FIC: Gone Horribly Wrong [8/?]
Apr. 3rd, 2012 01:22 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 7
You can also find this fic on AO3
*
Despite the painkillers, despite the exhaustion that seemed to permeate every last fiber of his body, Martin lay wakeful in the dark for a long time, staring at the wall in silent, dry-eyed, tight-throated misery and bitter disappointment.
He didn’t blame Douglas for his speechlessness. Martin couldn’t imagine himself saying anything helpful had Douglas revealed something similar (not that Martin had done a very good job of denying anything). What did one say to something like that? Martin hadn’t the least desire to rehash a single moment of his ordeal; his memory was doing quite well on its own, too bloody well, bringing unbidden images of what had happened, what they’d done to him, what they’d made him do.
Stupid, stupid. Why couldn’t you have stayed where you were? Why do you always, always have to do the precisely wrong thing at the wrong moment? It was why he’d wound up sleeping in the plane, why he’d charged into a dangerous situation and blithely ignored Douglas’ warnings, why he’d insisted on trying to escape when the prudent thing would have been to stay still, why they’d taken their rage out on him. It was why he was alone now.
He hadn’t wanted Douglas to leave, but one look at Douglas’ white, strained face, the obvious shock and…was it disgust? Martin thought perhaps it was – and the shame flared up, constricting his lungs and stomach, and he couldn’t bear to have Douglas look at him like that. Only a moment before Douglas had been so comforting and – and warm, and when he’d laid his hand atop Martin’s, Martin had wanted to melt, it had felt so good, so strong and safe. But then – he should have torn up the bloody leaflet, or left it on the bed as a pointed no-thank-you to nosy sodding Dr. Corbett, but no, another situation to which he applied his vast and singular talent for destroying everything he touched – his stammered denials proved ever so much more effective than a simple Yes, Douglas, they sexually assaulted me would have done. And so Douglas had left…but hadn’t he wanted to stay? Wasn’t he on the verge of saying something when Martin had begged him to leave?
It didn’t matter now. None of it did.
Martin lay still, his mind and body joined together in numb, heavy listlessness. He couldn’t go on like this forever. At some point he’d have to get up, go back to work, pretend everything was perfectly all right, and conduct himself as if nothing had happened. He didn’t want sympathy; he didn’t want to be a victim. He didn’t want to live the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, powerless and afraid.
He turned over in bed, groaning at the dull throb in his ribs. He was lucky he hadn’t got kicked harder, he supposed; he couldn’t imagine the pain of having them snapped or shattered. He curled up and stared round his room, illuminated by the street light glowing faintly through his little window innocent of curtains. A fresh pang of shame pierced his middle as he looked about. How tawdry it was with its charity-shop furnishings and posters and stacks of books – the room of a poverty-stricken, sad, and pathetically lonely man. Small wonder Douglas had bolted.
Martin squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands to them. His black eye still ached a little; he pulled his hand away and stared at the room again. Ordinarily Douglas would have made a crack about the place. Terribly charming, Martin. Where do the vermin sleep? Really, Martin, you shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. Now I’ll have to be certain to tip the servants a bit extra. A chair AND a bed? Such enormous choice, I’m dazzled. Goodness, it’s the very pinnacle of luxury. Honestly, Versailles has nothing on Chez Martin. The fact that he hadn’t spoke volumes. He’d wanted to get away as fast as possible.
His gaze settled on the leaflets Douglas had set gingerly upon the chair.
The rape leaflet lay on top, an innocent pale green sheet of folded and printed paper, but Martin eyed it as if it were a coiled and hissing snake. He didn’t want to read it. It would stir up things best consigned to forgetfulness; it would arouse the horror that slithered and rustled among the shattered ruins inside him. He rubbed at the wetness blurring his good eye.
Oh, God, I’m so tired of crying.
Slowly, he drew the bedclothes aside, got up, and turned on the light. He moved back to his bed and stared at the leaflet. With the utmost reluctance, as if he were swimming in treacle, he leant forward, holding his injured ribs, and picked it up. He gazed at the front cover for a bit, then opened it.
Half an hour later, he closed it and rested his head against the wall. He was still crying, his tears falling in a silent, steady trickle. His nose was awfully clogged. He got up, found a handkerchief in a drawer (cheaper than facial tissue, if a bit old-fashioned], wiped his eyes, and blew his nose vigorously. Stuffing the handkerchief in the pocket of his dressing gown, he turned and saw the glow of his mobile. He’d plugged it in the night Douglas had brought him home and hadn’t touched it since.
Disconnecting the cord (the attic had only one power outlet, and every time Martin used it, he prayed he wouldn’t be electrocuted), he cradled the phone in the palm of his hand. He crawled back into bed and picked up the leaflet, turning it round to the back cover. He punched in a number and waited.
“Hello?” His voice sounded raspy, unlike him. “Hello. Hi. I’m…I…please, I think I…I need to talk to someone.”
*
Martin rang off and leaned his head against the wall. He felt…better. Not great, of course, but not as desperate and hopeless as he’d felt before. He hadn’t told the nice man on the other end of the wire everything, of course; not the details (he couldn’t, he just couldn’t) but the man had seemed to understand and had spoken soothingly and kindly, and in return Martin had been truthful.
Mostly. The only lie he’d told – well, it had been a lie of omission. The man had told Martin that he should feel free to call back at any time, that sometimes coping was not only hard for the victim, but for the victim’s support network of friends and family as well, and that they weren’t always equipped to deal with more volatile or upsetting facts or feelings. Martin had murmured agreement, but as he rang off, he’d reflected sadly that he really didn’t have a support network. Mum was too old to burden with a thing like this, and Simon and Caitlin probably spared him a thought every two or three months, if that. It wasn’t unkindness, it was just – well, they were all busy with their lives, that was all. He didn’t really have anyone else. He’d have to cope alone.
Sighing, Martin went to close the phone and saw the message icon. He frowned and keyed in his password: Golf Echo Romeo Tango India.
