splix | FIC: Gone Horribly Wrong [10/11]

Title: 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 9

You can also find this fic on AO3

*

“Good God,” Douglas muttered, sotto voce, as they walked into the blue-and-white tiled lobby of Le Orphie. “This is absolutely charming. Surely Carolyn’s made a mistake.”

“Do you think so? Or has she softened? This is the correct address.” Martin looked around doubtfully at the cheerful orange lilies in mismatched bowls and vases on every surface, the sofas and chairs in pretty toiles and faded florals, the glossy curved sweep of the old-fashioned wooden reservation desk.

“Maybe the rooms are horrifying,” Douglas offered. “And since Carolyn and Arthur are staying with friends, she knew she wouldn’t have to suffer the same fate.”

“I suppose there’s only one way to find out,” Martin said in a low mutter.

“Yes, I think a thorough room inspection is in order,” Douglas replied. “Check for corpses in the wardrobe and all that. Still, if it’s awfully grotty, we can always try Miranda’s.”

“Who’s Miranda?”

“The first Mrs. Richardson. She wound up marrying a shipping magnate of some kind and now occupies a huge, vulgar house on the Côte d'Azur. Pots and pots of money.”

“I don’t suppose she’d take us in if we were desperate.”

A fond smile made Douglas’ eyes crinkle. “Difficult to say. Last time I saw her she hurled a vase at my head. She always was the mercurial sort.”

“Well, perhaps we shouldn’t rely on her.” Martin took off his hat and led the way to the desk, where a plump young woman smiled up at him from a pile of knitting. “Um, hello. Bonjour, madame. Je voudrais…er…faire une reserve….” He looked beseechingly at Douglas. “Do you mind?”

“Certainly not.” Douglas gave the young woman a little bow that didn’t look at all contrived. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. J'ai reservé une chambre au nom de Richardson et Crieff.”

The girl smiled and actually blushed. “Oui, monsieur - nous vous attendons.”

How does he do that? Martin wondered. He knew the proper phrases, but he always managed to get it wrong somehow. Douglas, though, would be able to secure a room in whatever country they happened to be in, whether or not he spoke the language, and nine times out of ten he’d manage to wangle whatever extra amenities he could as well. Didn’t matter if it was a spare set of towels or a fruit basket – if Douglas could obtain it, he would. Martin had to admit it was a useful skill to have, however much he envied it. He watched Douglas flirting with the clerk and smiled wistfully. That was a useful skill as well.

Finally Douglas accepted two keys on brightly painted wooden tags and gestured toward a curving staircase. “Second floor, end of the hall. We’ve got one room, as expected. Some things don’t change.”

Martin waited for the usual complaint about Carolyn forcing Douglas and Martin to bunk together like a couple of Scouts on a camping trip, but none seemed forthcoming. He followed Douglas up the stairs and found himself in a room every bit as airy and appealing as the lobby. There were two adequately sized beds with white-painted iron headboards, simple but attractive furnishings, and a little door leading to a balcony with a view of the harbor. Martin set his bag on a rocking chair and gaped at the little vase of spring flowers on the table between the beds. “She must have made a mistake.”

“Well, let’s not say a word about it,” Douglas said, stretching. “She’ll have us roughing it in some ghastly hostel in no time the minute we do. How are you feeling? Was the flight too much for you?”

“No. No, I feel fine. Really great, actually.” Martin gently touched his chest, surprised to discover that it was true. He hadn’t felt this physically well since before it had all happened. “I’m famished, too. I could eat a horse.”

“Oh, I think we can do better than that,” Douglas said. “Marseilles has some of the loveliest cuisine in France, after all. Come on, let’s get out of these togs and then feed you up.”

*

Christ, I could fuck that mouth all day.

You are, too. Give someone else a crack at it, would you?

Calm down. He can take plenty more – can’t you, love?

Waterworks again. Cor, he’s a whinger, in’t he?

