FIC: Gone Horribly Wrong [11/11]
Apr. 15th, 2012 09:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Gone Horribly Wrong
Author: Alex
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: John Finnemore, Pozzitive Productions for le BBC.
Summary: From a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme. Douglas gets in a little over his head in regards to his smuggling, but it's Martin who suffers for it.
Warnings: Nonconsensual sex.
Notes: This is my very first Cabin Pressure fic, so please feel free to let me know if I've made any missteps.
Continued from Part 10
You can also find this fic on AO3
*
Douglas awoke with an achy spot between his shoulder blades, a sore neck, and an erection the size of a cricket bat pressed up against Martin’s arse. All right, maybe not quite the size of a cricket bat.
Almost.
How long, he wondered, had it been since he’d been denied the lovely inevitability of nudging awake his partner of the moment for a leisurely morning shag? Surely it had been decades – yes, at school, with a sexy little townie piece named Wendy who’d refused to succumb to all the suavity and charm of his fourteen years. He’d had a wank now and then since, but the necessity of it hadn’t really pressed itself upon him until now. With consummate good taste, Douglas had always chosen partners who’d been most deliciously acquiescent.
He eased himself backward and rolled out of the bed, careful not to disturb Martin, who slept peacefully, curled up on his side – unlike earlier last night, when he’d tossed and turned and made noises like a small, hurt animal so that Douglas, who’d tried to gently rouse him and failed, had finally fled, shuddering with guilt. He’d shared enough rooms with Martin in the past to realise that this was a new state of slumber for him; small wonder the dark circles under his eyes hadn’t subsided, if his sleep was so troubled. Douglas had stayed in the courtyard, hoping to delay long enough for Martin to fall into a deeper sleep, amusing himself and a few of the customers on the piano, when Martin had showed up, looking lost. But when he’d seen Douglas, he’d smiled, and his eyes had lit up as if Douglas were…well, as if he were the love of Martin’s life.
And if Douglas had been staggered by the depth of feeling provoked by that shy, sweet smile, he hadn’t let on. Since Helena had left him for the t’ai chi teacher, he’d fancied himself deeply cynical, vampire-cold and untouched by emotion, but the truth was much different, a truth never acknowledged aloud: Douglas Richardson was a hopeless romantic. No-one who’d been married more than twice could be anything but. One didn’t get married thinking it wouldn’t work out, after all; hope sprang eternal in his heart, bruised and overworked and…yes, selfish as it was. But dear God, who could have predicted it would be a twitchy, fussy airdot captain to steal that same heart, a man who not only played by the rules but rewrote them if they weren’t meticulous enough for his taste? And how long had that been building up, by the by?
Maybe from the very first; no matter how much Douglas had teased him about the gold braid on his cap or his insistence on making sure everyone knew he was an airline captain or his ridiculous ersatz Patek Philippe, there was a part of him that had begrudgingly admired Martin’s ferocious integrity, his resilience, his toughness, and his refusal to let life keep him down when it would have defeated lesser men. That he managed to combine all that with a really staggering lack of self-esteem made him a rather delightful paradox. Maybe, too, part of the reason he’d teased Martin so was to watch his reactions: his face flushing, his chest heaving, his prettily slanted eyes widening in indignation and outrage. It was far too much fun to deny himself that particular pleasure. And now he considered Martin’s full mouth (sexy, it was dead sexy now that Douglas was really looking at it, and now that he’d explored it a bit) as it seemed to curve in a little smile as he slept, and the way his frown lines smoothed out and he looked absurdly young, like a teenager and how his tight arse had felt against Douglas’ body and oh God he needed a wank immediately, if not sooner.
Douglas ducked into the bathroom and ran the shower. He stripped quickly, stepped inside, and curled his hand round his cock. God only knew how long he’d have to do this, but he didn’t mind – there was a strange sort of pleasure in it, and in any case it wouldn’t last forever – he hoped. He stroked and rubbed, letting the warm water sluice over his body, reveling in delicious friction, thinking about fucking Martin Crieff into the mattress, flushed face, heaving chest, wide eyes, and all, and came with a suddenness that startled him. Off like a bloody rocket.
He leaned against the cool tile of the shower, collecting his breath, and then cleaned up and shampooed his hair, feeling absurdly pleased with himself. When he left the bathroom, Martin was still sleeping, still in the same position, the little smile still fixed on his face. His hair had separated into a dozen cowlicks and the blankets had worked their way down to his boxer-clad backside. For a moment Douglas stared at Martin’s body and longed to crawl back into bed and spoon again, but forbore – quite heroically, even if he did say so himself. He sighed, drew the covers up about Martin’s shoulders, and permitted himself a gentle caress of the springy curls made curlier by the damp salt air.
