar in a twist of a paper napkin, and a bowl of what looked like mulligatawny soup and a slice of buttered bread on a plate. “I can’t remember if he likes sugar or not, so I didn’t put any in,” she said apologetically. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind taking it up to him, if you’re going to have a chat? He looked all done in when he arrived – could barely drag himself up the stairs.”
“It’s awfully kind of you to feed him up.” Douglas gave her a speculative look.
“I just feel bad for him, that’s all. You’re the first person who’s ever come to see him – as far as I’ve noticed, anyway. He could do with a friend. He’ll be glad you came.” She smiled at him. “It’s ready to go if you don’t mind hauling it.”
“Of course not, I’d be delighted.” Douglas stood and took the tray, reasonably certain he could lug it up a few flights of stairs. “It was lovely to meet you, Stannie.”
“It was nice to meet you too, Douglas. Martin thinks the world of you.” She sat at the table, gave him another brilliant grin, and buried her nose in a gigantic textbook.
Now what did that mean? Douglas wondered as he carried the tray up four increasingly narrow and rickety flights of stairs. He had a difficult time imagining Martin being effusive about him, or anyone or anything other than flying. Perhaps she was just being friendly, encouraging him because he was the first visitor of Martin’s she’d ever seen. A bit sad, that.
Douglas got the tray up the stairs without spilling a single drop of soup or tea or upsetting the bread. If Arthur ever decided to leave the glamorous world of airdot stewards, Douglas could always take it up as a sideline. He shifted the tray to one arm, panting a little (all those bloody stairs! No wonder Martin was as thin as a pin), and knocked softly.
There was no answer. Douglas waited a bit, then knocked again.
Nothing.
Perhaps Martin was asleep. Douglas thought about turning round and going back downstairs, then decided against it. He grasped the doorknob and tried it. It turned reluctantly in his hand. He pushed the door open as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb Martin’s slumber; he’d just leave the tray and head out.
The room was dark, and it took Douglas a moment to see that Martin was sat up in bed, huddled in the blankets of his single bed tucked under the eaves, cowering against the wall and staring at him as if he were Satan incarnate. “Martin?”
A deep, shivering intake of breath came from the figure on the bed. “Douglas?”
“Yes. Are you all right?”
“Er…yes. Yes, I’m fine. I just – I didn’t know who you were at first, that’s all.”
“I’ve brought you some tea. Have you got a light in here?”
There was another shuddering breath. “Right beside the door.”
Douglas found the light switch and turned it on. A single bare bulb abruptly glared an unfriendly and unflattering yellow from a chain in the middle of the long, narrow attic room. Douglas took a quick look round and got a fleeting impression of secondhand-shop furniture, stacks of books, and a myriad of aviation posters covering astonishingly hideous flowered wallpaper that some Swinging Sixties individual had made a hash of gluing up in an effort to make the attic mod and gear and groovy. The squalor of it made Douglas turn away. He focused his attention on Martin and proffered the tray. “Your very attractive housemate Stannie prepared tea and soup for you, and I just happened to stop by. Hungry?”
“Yes,” Martin replied quietly. “I am, a bit.”
Douglas looked for a table and found none. He settled for dragging a spindly chair next to the bed and set the tray on it after pushing aside a discarded pair of jeans. “Here we are. A repast fit for a king.” He thought of the langoustines he hadn’t eaten in Paris, and his stomach clenched unpleasantly.
“That looks lovely.” Martin slid over on the bed. “Here, sit down. I think it’ll support both of us.” He gave Douglas a weary smile.
Douglas was about to refuse, then decided to stay, just for a moment. Just to make sure Martin was all right. “Thank you. I hear you went to the hospital.”
“Yes.” Martin took a careful spoonful of soup.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Douglas picked up the napkin with its sugar twisted inside. He could have told Stannie that Martin liked two sugars and generous lashings of milk. He poured the sugar in the tea and stirred briskly, then added the milk. “And what’s the prognosis?”
“Two cracked ribs, some bruising obviously, but nothing permanent. I got some painkillers and some antibiotics.”
“I see.”
A heavy silence fell between them. Martin sipped at his tea. “It was good of you to come and see me. I thought you were flying Eric Broughton to Perthshire.”