“You have two new messages. To hear your messages, please press 1.”
“Martin.” Douglas’ voice, sounding apprehensive, came through the speaker. There was a cough. “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.”
Martin checked the date. Douglas had called from Paris, whilst Martin was in the hands of the smugglers. Feeling very strange, he checked the second message.
“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.”
That one had been some hours later.
Drawing his knees up and closing the phone, Martin held it close to his belly, as if it were a hot-water bottle. It was odd, really; he’d yearned so for Douglas to get him out of that terrible situation, never mind that he’d got Martin into it, and Douglas, far from being the laconic sky god, had worried about him. Had actually called and hoped Martin would answer, even if he likely suspected that wouldn’t happen. Amazingly, astoundingly, had cared.
He flipped the phone open and listened to both messages again.
Martin checked the time: eleven o’clock. The day had seemed to last forever, and he was tired, but some peculiar compulsion forced him up, and a disordered uproar filled his head, vaguely directing his actions. He shed his dressing gown and slipped into his jeans, then worked his bare feet into his trainers. As he passed his dresser, with its little mirror propped against the wall, he caught a glimpse of himself: hair awry, face pale as milk and still terribly bruised, scrawny and generally unkempt and looking like a sad berk.
Is this another one of your brilliant ideas doomed to end in great unhappiness for all concerned, Martin Crieff?
He winced and turned away. Impulsivity and indecision – Douglas had been right about him. But at the moment, it didn’t matter.
He hoped, anyway.
*
Douglas’ car was parked in the drive, but at an odd angle, as if he’d pulled in hastily and without much care. Martin parked on the street and moved quietly up the walk, now and then glancing over his shoulder (did Eddy Groves know where Douglas lived? Was he, perhaps, keeping a weather eye on the house to make certain the police didn’t pay him a visit? God, he hoped not) and wishing that Douglas had turned some lights on; the streetlamps were hazed into near invisibility by a thick fog, and there wasn’t a single light on inside Douglas’ house.
As he reached for the bell, Martin’s throat constricted. The door was ajar.
Wildly, he looked around. Oh, God! What if they’d –
Martin backed up and nearly tripped over his own feet stumbling down the steps. He fled to the van and got inside, shaking and panting. Oh God, oh God, what if they’d come back and grabbed Douglas? Or what if they’d – the house seemed deserted, but what if Douglas was inside, bleeding or –
No, no, NO.
Martin gripped the wheel with trembling hands. Get hold of yourself. He might have just forgot that he hadn’t closed the door. Or maybe he left it open deliberately – fresh spring air.
Rubbish. He’d have opened a window, not the sodding door.
All right. Get a grip and make sure he’s okay.
What if they’d followed Douglas and saw that he’d gone to Martin’s place? Would they reckon the pair of them were conspiring to alert the police? Had they perhaps made certain that Douglas wouldn’t talk?
“Oh, God.” Martin wanted to throw up. He rested his forehead on the wheel and tried to get his breathing under control. Panic attack, some rational corner of his mind supplied. The leaflet said that might happen. And besides, Douglas’ car is the only other vehicle here except yours. But the door, the bloody door…and what if Eddy Groves and his goons had parked a street away so as not to attract attention?
I can’t leave him alone in there if he’s hurt. With a small, choked whimper, Martin detached his hands from the wheel and forced himself to slide one hand behind the seat. He found the driver that one of his clients had asked him to throw away as it was a bit warped. He hadn’t, deciding it might come in handy if he ever took up golf – so many captains seemed to play in their spare time. He never had, but now he realised it might be awfully handy at bashing in a criminal’s head if he didn’t trip over it first.
He exited the van and closed the door with a soft snick. Tiptoeing up the walk, he held the driver in tightly clenched hands and ascended the steps soundlessly. He held his breath and pushed the door open, ready for someone to spring from behind it like those horror movie axe-murderers who never seemed to die no matter how many times the buxom heroines shot and stabbed and drowned them.
The house was as dark as a tomb, and as silent. Martin looked into the front room – empty. And tidy, if a bit featureless from the foggy light coming in the window. A formal sofa, two-seater, and wing chair, some large floral prints on the wall, a low oval table and a few occasional tables. Martin blinked, taking it in. Helena’s taste, he thought fleetingly, or one of the other ex-Mrs. Richardsons. It didn’t seem like Douglas’ taste somehow.
Focus, Martin commanded himself, and moved down the short corridor to the kitchen. There was a recessed light on over the sink. In dismay, Martin saw an empty Talisker bottle tipped over onto its side. Groves? But that was odd, and far too coincidental. Talisker had been Douglas’ poison of choice before he’d stopped drinking. Surely he hadn’t taken it up again?
Because of you, maybe?
Oh God, he hoped not. He glanced round the kitchen – it too was neat and tidy, pots and pans dangling from a professional wire rack overhead, jars and bottles of oils and spices arranged with almost military precision on little shelves. A little herb garden sat in two boxes beside the window, and there was an orderly row of cookbooks on another shelf. It was a pleasant room, open and sunny in daylight, probably, and the only worrying element was the empty bottle of Scotch. Martin moved a little closer, inhaling the sharp aroma (quite fresh, as if it had only been opened and drunk a little while ago), and saw one white athletic sock draped over the faucet. He frowned.
Stop wasting time. You’ve got to search the whole house. He must be here somewhere.
Timidly, Martin gripped the driver. There were a few more rooms on the ground floor – a study, a tiny powder room, and a little conservatory. He’d only been here once before, when Douglas had thrown a barbecue for all the staff of MJN, but Martin had come through the garden gate and had only breezed through on the way out, to use the loo.
He checked the conservatory, now mostly empty – though whether that was due to Helena absconding with the plants after the divorce or Douglas’ indifference, Martin had no idea. He looked inside the loo – nothing. He thanked heaven for the noise-absorbing carpet and slowly pushed open the door to the study.