Moving quietly, he dressed and went to the balcony with his mobile, closing the door carefully behind him. He looked up a number and made a call.
“Allo?”
“Miranda darling, did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Douglas! My God, what on earth are you doing calling me? I haven’t heard from you in yonks. How are you, love?” All pretense at a Continental language dissolved instantly, and she was the same noisy, flashy London bird she’d always been.
Some things never changed. Still, Douglas was pleased; he’d caught her in one of her benevolent moods. Maybe her present husband had just given her a yacht or a ruby necklace. “Just fine, thank you. Look here, Miranda, I’ve a tremendous favour to ask of you.”
“Of course you do. Why else would you be calling?”
Why else indeed? She’d probably end up screaming blue bloody murder at him. That had been their marriage in a nutshell. Still, the make-up sex had been absolutely terrific. “Well, it so happens that this favour is right up your street. And I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Oh, darling, just tell me what it is.”
“It’s about a faux Hermès handbag.”
*
Martin was still asleep when Douglas re-entered the room. Douglas hated to wake him – clearly poor Martin had needed a good night’s sleep for a long time – but they had to check out and find some food and get to the airfield in plenty of time for their four o’clock departure, and it was half eleven already. Not wanting to startle Martin, Douglas laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Captain Crieff. Up and at ‘em. It’s getting late.”
Martin opened his eyes and looked up at Douglas. “Hello,” he said in a voice made rusty with sleep, and rubbed at his eyes.
Bloody hell. Dead sexy indeed. “Well, you’ve done it now,” Douglas said, and leant down to kiss Martin’s mouth briefly. As he straightened, he saw Martin offering him an improbably wide smile. “And what’s that for?”
“I…I woke up and you weren’t here. I heard the shower running, and I thought maybe I’d dreamt the whole – that I’d dreamt what happened last night. I reckoned I’d keep on sleeping because it was an awfully nice dream.”
It really wasn’t fair for Martin to disarm him with sweetness, Douglas reflected; he’d lose all his best comebacks if he remained in this besotted state. “Funny – I think I had the same dream.”
“Could you – c-could you kiss me again? No, wait – I probably have horrible breath, never m—“
Douglas silenced him with a deep kiss, easing him back to the bed and straddling his body. His prick was starting to stand to attention again. Martin twined his arms round Douglas’ neck and pulled him closer, and his thighs gently clamped round one of Douglas’ legs and tightened. Douglas groaned.
“Sorry,” Martin whispered, and pulled back awkwardly. “Sorry.”
“You’re a dreadful temptation.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not,” Douglas lied with perfect aplomb, and sat up. He’d have to look into a few Eastern techniques on self-control if he didn’t want to walk around with a raging erection half the day.
Martin’s hands fidgeted with the bedclothes for a moment, arranging them over his boxers to conceal his arousal. “It isn’t that I don’t want to.”
“Excellent. My fragile crystal zeppelin of an ego remains blessedly intact.”
“I do find you really attractive.” Martin’s eyes fastened on Douglas, and then flicked downward, then up again. “Really very attractive.”
Douglas experienced a tiny jab of – what could it be? He scarcely knew what to call it. Martin Crieff was ogling him, in his way. Most extraordinary.
Life really was full of surprises.
Douglas leant over and kissed that full mouth again. “Let’s go, chief. Time to fly.”
As Martin showered, Douglas heard him singing – softly, then with growing confidence.
So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you'll wait for me
Hold me like you'll never let me go
Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane
Don't know when I'll be back again
Oh babe, I hate to go
*
“Afternoon, all,” Douglas said, strolling into the Portakabin. “Goodness, isn’t it hot outside!”
“And in here,” Martin muttered, mopping his damp, red face with his handkerchief. “Air conditioning’s gone on hiatus again.” Douglas winked at him, earning a shy, beaming smile in response.
Carolyn snorted from behind her newspaper. “If you deigned to show up on time, Douglas, we could be in a refreshing, cool aeroplane jetting our way to refreshing, cool Norway, but as usual, you seem to be operating on Douglas Mean Time, of which you are the sole occupant and which evidently consists of some sort of lag in the space-time continuum. Lucky for you, Mr. Svelha’s meeting has run late and Arthur’s just gone to fetch him now.”