Martin awoke with a jolt and for a moment floundered in silent panic, not knowing where he was or what was happening to him. He felt his limbs twitching and controlled them with an effort. He lay perfectly still, his heart trip-hammering in his chest, and counted to twenty before he realised that he was unbound (his arms and legs had suffered uncontrollable spasms for almost two weeks after the ordeal – a perfectly common physical response to restraint, his counsellor had assured him, sort of like Restless Legs Syndrome which pilots coped with once in a while. It would go away in time) and safe. He was in a quaint, pretty hotel room in Marseilles, and Douglas –

Douglas wasn’t there. His bed was empty.

The panic flared again. Martin seized his watch (an ordinary but quite serviceable square-faced watch he’d picked up at Tesco, since his faux Patek Philippe had given up the ghost some time ago) and checked the time: twelve-thirty in the morning. Where could he be? There was enough light from the glassed-in balcony door, even with its white cotton curtain, to see that the en suite bathroom door was cracked open and there was no-one inside. Maybe he was having a walk, or down in the bar listening to the three-piece jazz ensemble that had still been playing in the courtyard when he and Douglas had headed upstairs at ten. Whatever the case, he was absolutely fine. Eddy Groves had not followed them to Marseilles. That was irrational. Martin and Douglas were both safe.

Martin pressed his hands to his eyes for a moment and sat up, turning the little bedside light on. Douglas’ bedclothes were neatly turned back, his pyjamas draped at the foot of the bed, his key was missing from the bedside table. No sign at all that anything untoward had happened. Martin sighed, feeling his heart resuming a normal rhythm again. Perhaps Douglas hadn’t been able to sleep and had gone for a walk. The night air, so redolent of spring greenery and the faint tang of the sea, was surely too much enticement for anyone who couldn’t sleep. Martin would just have a look, just a quick look round. If Douglas wasn’t close by, Martin would ring him. He wasn’t ready to walk unfamiliar streets at night just yet.

He threw back the bedclothes and slid into the cotton shirt and faded but clean khaki trousers he’d worn to the simple, excellent seafood restaurant Douglas had chosen. He slipped into moccasins (Douglas had a pair, far more expensive of course, and Martin had admired how casual and smart Douglas had looked in them. So he’d bought similar ones, then had sighed when he’d realised that he really wasn’t cut out for the dashing sockless look, not the way Douglas was – why did he persist in imitating him? Still, it was too late now – it was the moccasins or his uniform dress shoes, which would just look silly), snatched up his key, and left the room, making certain the door was securely locked.

Irrational. You’re fine, you’re safe. The dreams will stop eventually.

He went downstairs and into the lobby. It was quiet and dim, the night clerk snoozing in a chair with his feet propped up. Frowning – he hadn’t really expected Douglas to be ensconced in the lobby with a good book – he turned on his heel and went through the hotel to the back gate. There were still lights on – coloured-paper lanterns strung along the stone wall and in some spicy-smelling olive trees – and the soft tinkling of a piano. As Martin stepped through the gate, he saw a few people nursing drinks. A young female couple cuddled together on a stone banquette, a middle-aged man seemed to be sleeping whilst sitting up, and a group of men and women were pouring what looked like Pernod into little glasses and talking quietly in French. At the end of the courtyard was the space for the music ensemble. The musicians were gone, but someone was playing the piano, something old-fashioned, but familiar. An elderly woman held a glass to her lips but did not drink; instead, she nodded silently along with the music. And someone else was singing quietly, too.

You're lovely, with your smile so warm
And your cheeks so soft,
There is nothing for me but to love you,
And the way you look tonight.

Martin felt a lovely warmth suffusing him. He knew that voice. He held still and listened.

With each word your tenderness grows,
Tearing my fear apart
And that laugh that wrinkles your nose,
It touches my foolish heart.

Martin drifted a bit closer. He imagined Douglas singing this to a countless array of lady friends, dazzling them with that ineffable Douglas Richardson charm. A little ache pierced his middle: not his ribs, not at all. He wanted to leave, but he couldn’t help himself; he moved closer to the piano, to the sound of Douglas’ voice.