It was almost completely dark. Martin squinted, frustrated, and caught his breath as he heard a noise: a strange, soft noise, stealthy and not repeated. Fear clenched his throat down to a pinhole of an airway, but he couldn’t turn back now. He groped toward the wall with a quaking hand where he hoped to God the light switch was located, and turned it on.
“AGHH!”
Martin let out a squeak of pure terror and stumbled backward, tripping over something. He fell against the wall, banged his elbow hard on the edge of a spinet piano, and fell to the floor.
Douglas was on his feet, brandishing a lamp. “Martin!” he roared. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Checking on you,” Martin gasped.
“Checking on me? Good God, do you realise I could have killed you? Are you completely insane?” Douglas put one hand on his chest. “Jesus, you almost gave me apoplexy. What on earth are you doing here? Come on, get up.” He held his hand out and pulled Martin to his feet.
“Your door was ajar,” Martin explained, and let Douglas lead him to the sofa where he’d been sleeping peacefully. He dropped into it and attempted to cool down long enough for his heart to resume its normal rhythm.
“God, was it? Did you close it?”
“Er…no, I don’t think so.”
Douglas shook his head. “Hang on, don’t move.” He left the room and returned a moment later to lean against the doorway and stare disapprovingly at Martin. He had changed out of his uniform into a grey jumper and a pair of wash-faded jeans. “What were you thinking, Martin?”
It was the second time in a night Douglas had said that to him. “I was thinking that you’d got yourself into trouble. That maybe Eddy Groves and those…those bastards had come back and decided to hurt you.”
Douglas’ face changed. He came to sit beside Martin. “No. They didn’t. I’m okay.”
“I’m glad. I was worried,” said Martin, and suddenly, quite without warning, burst into tears, embarrassing, noisy, choking sobs that he’d contained in favor of strained and silent weeping for five long days and that, to his complete horror, he couldn’t contain now. He clamped his hands over his mouth, but they emerged just the same, muffled and ugly and raw.
“Martin,” Douglas said quietly, then put his arm round Martin’s shoulders.
That gesture, measured and tender, only made Martin cry harder. He felt so utterly stupid, weak, out of control, and the crying was hurting his ribs, but he couldn’t stop. He wailed against Douglas’ shoulder, and Douglas’ other arm enclosed him, and he found himself wrapping his arms round Douglas, clinging to him as if he were a life raft. Douglas was murmuring to him, smoothing his hair, and finally he rested his head against Martin’s and simply rocked him back and forth, allowing the storm to take hold and have its way and finally pass. After it had, Douglas still held Martin, his lips pressed to the top of Martin’s head.
Martin’s cheek scraped against Douglas’ jumper. It was soft lambs’ wool and smelled like the Lanvin cologne Douglas favored, a lovely, familiar smell. “Sorry,” he whispered hoarsely.
Douglas produced a handkerchief and handed it to Martin. “Mop your eyes.”
Obediently, still leaning against Douglas’ chest, Martin wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He offered the handkerchief back, noticing that it was linen and there was a white monogram in one corner. Martin used handkerchiefs out of necessity; Douglas used them as a luxury. There was some lesson in that, but Martin didn’t have the energy to think about it at the moment.
“Keep it,” Douglas said dryly.
Martin choked out a laugh. “Right – sorry.” He took a deep breath, sat up, and tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. “Douglas. Have you been drinking?”
“Why do you ask?” A strange, guarded note came into Douglas’ voice.
“Because there’s a still-fragrant and yet very empty Talisker bottle in your kitchen, that’s why.” Though, Martin realised, he’d been close enough to Douglas to kiss him and he hadn’t smelled whiskey on his breath.
Close enough to kiss him? Oh, shut up, you oik.
“That’s true. There is a still-fragrant and yet very empty Talisker bottle in my kitchen.”
“It’s been eight years, Douglas,” Martin pleaded. “For the love of God, please don’t tell me you took up drinking again because of…because of what happened to me. I couldn’t bear it.”
A rueful smile crossed Douglas’ face. “I had thought of it, yes. But actually, the original purpose was somewhat different.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, to be quite honest, I feel a bit foolish about it now, but I wasn’t quite thinking clearly,” Douglas said, leaning back against the sofa. “Actually, I feel very, very stupid, Martin.”
“Douglas, will you please stop being oblique and explain?”
A deep sigh worked its way from Douglas’ chest. Distractedly, he ran his fingers through his luxuriant hair. His jumper was slightly damp from Martin’s weeping. His face was a bit grey and very tired, and his expression was one of intense guilt.
And yet, if Martin had his choice of any company…. Something glowed in his chest, a warmth that supplanted the pain in his ribs. He would have waited years for whatever explanation was forthcoming, and would have been happy watching Douglas as he waited.
Douglas’ voice broke into Martin’s reverie. “After I’d stopped by your flat, I was feeling…awful. Horribly guilty, and angry. No, furious, really. I haven’t felt a rage like that since my first wife threatened to move to France with our daughter. And even then, it wasn’t the same.” Douglas put his hands over his face. “Martin, I will always be responsible for what happened to you. Always.” His voice was thick, muffled.
Martin shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault. I told you I’m not angry.”
“Why, for God’s sake?” When Douglas took his hands away, his eyes were wet. “Why aren’t you angry with me?”
Helplessly, Martin shook his head. “Because you didn’t intend for it to happen. It was my bloody fault, Douglas. Wrong place, wrong time – that’s the story of my –“
“Jesus, don’t fucking joke about it.” Douglas struck his thigh with a fist. “And even now – Christ, you think I don’t know you don’t want or need my bloody guilt after what they did?”
“They didn’t rape me. Not – not really.”
“What does that mean – not really?”
Hesitantly, Martin told him. “I mean – well, that doesn’t quite count, does it?”
Douglas sighed. “I think it counts.”
Martin bit his lip and winced in pain. “I – I know,” he said softly. “I know it does.” He dragged out the handkerchief again. “Oh, God, I’m so tired of this.”
“I’m sorry. Martin, I’m sorry.” Douglas’ arms enclosed him again.
“They h-h-hurt me, Douglas.”