“Good heavens, Carolyn.” Douglas checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes at most. Where are we headed, anyway?”
“Hammerfest,” Martin said.
“Ah.”
“Arthur’s delighted. He thinks it’s a nonstop festival of hammers.”
“And who are we to say it’s not? Shall we fetch one for him?” Douglas inquired. “I could tell him it’s customary for travellers to throw a hammer upon setting foot –“
“Absolutely not,” Carolyn barked. “I can only imagine where it would land. Oh, dear!”
“What’s wrong?” Martin asked.
“Good Lord. This isn’t too far from my house,” Carolyn said, and spread the newspaper on the table for Douglas and Martin to see. “One of those vulgar gated communities that are supposed to keep the wrong element out. Ha!”
Douglas leaned over to see the headline: Drugs Raid Nets £26 Million in Cocaine. It seemed the police, after a three-month investigation, had placed under arrest one Edward Groves, aged thirty-seven, at his home in the gated community known as Riverbend. He glanced at Martin, who had gone very white, and surreptitiously reached over and squeezed his hand.
Martin squeezed back and bit his lip. “Do you think he’s – he must be very, er, powerful….”
“Well, he’s in prison now, and I say good riddance to bad rubbish,” Carolyn said, rising to her feet. “You gentlemen have work to do, I believe. I want to be in the air ten minutes after Mr. Svelha arrives.” She departed the Portakabin like a ship under full sail.
Douglas rested a hand on Martin’s back. “You all right?”
Martin nodded, but dragged his fingers through his hair, his face twisted in agitation. “You don’t suppose he’ll – that he’ll come after us, do you?”
“I shouldn’t think so.” Douglas rubbed his hand up and down Martin’s back in an attempt to soothe him. “It says the investigation’s been going on for months now. I doubt he’ll be able to connect it with us at all.”
“What do you mean…’be able?’” Martin stared up at Douglas. “Good Lord, did you tell the police after all?” His face grew whiter still.
“Nothing like that. I simply phoned Miranda and asked her to purchase a gently used Hermès Birkin handbag from a particular consignment website and then take it to the Hermès shops, where she is already a loyal and favoured customer, for authentication. Naturally, it couldn’t be authenticated, so an investigation proceeded to commence.”
“But…Douglas, you were the one who transported them. Weren’t you afraid that you’d be implicated?”
“Well, as it happens, my very good friend François is in charge of customs at Orly, and he was able to produce tax documentation for a delivery of consignment goods from a legitimate dealer – a dummy corporation, actually, under the aegis of Eddy Groves. So my name, fortunately, never came up at all. It was a perfectly legal transaction, as it turned out. It just wanted a little digging to turn up the worms.”
Martin stared at the paper. “He’s in prison.”
“And likely to stay there.” And likely to be on the receiving end of some rather bad treatment, I hope. Douglas would never say that aloud. But God, he hoped it was true.
Martin turned and gazed up at Douglas wonderingly. “You…you did that for me?”
Douglas’ throat caught on his yes, but before he could clear it to speak, Martin got up quickly, knocking his flimsy chair over, and threw his arms round Douglas’ neck, pulling him into a kiss. Douglas wrapped his arms tightly around Martin and returned the kiss, light-headed with euphoria. It doesn’t pay for everything, but it’s a start.
“Thank you. Thank you.” Martin kissed Douglas’ neck and ear. “I love you.”
“And I love you, Captain Crieff.”
“Enough to call me ‘sir?’”
“Certainly not. Wild horses couldn’t drag that from me.” Douglas threaded his fingers through Martin’s hair and delivered his most devastating kiss, only letting go when he felt Martin’s knees buckling. Well done, Douglas.
Martin’s face was bright pink again. “Well. We’ll have to see about that.”
Arthur burst into the Portakabin. “Chaps, Mum says that if you don’t get on board GERTI now, she’ll --“ He stopped dead, staring at Douglas and Martin in a most decided clinch. “Are you two kissing?”
Martin pulled away and coughed. “Er – never mind that, Arthur. Yes, okay.” He settled his cap on his head. “I’ve done the walk-round, Douglas. Let’s –“
“All right.” Carolyn stormed in behind Arthur. “That tears it, you two. I was going to spring for separate rooms in Hammerfest tonight, but you can forget about it.”