“Yes, that was in the plan. Unfortunately, Mr. Broughton came down with a bit of tummy distress, and so the bucks and bunnies of Scotland are providentially safe. Until next week, most likely.”
“Perhaps we can warn them.”
“I rather think Mr. Broughton’s shooting skills will take care of that in any event.”
Martin smiled into his tea, and Douglas had the oddest impulse to lean close and kiss him. In fact, he experienced a distinct and wholly shocking response from John Thomas, who seemed to agree.
Good God. Where did that come from?
Thoroughly disconcerted, Douglas got to his feet and moved close to one of Martin’s posters, affecting to study it while Martin continued to eat. Where on earth had that come from? Granted, it wasn’t the first time Douglas had exhibited a preference for the male persuasion (nor the second, nor the twentieth or fiftieth, to be perfectly candid – Douglas considered himself agreeable to most pleasures, provided the timing was right) – but Martin? Martin was hardly his type. Douglas’ experience and inclinations leaned toward fellow sky gods, attractive and confident with not a little touch of laissez-faire, rather like Douglas himself. Well, he never said he wasn’t narcissistic, really.
But Martin?
Douglas turned and surreptitiously examined Martin. Funny how a person grew on one. Martin was small-boned, slight really, and no-one would accuse him of being magazine-model material with that shock of ginger hair and long, bony face…but it was a nice face, upon further consideration, the sort one didn’t grow tired of. His tip-tilted blue eyes always brimmed with emotion of one kind or another, and his mouth, when it wasn’t swollen and split, was rather pleasant to look at with its deep bow and full lower lip. Quite handsome, actually.
Get ahold of yourself, Douglas Richardson, immediately.
“How’s the soup?”
“Oh, it’s lovely. Did Stannie make it?”
“I think it came from Tesco, to be frank, but it smells quite nice.” Douglas sighed. “Martin, listen. About the other night –“
“I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“But I do. Look, I spoke to Carolyn, and to your housemate. I know you covered for me.”
Martin shrugged.
“Why?”
Martin set his empty soup bowl on the tray. “Do we have to discuss this now, Douglas?”
“I’m curious, that’s all. For all that I appear to be blissfully unaware of favours done for me, Martin, I am in fact quite conscious that you were under no obligation to conceal my activities. In further point of fact, you’d have been perfectly within your rights to have me sacked.”
“I….”
“Particularly after what you endured.”
Martin stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about what they did to you, Martin, after you tried to escape. God – I really wish you hadn’t.”
Martin wrapped his arms around himself. “Yes, I know.”
“Not that it wasn’t brave, mind you, but what were you thinking?”
“I thought I could phone you, and then phone the police.” Martin took another shivering breath. “Douglas, I really don’t –“
Douglas moved back toward the bed. “Martin, listen to me. I’m sorry. I’d never have had that happen to you. I know you must be furious with me, which is why I’m positively astounded that you took it upon yourself to protect me, but I want you to know that I’m sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.” He knelt beside the bed and rested his hand upon Martin’s, briefly squeezing his fingers, trying not to see the ugly rope burns on Martin’s wrist. “If there’s anything I can do to make amends – anything at all – just say the word.” He took a deep breath and waited.
Martin looked down at Douglas’ hand. His mouth trembled, and he blinked hard. “I’m not angry at you, Douglas. I know it wasn’t your – I mean, I know you didn’t mean for it to happen.” Timidly, he brought his other hand round and patted Douglas’.
“Can I do anything for you?”
“No,” Martin said quietly. “No, but thank you. I know you arranged to have my van fixed and brought back. I appreciate that.”
“Think nothing of it.” Douglas stifled the impulse to touch Martin’s cheek. God, isn’t he lovely. He drew back and got to his feet. “It’s getting dark. I’ll let you sleep.”
Martin smiled up at him, wincing slightly. “Damn lip. Thank you. Would you take the tray down?”
“Of course.” Douglas picked up the empty tray and inadvertently pushed the jeans onto the floor. Paper fluttered from the pockets. “Oh dear. Sorry, let me get that.”
“No, I’ll – “ Martin leaned forward, then hissed with pain and grabbed his ribs. “God.”
“Not to worry.” Douglas set the tray down and picked up four or five different coloured leaflets. “Oh, dreary hospital instructions.”