“I know. I know they did.”
“I kept hoping…I don’t know. Hoping you’d come back and save me. Stupid, I know.”
“Oh, God, Martin, if I could have…if I’d known….”
Martin found the curve of Douglas’ neck and rested his forehead there. His body, his head, his heart ached so badly, but he felt as if he was ridding himself of something that had lodged inside him for the better part of a week. “No. They’d have hurt you too. I didn’t want…I was so afraid.”
Douglas’ lips were next to Martin’s ear. “You are the bravest man I know.”
“No, I’m not.” How can he think that? I’m a weepy, frightened mess. “No, you were right. I’m stupid and impulsive – if I hadn’t tried to get away they’d never have –“ He gulped down another noisy sob.
“You were brave. And resourceful. You survived, Martin.”
“Not due to anything I did.”
“You survived.” Douglas’ arms around him were strong and gentle.
Martin shuddered. “I don’t want to think about this for the rest of my life, Douglas. I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything right now. Nothing you don’t want to do.”
“Okay.” Another shuddering breath emerged from Martin’s chest. “Not right now.” He scrubbed at his aching eyes. “God, my ribs hurt.”
“Did you bring your painkillers?”
“No, I left them at home.” Martin blew his nose again and gave Douglas a watery smile. “I didn’t think I’d be coming here to cry all over your nice jumper. Sorry.”
“Oh, I think salt water is good for lambs’ wool. At least those sheep you see near the coastlines all seem exceptionally hardy. And fluffy.”
Martin gave a sniffly laugh. “You were going to tell me about the Talisker.”
“Oh, right. Well, as I said, I wasn’t thinking quite clearly. I saw the store coming over a rise and went in and bought the bloody thing, and when I came out to the car, I sat in it for a bit, thinking. My gym bag was in the back seat, and…well, one thing led to another, and before I quite realised it, I’d assembled a….” Douglas bit his lip.
Martin frowned. “A what?”
“A Molotov cocktail.”
Martin gaped, aghast. “Douglas!”
“I know, I know.”
“Douglas!”
“I know. I’m not saying it was the best idea I’ve had in years, but as I said, clarity wasn’t one of my more paramount virtues at the moment.”
Martin cradled his head in his hands. “Oh, dear God. You were actually going to firebomb Eddy Groves’…what, his house? The warehouse? And you asked me if I was insane?”
“Yes, I know. Well, I’d never been to the warehouse, but I had been to his residence, so I found my way back there. Except I’d forgot that he lives in one of those ghastly American-style gated communities that footballers and pop stars seem to favour at the moment, and to get in I’d have to check in with a guard. So that was that.”
“Would have been a terrible alibi.”
“Oh, quite. ‘Just dropping off a bottle of Talisker for my dear pal Mr. Groves. What’s the sock doing in the neck of the bottle? Oh, that’s what Talisker uses rather than cork these days, it’s very much the thing.’ Yes, I can’t quite see that going over so well with the police.”
“But you didn’t drink it,” Martin ventured quietly.
“Ah. No. I brought it home, and I looked at it for a while – I was a bit distraught, as you probably discerned from the open door – and believe me, temptation opened up her long white arms and beckoned. But in the end….” Douglas sighed. “In the end, I realised it was damned silly and selfish for me to get drunk when the person I most c –“ Douglas looked down. A bit of colour tinged his cheeks before he met Martin’s eyes. “At any rate, I poured it down the sink. I may not say it often…well, ever…but you do mean a great deal to me, Martin.”
“Do I?”
“Well, yes. You’re one of my dearest friends.”
“Oh.” Martin set aside the brief stab of disappointment. You can count yourself lucky if you have one true friend in your life, Martin Crieff. Don’t tempt fate by asking for more. “Thank you, Douglas. I…I listened to your phone messages tonight. That was…that was good of you.”
Douglas smiled. “Look, it’s awfully late. Do you want to spend the night here?”
“I am a bit tired,” Martin said. “Exhausted, actually. Would you mind terribly?”
“Not in the least. The guest room is ready –“
“No,” Martin said. “That is – I’ll just sleep here on the sofa. It seems quite comfortable.”
“The bed’s more comfortable.”
“No, this is nice.” Martin looked around at the room for the first time, seeing the stamp of Douglas’ personality in the piano, in the odd hangings on the wall, in the photographs and books that littered every surface. There was even a photo of Martin standing next to Arthur and Carolyn in…was it Montego Bay? Martin rather thought it was. Arthur was wearing an eyepatch and a pirate’s tricorn, and Carolyn looked annoyed. “I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind?”
“That’s fine.” Douglas found a few pillows and arranged them, then gave Martin a fluffy wool plaid blanket he’d bought in Galway. “Let me get you some paracetamol. Back in a flash.”
Martin took off his trainers and settled himself beneath the blanket. His ribs were singing Roses of Picardy and his head ached, but he felt better than he had in a week. Douglas’ house felt safe. He wasn’t completely okay, but he would be. Eventually.
Douglas thought he was brave.
“Here we are.” Douglas handed Martin some tablets and a glass of water.
Martin downed both and sighed. “Thank you. Douglas?”
“Yes?”
“Could I ask a favour?”
“Of course.”
“Will you stay with me a bit until I fall asleep? I know it’s a bit stupid, but…I can use the company.”
Douglas pulled a rocking chair next to the sofa and turned on a soft, shaded lamp. “Of course I will, Martin.” He sat down and plucked a book from the table – a biography of Franz Liszt.
Martin settled into the pillows. He felt himself drifting already. “Douglas?” he asked, aware his voice was going fuzzy.
“Yes, Martin?”
“Why Talisker? Why not some cheap rotgut stuff?”
“Well, it was Eddy’s cash,” Douglas said. “And you know me, Martin. I never do anything cheaply if I can do it in style instead.”
Even though it made his ribs ache more, Martin laughed. I love you, Douglas Richardson. God help me, but I do.
As he was falling asleep, he thought he felt a gentle touch on his cheek, but he might have been dreaming.