Douglas looked up and saw him. He smiled and winked. Helplessly, Martin smiled back.

Lovely, never, ever change.
Keep that breathless charm
Won't you please arrange it
‘Cause I love you, just the way you look tonight.

A smattering of soft applause sounded in the courtyard, and Douglas inclined his head – not humbly, exactly, but graciously nevertheless. “Hello there,” he said, switching to another soft tune. “You all right?”

“Oh – oh, yes,” Martin said. “I just thought I’d get some…air.” I can’t ruddy well tell him I had a nightmare and came scurrying out to look for him. God, what would he think?

“Do you want a drink? They’re serving until two.”

Martin felt very stupid suddenly. “No. No, I’m fine. I should go – um….” He leant over a little and watched Douglas’ fingers on the keys, moving with effortless grace. “You’re really good.”

“Not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” Douglas replied with a roguish grin. “My repertoire generally hits the brakes at about 1960, but I manage to scrape along nonetheless.”

“Couldn’t you sleep?” Martin asked. “I hope I didn’t – disturb you or anything.” He had a faint suspicion that his nightmares made him talk or cry out in his sleep. He hadn’t considered it before now, though, because he always slept alone.

Douglas pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Not at all.”

Martin’s heart sank. “I mean – I think I might talk in my sleep. Just lately, that is. I didn’t really know – I should have said something. I’m sorry.” Douglas took his hands away from the keys and rubbed his eyes. Oh, well done, idiot, Martin told himself. You’ve got quite a knack for killing a mood, haven’t you? “Sorry,” he whispered.

“You didn’t disturb me, Martin.” Douglas gave him a tired smile. “I just thought I’d come out for a little air myself.”

“Ah. Sucked it all out of the room, did I?” Martin clamped his mouth shut. He hadn’t meant to sound so pathetic, but it seemed to be his default mode just lately. Well, even more so just lately.

Douglas appeared to ignore this and closed the lid of the piano. “Fancy a stroll?”

Martin was caught off guard. “A – a stroll?”

“Yes. You know – a walk, an amble.” Douglas gestured vaguely at the wall. “I think I’m going to have a stroll. We don’t have to leave until four tomorrow, so there’s still plenty of time to sleep. You’re welcome to join me if you like.”

“Oh.” Martin bit his still-tender lower lip and considered. He wasn’t keen on walking strange streets after dark, but with Douglas, it mightn’t be so bad. “All right.”

*

They found themselves on a hilly paved road lined with more olive trees and pretty, compact houses, each with its own little front garden. A warm breeze blew through the olive branches, setting them to rustling and releasing a sweet, spicy fragrance that mingled with the sea-scented air. “Gosh, isn’t that lovely,” Martin murmured, inhaling deeply.

“Yes. Rather a romantic place, isn’t it?”

“It is. Did you, er – did you come here with the first Mrs. – Miranda?”

“What?” Douglas seemed puzzled. “Oh, good heavens, no. No, Miranda’s battleground was London until we split up. I never thought she’d manage for a moment outside the city, but she seems to have thrived.”

“Well done her, I suppose.”

“Yes indeed.” Douglas reached up idly and tugged at a slender thread of leaves. “I suppose it would be nice to bring someone here, though. Lovely beaches, fabulous food, good weather, all that. What about you – would you bring someone here if you could?”

Martin stuffed his hands in his pockets. But I have done. Sort of. “Why – yes, I reckon I would. I don’t know if it would be the first place I’d choose, but certainly it’s quite beautiful.”

“Really?” Douglas turned toward Martin. “What would the first place be?”

“Home,” Martin said, and clamped his mouth shut again. There, you’ve done it. If Douglas didn’t think you were the most boring sod in the world before this, he most definitely does now. All the places you’ve been, all the sights you’ve seen, and all you want is to be in Fitton –

“Home?” Douglas asked softly.

in Fitton, with Douglas. Martin sighed. Give it up. “Yes,” he said. “It would be nice to have someone to come home to, that’s all.”