“Douglas –“
“Isn’t it the height of fun? Oh – wound care. Gosh, that’s some lovely light reading. Proper nutrition – surprising rice and cheese tray dregs not included.” Douglas chuckled.
Martin leaned against the wall, looking utterly miserable. “Douglas, please,” he whispered.
“Trauma, well, yes, r –“ Douglas stopped and stared at the last leaflet. The words printed on the paper glared up at him. He took a breath, but it seemed devoid of oxygen. He turned toward Martin, whose face was white with two hectic spots of color on his cheeks. He tried to say Martin’s name and failed.
“They’re just a bunch of – I mean, I think it’s standard issue for people who, um…I….” Martin looked around the room as if his meager possessions would somehow protect him. “It’s not what you think.”
A vast and deep chill permeated Douglas’ bones. “Then why do you have this?”
“They just gave it to me, for God’s sake. It’s not – “ Martin twisted his arms together in front and pulled them close as if trying to hide as much of himself as possible. “The doctor just pulled a handful of leaflets from a drawer and gave them to me. It’s nothing, really.”
“Martin –“
“It’s nothing.” Martin’s breathing was becoming ragged. “Honestly, Douglas.” He looked down and grasped the blankets with restless hands.
Douglas saw a tear slide down Martin’s nose. He saw, beneath the pale skin, the blue shadows beneath his eyes that underscored a tremendous loss of sleep. He remembered Martin’s fear as he stood between the two goons, the fear as Douglas opened his attic-room door. He saw the trembling, thin fingers, the cruel marks on his wrists, the shaking lips, and knew. “Oh, dear God,” he whispered. “Christ almighty.”
“Douglas, I’m really…very tired.” Martin’s voice was a low rasp. “I think I need to sleep.”
“Martin.” Douglas stood rooted to the spot. “Martin….”
“Please, Douglas,” Martin begged, “please go. I can’t…I can’t….” He covered his face with his hands. He didn’t move; no sound emerged from behind his fingers.
A huge, throbbing thud hammered in Douglas’ ears. Mechanically, he set the leaflets down and picked up the tray again. “Martin.” Is that all you can say, you stupid, STUPID arsehole?
Martin turned toward the wall and lay down, curled beneath the blankets.
Go to him. Say something. Anything, for Christ’s sake.
Douglas tried to speak and couldn’t. His throat was like sandpaper, his tongue like iron. Guilt and shame strangled him into silence and immobility. It was an age before he could back out of the room and quietly click off the light. He trudged downstairs and took the tray into the kitchen.
Stannie was still at the table, reading. She looked up. “How’s he doing? A bit better with the painkillers, I hope?”
Douglas set the tray on the table. “Yes,” he rasped. “Yes, I think so.”
“He ate everything – good on him.”
“Yes, it was very good of you. I must go.” Douglas turned and moved toward the door like a somnambulist.
“Nice to meet you!” Stannie called, but Douglas didn’t respond. He fumbled with the door until it opened, went down the walk, and thumbed off the car alarm. He sat in the Lexus until the trembling in his hands subsided and his vision cleared, not caring that he was attracting odd looks from the students in the house.
He started the car and put it into gear, driving off slowly. He opened the windows for air and tried to concentrate on the road.
Rape and sexual assault.
He passed a shaking hand over his mouth and distantly wondered if he was going to be sick. He felt weak, as if all his cells were shrivelling. Had he been clearer, thinking sharply as was his wont, he would have been frightened, but his despair and desolation were so profound he was nearly insensate.
Martin.
What they’d done to him. Those bastards.
He had murder in his heart.
Find Eddy Groves. Tear his throat out with your bare hands.
Some kernel of pragmatism implanted itself amongst the rage and hatred. Stupid, stupid. There are four of them and one of you. They’ll kill you. Get hold of yourself.
He couldn’t, though. He couldn’t just get hold of himself, couldn’t be cool, competent Douglas Richardson, quick with a riposte and a solution for every problem. Not now.
Your fault.
He felt sick again.
A light shone alongside the road. Convenience store. He pulled in, feeling a siren call he dared not name. He moved toward the counter, gestured with a hand whose shaking he managed to control. Just.
Douglas left the store clasping the bottle of Talisker close, cradled like the most precious of treasures.
*
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Date: 2012-03-30 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
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