“That’s quite all right, Carolyn,” Douglas said. “We’ll be delighted with the single room. Won’t we, Martin?” After a few months, they’d progressed from cuddling to a sort of teen-aged groping; slowly, slowly, Martin was coming round. Douglas couldn’t complain. The last few months of exploration had been nothing short of fantastic.
“Why, yes,” Martin said. “Yes, we will.” He glanced at Douglas, then at an indignant Carolyn and a beaming Arthur (where it concerned the human heart, Arthur was not a clot. Not in the least), tilted his cap back on his head, reached up, and drew Douglas into another kiss. “I can’t wait,” he whispered.
“Nor can I,” Douglas said, and kissed his captain again.
Douglas Richardson, you are a lucky, lucky man.
The End.
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 10
You can also find this fic on AO3
*
Douglas awoke with an achy spot between his shoulder blades, a sore neck, and an erection the size of a cricket bat pressed up against Martin’s arse. All right, maybe not quite the size of a cricket bat.
Almost.
How long, he wondered, had it been since he’d been denied the lovely inevitability of nudging awake his partner of the moment for a leisurely morning shag? Surely it had been decades – yes, at school, with a sexy little townie piece named Wendy who’d refused to succumb to all the suavity and charm of his fourteen years. He’d had a wank now and then since, but the necessity of it hadn’t really pressed itself upon him until now. With consummate good taste, Douglas had always chosen partners who’d been most deliciously acquiescent.
He eased himself backward and rolled out of the bed, careful not to disturb Martin, who slept peacefully, curled up on his side – unlike earlier last night, when he’d tossed and turned and made noises like a small, hurt animal so that Douglas, who’d tried to gently rouse him and failed, had finally fled, shuddering with guilt. He’d shared enough rooms with Martin in the past to realise that this was a new state of slumber for him; small wonder the dark circles under his eyes hadn’t subsided, if his sleep was so troubled. Douglas had stayed in the courtyard, hoping to delay long enough for Martin to fall into a deeper sleep, amusing himself and a few of the customers on the piano, when Martin had showed up, looking lost. But when he’d seen Douglas, he’d smiled, and his eyes had lit up as if Douglas were…well, as if he were the love of Martin’s life.
And if Douglas had been staggered by the depth of feeling provoked by that shy, sweet smile, he hadn’t let on. Since Helena had left him for the t’ai chi teacher, he’d fancied himself deeply cynical, vampire-cold and untouched by emotion, but the truth was much different, a truth never acknowledged aloud: Douglas Richardson was a hopeless romantic. No-one who’d been married more than twice could be anything but. One didn’t get married thinking it wouldn’t work out, after all; hope sprang eternal in his heart, bruised and overworked and…yes, selfish as it was. But dear God, who could have predicted it would be a twitchy, fussy airdot captain to steal that same heart, a man who not only played by the rules but rewrote them if they weren’t meticulous enough for his taste? And how long had that been building up, by the by?
Maybe from the very first; no matter how much Douglas had teased him about the gold braid on his cap or his insistence on making sure everyone knew he was an airline captain or his ridiculous ersatz Patek Philippe, there was a part of him that had begrudgingly admired Martin’s ferocious integrity, his resilience, his toughness, and his refusal to let life keep him down when it would have defeated lesser men. That he managed to combine all that with a really staggering lack of self-esteem made him a rather delightful paradox. Maybe, too, part of the reason he’d teased Martin so was to watch his reactions: his face flushing, his chest heaving, his prettily slanted eyes widening in indignation and outrage. It was far too much fun to deny himself that particular pleasure. And now he considered Martin’s full mouth (sexy, it was dead sexy now that Douglas was really looking at it, and now that he’d explored it a bit) as it seemed to curve in a little smile as he slept, and the way his frown lines smoothed out and he looked absurdly young, like a teenager and how his tight arse had felt against Douglas’ body and oh God he needed a wank immediately, if not sooner.
Douglas ducked into the bathroom and ran the shower. He stripped quickly, stepped inside, and curled his hand round his cock. God only knew how long he’d have to do this, but he didn’t mind – there was a strange sort of pleasure in it, and in any case it wouldn’t last forever – he hoped. He stroked and rubbed, letting the warm water sluice over his body, reveling in delicious friction, thinking about fucking Martin Crieff into the mattress, flushed face, heaving chest, wide eyes, and all, and came with a suddenness that startled him. Off like a bloody rocket.