Douglas was silent awhile. “That’s quite romantic.”

“Oh, ha-ha. I’m sure you think so.”

“Actually, I –“ Douglas broke off as the sound of raucous laughter reached them.

Coming over a rise in the hill were five young men, hooting and shouting and pushing at each other. Martin shrank back against a stucco wall. They were clearly drunk and just as clearly becoming very aggressive. Stupid. It’s fine. It’s fine. They’re not threatening you – A wave of dizziness attacked him, and he braced himself against the wall, leaning his head against it to keep from blacking out. It’s just your inner ear problem, or the wine you had with dinner. Too much.

“Martin. Martin?” Douglas was grasping his arm. “Are you all right?”

Martin blinked. The young men had swept past without even noticing them, and Douglas was staring at him with an expression of mingled anxiety and concern.

“Come on.” Douglas’ arm went round Martin’s shoulders – a paternal gesture. “Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

“I’m all right,” Martin mumbled, and pushed himself away from the encircling comfort of Douglas’ arm. Don’t touch me, please don’t, I can’t bear to have you touch me knowing you don’t really – “I’m fine. Thanks.”

They walked back to the hotel in silence and plodded up to the room. Martin turned from Douglas as he stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers again, and slid into bed as Douglas was buttoning the jacket of his pyjamas. “Good night,” he said, curling up under the smooth cotton sheets and clean counterpane.

“Martin.”

“Yes?”

“Are you certain you’re all right?”

Martin sighed. “Yes, I’m all right.” He sat up and cradled his head in his hands. “I mean – obviously I’m not, but it’s not so bad. I had a bit of a panic attack, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry.” Douglas sat heavily on his bed. “I shouldn’t have cajoled you into coming along.”

“It wasn’t you,” Martin said. “You didn’t drag me. I just get – well, it’s unpleasant sometimes. I might as well tell you – I came downstairs earlier because I had a nightmare and I – I suppose I was looking for a bit of comfort.” Shamefaced, he smiled. “Stupid.”

“Not to me.”

“Douglas, really, you don’t have to –“

“Martin.” Martin glanced up. Douglas was standing, staring down at him; when Martin met his gaze he sank to his knees, reached out, and put one hand on Martin’s shoulder – lightly, as if he were afraid of being brushed off. “Not to me.”

I was wrong, Martin thought. It doesn’t have to be Fitton. It could be anywhere. I’d go anywhere to be with him. “Douglas,” he whispered.

“Yes?”

Martin groped for something simple and heart-felt and honest to say to Douglas without scaring him into booking another room at his own expense. Thank you, perhaps, or I appreciate your friendship or That’s very good of you. But all he could do was stare into Douglas’ carelessly handsome face and then – to his horror – he reached out, slowly, tentatively – Oh God, STOP! – and placed his hand on the nape of Douglas’ neck, leaned forward, and kissed his mouth.

It was a soft kiss, timid and chaste, and as Martin pulled back, he saw with growing agitation that Douglas was staring at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted an extra head. Misery shriveled his insides, he opened his mouth to stammer an apology, and then Douglas’s hands were cradling Martin’s face, and he was kissing back – lightly, sweetly, his hands gentle on Martin’s face, his fingertips caressing the corkscrewed hair Martin hadn’t bothered to tamp down before he’d left in search of Douglas, his tongue delicately exploring the inside of Martin’s mouth. The kiss went on, waning, then waxing, and when Martin felt arousal stirring, he withdrew, a little afraid.

Flushed, Douglas touched the fingertips of one hand to his mouth, a tender and endearing gesture. “Martin…why did you do that?”

“Because,” Martin said, floundering for a reply. “Because I…I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

Douglas sat back on his heels. “Good God.”

Martin had no idea how to interpret that. Douglas looked utterly stunned. Oh God. What if it was just some sort of…reaction? He’s kissed a thousand stewardesses and God knows who else, maybe it was just instinct to kiss back. “Douglas, I’m – I’m really sorry. I don’t know what I was –“

“Did you know?”