*
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 7
You can also find this fic on AO3
*
Despite the painkillers, despite the exhaustion that seemed to permeate every last fiber of his body, Martin lay wakeful in the dark for a long time, staring at the wall in silent, dry-eyed, tight-throated misery and bitter disappointment.
He didn’t blame Douglas for his speechlessness. Martin couldn’t imagine himself saying anything helpful had Douglas revealed something similar (not that Martin had done a very good job of denying anything). What did one say to something like that? Martin hadn’t the least desire to rehash a single moment of his ordeal; his memory was doing quite well on its own, too bloody well, bringing unbidden images of what had happened, what they’d done to him, what they’d made him do.
Stupid, stupid. Why couldn’t you have stayed where you were? Why do you always, always have to do the precisely wrong thing at the wrong moment? It was why he’d wound up sleeping in the plane, why he’d charged into a dangerous situation and blithely ignored Douglas’ warnings, why he’d insisted on trying to escape when the prudent thing would have been to stay still, why they’d taken their rage out on him. It was why he was alone now.
He hadn’t wanted Douglas to leave, but one look at Douglas’ white, strained face, the obvious shock and…was it disgust? Martin thought perhaps it was – and the shame flared up, constricting his lungs and stomach, and he couldn’t bear to have Douglas look at him like that. Only a moment before Douglas had been so comforting and – and warm, and when he’d laid his hand atop Martin’s, Martin had wanted to melt, it had felt so good, so strong and safe. But then – he should have torn up the bloody leaflet, or left it on the bed as a pointed no-thank-you to nosy sodding Dr. Corbett, but no, another situation to which he applied his vast and singular talent for destroying everything he touched – his stammered denials proved ever so much more effective than a simple Yes, Douglas, they sexually assaulted me would have done. And so Douglas had left…but hadn’t he wanted to stay? Wasn’t he on the verge of saying something when Martin had begged him to leave?
It didn’t matter now. None of it did.
Martin lay still, his mind and body joined together in numb, heavy listlessness. He couldn’t go on like this forever. At some point he’d have to get up, go back to work, pretend everything was perfectly all right, and conduct himself as if nothing had happened. He didn’t want sympathy; he didn’t want to be a victim. He didn’t want to live the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, powerless and afraid.
He turned over in bed, groaning at the dull throb in his ribs. He was lucky he hadn’t got kicked harder, he supposed; he couldn’t imagine the pain of having them snapped or shattered. He curled up and stared round his room, illuminated by the street light glowing faintly through his little window innocent of curtains. A fresh pang of shame pierced his middle as he looked about. How tawdry it was with its charity-shop furnishings and posters and stacks of books – the room of a poverty-stricken, sad, and pathetically lonely man. Small wonder Douglas had bolted.
Martin squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands to them. His black eye still ached a little; he pulled his hand away and stared at the room again. Ordinarily Douglas would have made a crack about the place. Terribly charming, Martin. Where do the vermin sleep? Really, Martin, you shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble. Now I’ll have to be certain to tip the servants a bit extra. A chair AND a bed? Such enormous choice, I’m dazzled. Goodness, it’s the very pinnacle of luxury. Honestly, Versailles has nothing on Chez Martin. The fact that he hadn’t spoke volumes. He’d wanted to get away as fast as possible.
His gaze settled on the leaflets Douglas had set gingerly upon the chair.
The rape leaflet lay on top, an innocent pale green sheet of folded and printed paper, but Martin eyed it as if it were a coiled and hissing snake. He didn’t want to read it. It would stir up things best consigned to forgetfulness; it would arouse the horror that slithered and rustled among the shattered ruins inside him. He rubbed at the wetness blurring his good eye.
Oh, God, I’m so tired of crying.
Slowly, he drew the bedclothes aside, got up, and turned on the light. He moved back to his bed and stared at the leaflet. With the utmost reluctance, as if he were swimming in treacle, he leant forward, holding his injured ribs, and picked it up. He gazed at the front cover for a bit, then opened it.
Half an hour later, he closed it and rested his head against the wall. He was still crying, his tears falling in a silent, steady trickle. His nose was awfully clogged. He got up, found a handkerchief in a drawer (cheaper than facial tissue, if a bit old-fashioned], wiped his eyes, and blew his nose vigorously. Stuffing the handkerchief in the pocket of his dressing gown, he turned and saw the glow of his mobile. He’d plugged it in the night Douglas had brought him home and hadn’t touched it since.
Disconnecting the cord (the attic had only one power outlet, and every time Martin used it, he prayed he wouldn’t be electrocuted), he cradled the phone in the palm of his hand. He crawled back into bed and picked up the leaflet, turning it round to the back cover. He punched in a number and waited.
“Hello?” His voice sounded raspy, unlike him. “Hello. Hi. I’m…I…please, I think I…I need to talk to someone.”
*
Martin rang off and leaned his head against the wall. He felt…better. Not great, of course, but not as desperate and hopeless as he’d felt before. He hadn’t told the nice man on the other end of the wire everything, of course; not the details (he couldn’t, he just couldn’t) but the man had seemed to understand and had spoken soothingly and kindly, and in return Martin had been truthful.
Mostly. The only lie he’d told – well, it had been a lie of omission. The man had told Martin that he should feel free to call back at any time, that sometimes coping was not only hard for the victim, but for the victim’s support network of friends and family as well, and that they weren’t always equipped to deal with more volatile or upsetting facts or feelings. Martin had murmured agreement, but as he rang off, he’d reflected sadly that he really didn’t have a support network. Mum was too old to burden with a thing like this, and Simon and Caitlin probably spared him a thought every two or three months, if that. It wasn’t unkindness, it was just – well, they were all busy with their lives, that was all. He didn’t really have anyone else. He’d have to cope alone.
Sighing, Martin went to close the phone and saw the message icon. He frowned and keyed in his password: Golf Echo Romeo Tango India.
“You have two new messages. To hear your messages, please press 1.”