He leaned against the cool tile of the shower, collecting his breath, and then cleaned up and shampooed his hair, feeling absurdly pleased with himself. When he left the bathroom, Martin was still sleeping, still in the same position, the little smile still fixed on his face. His hair had separated into a dozen cowlicks and the blankets had worked their way down to his boxer-clad backside. For a moment Douglas stared at Martin’s body and longed to crawl back into bed and spoon again, but forbore – quite heroically, even if he did say so himself. He sighed, drew the covers up about Martin’s shoulders, and permitted himself a gentle caress of the springy curls made curlier by the damp salt air.
Moving quietly, he dressed and went to the balcony with his mobile, closing the door carefully behind him. He looked up a number and made a call.
“Allo?”
“Miranda darling, did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Douglas! My God, what on earth are you doing calling me? I haven’t heard from you in yonks. How are you, love?” All pretense at a Continental language dissolved instantly, and she was the same noisy, flashy London bird she’d always been.
Some things never changed. Still, Douglas was pleased; he’d caught her in one of her benevolent moods. Maybe her present husband had just given her a yacht or a ruby necklace. “Just fine, thank you. Look here, Miranda, I’ve a tremendous favour to ask of you.”
“Of course you do. Why else would you be calling?”
Why else indeed? She’d probably end up screaming blue bloody murder at him. That had been their marriage in a nutshell. Still, the make-up sex had been absolutely terrific. “Well, it so happens that this favour is right up your street. And I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Oh, darling, just tell me what it is.”
“It’s about a faux Hermès handbag.”
*
Martin was still asleep when Douglas re-entered the room. Douglas hated to wake him – clearly poor Martin had needed a good night’s sleep for a long time – but they had to check out and find some food and get to the airfield in plenty of time for their four o’clock departure, and it was half eleven already. Not wanting to startle Martin, Douglas laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Captain Crieff. Up and at ‘em. It’s getting late.”
Martin opened his eyes and looked up at Douglas. “Hello,” he said in a voice made rusty with sleep, and rubbed at his eyes.
Bloody hell. Dead sexy indeed. “Well, you’ve done it now,” Douglas said, and leant down to kiss Martin’s mouth briefly. As he straightened, he saw Martin offering him an improbably wide smile. “And what’s that for?”
“I…I woke up and you weren’t here. I heard the shower running, and I thought maybe I’d dreamt the whole – that I’d dreamt what happened last night. I reckoned I’d keep on sleeping because it was an awfully nice dream.”
It really wasn’t fair for Martin to disarm him with sweetness, Douglas reflected; he’d lose all his best comebacks if he remained in this besotted state. “Funny – I think I had the same dream.”
“Could you – c-could you kiss me again? No, wait – I probably have horrible breath, never m—“
Douglas silenced him with a deep kiss, easing him back to the bed and straddling his body. His prick was starting to stand to attention again. Martin twined his arms round Douglas’ neck and pulled him closer, and his thighs gently clamped round one of Douglas’ legs and tightened. Douglas groaned.
“Sorry,” Martin whispered, and pulled back awkwardly. “Sorry.”
“You’re a dreadful temptation.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not,” Douglas lied with perfect aplomb, and sat up. He’d have to look into a few Eastern techniques on self-control if he didn’t want to walk around with a raging erection half the day.
Martin’s hands fidgeted with the bedclothes for a moment, arranging them over his boxers to conceal his arousal. “It isn’t that I don’t want to.”
“Excellent. My fragile crystal zeppelin of an ego remains blessedly intact.”
“I do find you really attractive.” Martin’s eyes fastened on Douglas, and then flicked downward, then up again. “Really very attractive.”
Douglas experienced a tiny jab of – what could it be? He scarcely knew what to call it. Martin Crieff was ogling him, in his way. Most extraordinary.
Life really was full of surprises.
Douglas leant over and kissed that full mouth again. “Let’s go, chief. Time to fly.”
As Martin showered, Douglas heard him singing – softly, then with growing confidence.
So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you'll wait for me
Hold me like you'll never let me go
Cause I'm leavin' on a jet plane
Don't know when I'll be back again
Oh babe, I hate to go
*
“Afternoon, all,” Douglas said, strolling into the Portakabin. “Goodness, isn’t it hot outside!”
“And in here,” Martin muttered, mopping his damp, red face with his handkerchief. “Air conditioning’s gone on hiatus again.” Douglas winked at him, earning a shy, beaming smile in response.