“Did I – did I know what?”

Douglas’ face was devoid of any discernible expression. “Did you know that I was absolutely crazy about you?”

Martin felt all the blood leaving his face. “You are?”

“You didn’t?”

“I – no. You had all those stewardesses.”

“That’s true,” Douglas agreed gravely.

“I love you,” Martin blurted. What a Romeo you are, Martin Crieff.

A grin creased Douglas’ face. “Well. Since I’ve more or less confessed my undying adoration for you, all I can say is that I’m rather glad to hear it.”

Martin hesitated a split second, then all but launched himself at Douglas. They half-tumbled sideways, landing on the floor between the beds. Martin kissed him ferociously, wrapping his arms tightly around Douglas’ body. So solid, so warm, and he smelled divine. A gasp escaped him as Douglas’ teeth grazed his collarbone and his tongue traced the hollow of Martin’s throat. He nibbled on Douglas’ earlobe and down his neck, hoping enthusiasm would make up for his lack of skill. It was only when he felt Douglas’ erection brush against his own that he stopped, skittish as a colt. Awkwardly, he pulled away. “Douglas, I – bloody buggery hell, I’m sorry. I’m not….”

“You’re not ready.”

“I am, but – but—well, I suppose I’m not. Not quite yet. God, I’m sorry.”

Douglas brushed the back of his hand over Martin’s cheek. “Martin, I am a grown man. I am perfectly capable of waiting.”

“I don’t want to make you wait.”

“What if I wanted to?”

Martin stared down at his hands. No-one had ever put him first, ever, and he had no idea how to respond. “B-but it could be a while.”

“How little you know me, Martin Crieff,” Douglas said. “Surely you must realise that anyone who’s worked at MJN Air for more than six months must be possessed of superhuman – nay, saintly patience.” He laid his hand atop Martin’s. “I am prepared to wait as long as you like – as long as I can kiss you now and again.”

Martin kissed him again. All those stewardesses, he thought fuzzily, fantastic practise. At length he found himself resting against Douglas’ chest, wrapped in his arms, but instead of feeling constrained, he felt wonderfully warm and safe. “Isn’t this awfully sudden?”

“Oh, I don’t know. These things have a way of sneaking up on one at times.”

“I think I’ve known for a long time.”

“Really? How long?”

“Since Spain, when Arthur and I got stuck under a bridge.”

Douglas paused. “Should I even ask for a detailed explanation?”

“Probably not,” Martin laughed. “All you need to know is that I realised how much I…I relied upon you. And it wasn’t any sort of awful obligation or anything, it – it was just that even when you’re being…you know, awful, you’re – well, to use an Arthurism – brilliant.”

There was silence for a moment. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Oh, stop it.” Martin felt himself flushing. He didn’t speak for a moment. “It’s true,” he mumbled finally.

“I know. That’s why I said it.”

Martin beamed. “We should probably get some sleep,” he said.

“Yes, it is rather late.”

“Would you…would it be uncomfortable if I slept with you? I mean, in bed, with you. I mean –“

“I’d love it.”

Martin bit his lip. This was a night of firsts. He’d never been so bold. “And you wouldn’t mind if we didn’t –“

“Absolutely not. I’ll simply douse myself in cold water.”

“Oh, you don’t have to –“

“Martin, I’m joking. Get into bed.”

They climbed into bed, and Martin found himself in Douglas’ arms again. “This feels so nice.”

“Yes.” Even Douglas sounded a little awed. “Yes, it does.”

“I expect I’m not the first man you’ve been with.”

“Certainly not,” Douglas said. “I’ve had my share of fellow sky gods before.”

“I don’t suppose I qualify,” Martin said sleepily. “I reckon they were all like you.”

“Like me?”

“Oh, you know. Handsome, devil-may-care, confident.”

“Yes, I suppose they were.”

“Thought so,” Martin grumbled.

Douglas pulled him closer and kissed his ear. “Martin Crieff, welcome to the pantheon.”

*