“Martin.” Douglas’ voice, sounding apprehensive, came through the speaker. There was a cough. “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.”
Martin checked the date. Douglas had called from Paris, whilst Martin was in the hands of the smugglers. Feeling very strange, he checked the second message.
“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.”
That one had been some hours later.
Drawing his knees up and closing the phone, Martin held it close to his belly, as if it were a hot-water bottle. It was odd, really; he’d yearned so for Douglas to get him out of that terrible situation, never mind that he’d got Martin into it, and Douglas, far from being the laconic sky god, had worried about him. Had actually called and hoped Martin would answer, even if he likely suspected that wouldn’t happen. Amazingly, astoundingly, had cared.
He flipped the phone open and listened to both messages again.
Martin checked the time: eleven o’clock. The day had seemed to last forever, and he was tired, but some peculiar compulsion forced him up, and a disordered uproar filled his head, vaguely directing his actions. He shed his dressing gown and slipped into his jeans, then worked his bare feet into his trainers. As he passed his dresser, with its little mirror propped against the wall, he caught a glimpse of himself: hair awry, face pale as milk and still terribly bruised, scrawny and generally unkempt and looking like a sad berk.
Is this another one of your brilliant ideas doomed to end in great unhappiness for all concerned, Martin Crieff?
He winced and turned away. Impulsivity and indecision – Douglas had been right about him. But at the moment, it didn’t matter.
He hoped, anyway.
*
Douglas’ car was parked in the drive, but at an odd angle, as if he’d pulled in hastily and without much care. Martin parked on the street and moved quietly up the walk, now and then glancing over his shoulder (did Eddy Groves know where Douglas lived? Was he, perhaps, keeping a weather eye on the house to make certain the police didn’t pay him a visit? God, he hoped not) and wishing that Douglas had turned some lights on; the streetlamps were hazed into near invisibility by a thick fog, and there wasn’t a single light on inside Douglas’ house.
As he reached for the bell, Martin’s throat constricted. The door was ajar.
Wildly, he looked around. Oh, God! What if they’d –
Martin backed up and nearly tripped over his own feet stumbling down the steps. He fled to the van and got inside, shaking and panting. Oh God, oh God, what if they’d come back and grabbed Douglas? Or what if they’d – the house seemed deserted, but what if Douglas was inside, bleeding or –
No, no, NO.
Martin gripped the wheel with trembling hands. Get hold of yourself. He might have just forgot that he hadn’t closed the door. Or maybe he left it open deliberately – fresh spring air.
Rubbish. He’d have opened a window, not the sodding door.
All right. Get a grip and make sure he’s okay.
What if they’d followed Douglas and saw that he’d gone to Martin’s place? Would they reckon the pair of them were conspiring to alert the police? Had they perhaps made certain that Douglas wouldn’t talk?
“Oh, God.” Martin wanted to throw up. He rested his forehead on the wheel and tried to get his breathing under control. Panic attack, some rational corner of his mind supplied. The leaflet said that might happen. And besides, Douglas’ car is the only other vehicle here except yours. But the door, the bloody door…and what if Eddy Groves and his goons had parked a street away so as not to attract attention?
I can’t leave him alone in there if he’s hurt. With a small, choked whimper, Martin detached his hands from the wheel and forced himself to slide one hand behind the seat. He found the driver that one of his clients had asked him to throw away as it was a bit warped. He hadn’t, deciding it might come in handy if he ever took up golf – so many captains seemed to play in their spare time. He never had, but now he realised it might be awfully handy at bashing in a criminal’s head if he didn’t trip over it first.
He exited the van and closed the door with a soft snick. Tiptoeing up the walk, he held the driver in tightly clenched hands and ascended the steps soundlessly. He held his breath and pushed the door open, ready for someone to spring from behind it like those horror movie axe-murderers who never seemed to die no matter how many times the buxom heroines shot and stabbed and drowned them.
The house was as dark as a tomb, and as silent. Martin looked into the front room – empty. And tidy, if a bit featureless from the foggy light coming in the window. A formal sofa, two-seater, and wing chair, some large floral prints on the wall, a low oval table and a few occasional tables. Martin blinked, taking it in. Helena’s taste, he thought fleetingly, or one of the other ex-Mrs. Richardsons. It didn’t seem like Douglas’ taste somehow.
Focus, Martin commanded himself, and moved down the short corridor to the kitchen. There was a recessed light on over the sink. In dismay, Martin saw an empty Talisker bottle tipped over onto its side. Groves? But that was odd, and far too coincidental. Talisker had been Douglas’ poison of choice before he’d stopped drinking. Surely he hadn’t taken it up again?
Because of you, maybe?
Oh God, he hoped not. He glanced round the kitchen – it too was neat and tidy, pots and pans dangling from a professional wire rack overhead, jars and bottles of oils and spices arranged with almost military precision on little shelves. A little herb garden sat in two boxes beside the window, and there was an orderly row of cookbooks on another shelf. It was a pleasant room, open and sunny in daylight, probably, and the only worrying element was the empty bottle of Scotch. Martin moved a little closer, inhaling the sharp aroma (quite fresh, as if it had only been opened and drunk a little while ago), and saw one white athletic sock draped over the faucet. He frowned.
Stop wasting time. You’ve got to search the whole house. He must be here somewhere.
Timidly, Martin gripped the driver. There were a few more rooms on the ground floor – a study, a tiny powder room, and a little conservatory. He’d only been here once before, when Douglas had thrown a barbecue for all the staff of MJN, but Martin had come through the garden gate and had only breezed through on the way out, to use the loo.
He checked the conservatory, now mostly empty – though whether that was due to Helena absconding with the plants after the divorce or Douglas’ indifference, Martin had no idea. He looked inside the loo – nothing. He thanked heaven for the noise-absorbing carpet and slowly pushed open the door to the study.
It was almost completely dark. Martin squinted, frustrated, and caught his breath as he heard a noise: a strange, soft noise, stealthy and not repeated. Fear clenched his throat down to a pinhole of an airway, but he couldn’t turn back now. He groped toward the wall with a quaking hand where he hoped to God the light switch was located, and turned it on.
“AGHH!”
Martin let out a squeak of pure terror and stumbled backward, tripping over something. He fell against the wall, banged his elbow hard on the edge of a spinet piano, and fell to the floor.
Douglas was on his feet, brandishing a lamp. “Martin!” he roared. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Checking on you,” Martin gasped.
“Checking on me? Good God, do you realise I could have killed you? Are you completely insane?” Douglas put one hand on his chest. “Jesus, you almost gave me apoplexy. What on earth are you doing here? Come on, get up.” He held his hand out and pulled Martin to his feet.
“Your door was ajar,” Martin explained, and let Douglas lead him to the sofa where he’d been sleeping peacefully. He dropped into it and attempted to cool down long enough for his heart to resume its normal rhythm.
“God, was it? Did you close it?”
“Er…no, I don’t think so.”
Douglas shook his head. “Hang on, don’t move.” He left the room and returned a moment later to lean against the doorway and stare disapprovingly at Martin. He had changed out of his uniform into a grey jumper and a pair of wash-faded jeans. “What were you thinking, Martin?”
It was the second time in a night Douglas had said that to him. “I was thinking that you’d got yourself into trouble. That maybe Eddy Groves and those…those bastards had come back and decided to hurt you.”
Douglas’ face changed. He came to sit beside Martin. “No. They didn’t. I’m okay.”
“I’m glad. I was worried,” said Martin, and suddenly, quite without warning, burst into tears, embarrassing, noisy, choking sobs that he’d contained in favor of strained and silent weeping for five long days and that, to his complete horror, he couldn’t contain now. He clamped his hands over his mouth, but they emerged just the same, muffled and ugly and raw.
“Martin,” Douglas said quietly, then put his arm round Martin’s shoulders.
That gesture, measured and tender, only made Martin cry harder. He felt so utterly stupid, weak, out of control, and the crying was hurting his ribs, but he couldn’t stop. He wailed against Douglas’ shoulder, and Douglas’ other arm enclosed him, and he found himself wrapping his arms round Douglas, clinging to him as if he were a life raft. Douglas was murmuring to him, smoothing his hair, and finally he rested his head against Martin’s and simply rocked him back and forth, allowing the storm to take hold and have its way and finally pass. After it had, Douglas still held Martin, his lips pressed to the top of Martin’s head.
Martin’s cheek scraped against Douglas’ jumper. It was soft lambs’ wool and smelled like the Lanvin cologne Douglas favored, a lovely, familiar smell. “Sorry,” he whispered hoarsely.
Douglas produced a handkerchief and handed it to Martin. “Mop your eyes.”
Obediently, still leaning against Douglas’ chest, Martin wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He offered the handkerchief back, noticing that it was linen and there was a white monogram in one corner. Martin used handkerchiefs out of necessity; Douglas used them as a luxury. There was some lesson in that, but Martin didn’t have the energy to think about it at the moment.
“Keep it,” Douglas said dryly.
Martin choked out a laugh. “Right – sorry.” He took a deep breath, sat up, and tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. “Douglas. Have you been drinking?”
“Why do you ask?” A strange, guarded note came into Douglas’ voice.
“Because there’s a still-fragrant and yet very empty Talisker bottle in your kitchen, that’s why.” Though, Martin realised, he’d been close enough to Douglas to kiss him and he hadn’t smelled whiskey on his breath.
Close enough to kiss him? Oh, shut up, you oik.
“That’s true. There is a still-fragrant and yet very empty Talisker bottle in my kitchen.”
“It’s been eight years, Douglas,” Martin pleaded. “For the love of God, please don’t tell me you took up drinking again because of…because of what happened to me. I couldn’t bear it.”
A rueful smile crossed Douglas’ face. “I had thought of it, yes. But actually, the original purpose was somewhat different.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, to be quite honest, I feel a bit foolish about it now, but I wasn’t quite thinking clearly,” Douglas said, leaning back against the sofa. “Actually, I feel very, very stupid, Martin.”
“Douglas, will you please stop being oblique and explain?”
A deep sigh worked its way from Douglas’ chest. Distractedly, he ran his fingers through his luxuriant hair. His jumper was slightly damp from Martin’s weeping. His face was a bit grey and very tired, and his expression was one of intense guilt.
And yet, if Martin had his choice of any company…. Something glowed in his chest, a warmth that supplanted the pain in his ribs. He would have waited years for whatever explanation was forthcoming, and would have been happy watching Douglas as he waited.
Douglas’ voice broke into Martin’s reverie. “After I’d stopped by your flat, I was feeling…awful. Horribly guilty, and angry. No, furious, really. I haven’t felt a rage like that since my first wife threatened to move to France with our daughter. And even then, it wasn’t the same.” Douglas put his hands over his face. “Martin, I will always be responsible for what happened to you. Always.” His voice was thick, muffled.
Martin shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault. I told you I’m not angry.”
“Why, for God’s sake?” When Douglas took his hands away, his eyes were wet. “Why aren’t you angry with me?”
Helplessly, Martin shook his head. “Because you didn’t intend for it to happen. It was my bloody fault, Douglas. Wrong place, wrong time – that’s the story of my –“
“Jesus, don’t fucking joke about it.” Douglas struck his thigh with a fist. “And even now – Christ, you think I don’t know you don’t want or need my bloody guilt after what they did?”
“They didn’t rape me. Not – not really.”
“What does that mean – not really?”
Hesitantly, Martin told him. “I mean – well, that doesn’t quite count, does it?”
Douglas sighed. “I think it counts.”
Martin bit his lip and winced in pain. “I – I know,” he said softly. “I know it does.” He dragged out the handkerchief again. “Oh, God, I’m so tired of this.”
“I’m sorry. Martin, I’m sorry.” Douglas’ arms enclosed him again.
“They h-h-hurt me, Douglas.”
“I know. I know they did.”
“I kept hoping…I don’t know. Hoping you’d come back and save me. Stupid, I know.”
“Oh, God, Martin, if I could have…if I’d known….”
Martin found the curve of Douglas’ neck and rested his forehead there. His body, his head, his heart ached so badly, but he felt as if he was ridding himself of something that had lodged inside him for the better part of a week. “No. They’d have hurt you too. I didn’t want…I was so afraid.”
Douglas’ lips were next to Martin’s ear. “You are the bravest man I know.”
“No, I’m not.” How can he think that? I’m a weepy, frightened mess. “No, you were right. I’m stupid and impulsive – if I hadn’t tried to get away they’d never have –“ He gulped down another noisy sob.
“You were brave. And resourceful. You survived, Martin.”
“Not due to anything I did.”
“You survived.” Douglas’ arms around him were strong and gentle.
Martin shuddered. “I don’t want to think about this for the rest of my life, Douglas. I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything right now. Nothing you don’t want to do.”
“Okay.” Another shuddering breath emerged from Martin’s chest. “Not right now.” He scrubbed at his aching eyes. “God, my ribs hurt.”
“Did you bring your painkillers?”
“No, I left them at home.” Martin blew his nose again and gave Douglas a watery smile. “I didn’t think I’d be coming here to cry all over your nice jumper. Sorry.”
“Oh, I think salt water is good for lambs’ wool. At least those sheep you see near the coastlines all seem exceptionally hardy. And fluffy.”
Martin gave a sniffly laugh. “You were going to tell me about the Talisker.”
“Oh, right. Well, as I said, I wasn’t thinking quite clearly. I saw the store coming over a rise and went in and bought the bloody thing, and when I came out to the car, I sat in it for a bit, thinking. My gym bag was in the back seat, and…well, one thing led to another, and before I quite realised it, I’d assembled a….” Douglas bit his lip.
Martin frowned. “A what?”
“A Molotov cocktail.”
Martin gaped, aghast. “Douglas!”
“I know, I know.”
“Douglas!”
“I know. I’m not saying it was the best idea I’ve had in years, but as I said, clarity wasn’t one of my more paramount virtues at the moment.”
Martin cradled his head in his hands. “Oh, dear God. You were actually going to firebomb Eddy Groves’…what, his house? The warehouse? And you asked me if I was insane?”
“Yes, I know. Well, I’d never been to the warehouse, but I had been to his residence, so I found my way back there. Except I’d forgot that he lives in one of those ghastly American-style gated communities that footballers and pop stars seem to favour at the moment, and to get in I’d have to check in with a guard. So that was that.”
“Would have been a terrible alibi.”
“Oh, quite. ‘Just dropping off a bottle of Talisker for my dear pal Mr. Groves. What’s the sock doing in the neck of the bottle? Oh, that’s what Talisker uses rather than cork these days, it’s very much the thing.’ Yes, I can’t quite see that going over so well with the police.”
“But you didn’t drink it,” Martin ventured quietly.
“Ah. No. I brought it home, and I looked at it for a while – I was a bit distraught, as you probably discerned from the open door – and believe me, temptation opened up her long white arms and beckoned. But in the end….” Douglas sighed. “In the end, I realised it was damned silly and selfish for me to get drunk when the person I most c –“ Douglas looked down. A bit of colour tinged his cheeks before he met Martin’s eyes. “At any rate, I poured it down the sink. I may not say it often…well, ever…but you do mean a great deal to me, Martin.”
“Do I?”
“Well, yes. You’re one of my dearest friends.”
“Oh.” Martin set aside the brief stab of disappointment. You can count yourself lucky if you have one true friend in your life, Martin Crieff. Don’t tempt fate by asking for more. “Thank you, Douglas. I…I listened to your phone messages tonight. That was…that was good of you.”
Douglas smiled. “Look, it’s awfully late. Do you want to spend the night here?”
“I am a bit tired,” Martin said. “Exhausted, actually. Would you mind terribly?”
“Not in the least. The guest room is ready –“
“No,” Martin said. “That is – I’ll just sleep here on the sofa. It seems quite comfortable.”
“The bed’s more comfortable.”
“No, this is nice.” Martin looked around at the room for the first time, seeing the stamp of Douglas’ personality in the piano, in the odd hangings on the wall, in the photographs and books that littered every surface. There was even a photo of Martin standing next to Arthur and Carolyn in…was it Montego Bay? Martin rather thought it was. Arthur was wearing an eyepatch and a pirate’s tricorn, and Carolyn looked annoyed. “I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind?”
“That’s fine.” Douglas found a few pillows and arranged them, then gave Martin a fluffy wool plaid blanket he’d bought in Galway. “Let me get you some paracetamol. Back in a flash.”
Martin took off his trainers and settled himself beneath the blanket. His ribs were singing Roses of Picardy and his head ached, but he felt better than he had in a week. Douglas’ house felt safe. He wasn’t completely okay, but he would be. Eventually.
Douglas thought he was brave.
“Here we are.” Douglas handed Martin some tablets and a glass of water.
Martin downed both and sighed. “Thank you. Douglas?”
“Yes?”
“Could I ask a favour?”
“Of course.”
“Will you stay with me a bit until I fall asleep? I know it’s a bit stupid, but…I can use the company.”
Douglas pulled a rocking chair next to the sofa and turned on a soft, shaded lamp. “Of course I will, Martin.” He sat down and plucked a book from the table – a biography of Franz Liszt.
Martin settled into the pillows. He felt himself drifting already. “Douglas?” he asked, aware his voice was going fuzzy.
“Yes, Martin?”
“Why Talisker? Why not some cheap rotgut stuff?”
“Well, it was Eddy’s cash,” Douglas said. “And you know me, Martin. I never do anything cheaply if I can do it in style instead.”
Even though it made his ribs ache more, Martin laughed. I love you, Douglas Richardson. God help me, but I do.
As he was falling asleep, he thought he felt a gentle touch on his cheek, but he might have been dreaming.
*