Carolyn snorted from behind her newspaper. “If you deigned to show up on time, Douglas, we could be in a refreshing, cool aeroplane jetting our way to refreshing, cool Norway, but as usual, you seem to be operating on Douglas Mean Time, of which you are the sole occupant and which evidently consists of some sort of lag in the space-time continuum. Lucky for you, Mr. Svelha’s meeting has run late and Arthur’s just gone to fetch him now.”
“Good heavens, Carolyn.” Douglas checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes at most. Where are we headed, anyway?”
“Hammerfest,” Martin said.
“Ah.”
“Arthur’s delighted. He thinks it’s a nonstop festival of hammers.”
“And who are we to say it’s not? Shall we fetch one for him?” Douglas inquired. “I could tell him it’s customary for travellers to throw a hammer upon setting foot –“
“Absolutely not,” Carolyn barked. “I can only imagine where it would land. Oh, dear!”
“What’s wrong?” Martin asked.
“Good Lord. This isn’t too far from my house,” Carolyn said, and spread the newspaper on the table for Douglas and Martin to see. “One of those vulgar gated communities that are supposed to keep the wrong element out. Ha!”
Douglas leaned over to see the headline: Drugs Raid Nets £26 Million in Cocaine. It seemed the police, after a three-month investigation, had placed under arrest one Edward Groves, aged thirty-seven, at his home in the gated community known as Riverbend. He glanced at Martin, who had gone very white, and surreptitiously reached over and squeezed his hand.
Martin squeezed back and bit his lip. “Do you think he’s – he must be very, er, powerful….”
“Well, he’s in prison now, and I say good riddance to bad rubbish,” Carolyn said, rising to her feet. “You gentlemen have work to do, I believe. I want to be in the air ten minutes after Mr. Svelha arrives.” She departed the Portakabin like a ship under full sail.
Douglas rested a hand on Martin’s back. “You all right?”
Martin nodded, but dragged his fingers through his hair, his face twisted in agitation. “You don’t suppose he’ll – that he’ll come after us, do you?”
“I shouldn’t think so.” Douglas rubbed his hand up and down Martin’s back in an attempt to soothe him. “It says the investigation’s been going on for months now. I doubt he’ll be able to connect it with us at all.”
“What do you mean…’be able?’” Martin stared up at Douglas. “Good Lord, did you tell the police after all?” His face grew whiter still.
“Nothing like that. I simply phoned Miranda and asked her to purchase a gently used Hermès Birkin handbag from a particular consignment website and then take it to the Hermès shops, where she is already a loyal and favoured customer, for authentication. Naturally, it couldn’t be authenticated, so an investigation proceeded to commence.”
“But…Douglas, you were the one who transported them. Weren’t you afraid that you’d be implicated?”
“Well, as it happens, my very good friend François is in charge of customs at Orly, and he was able to produce tax documentation for a delivery of consignment goods from a legitimate dealer – a dummy corporation, actually, under the aegis of Eddy Groves. So my name, fortunately, never came up at all. It was a perfectly legal transaction, as it turned out. It just wanted a little digging to turn up the worms.”
Martin stared at the paper. “He’s in prison.”
“And likely to stay there.” And likely to be on the receiving end of some rather bad treatment, I hope. Douglas would never say that aloud. But God, he hoped it was true.
Martin turned and gazed up at Douglas wonderingly. “You…you did that for me?”
Douglas’ throat caught on his yes, but before he could clear it to speak, Martin got up quickly, knocking his flimsy chair over, and threw his arms round Douglas’ neck, pulling him into a kiss. Douglas wrapped his arms tightly around Martin and returned the kiss, light-headed with euphoria. It doesn’t pay for everything, but it’s a start.
“Thank you. Thank you.” Martin kissed Douglas’ neck and ear. “I love you.”
“And I love you, Captain Crieff.”
“Enough to call me ‘sir?’”
“Certainly not. Wild horses couldn’t drag that from me.” Douglas threaded his fingers through Martin’s hair and delivered his most devastating kiss, only letting go when he felt Martin’s knees buckling. Well done, Douglas.
Martin’s face was bright pink again. “Well. We’ll have to see about that.”
Arthur burst into the Portakabin. “Chaps, Mum says that if you don’t get on board GERTI now, she’ll --“ He stopped dead, staring at Douglas and Martin in a most decided clinch. “Are you two kissing?”
Martin pulled away and coughed. “Er – never mind that, Arthur. Yes, okay.” He settled his cap on his head. “I’ve done the walk-round, Douglas. Let’s –“
“All right.” Carolyn stormed in behind Arthur. “That tears it, you two. I was going to spring for separate rooms in Hammerfest tonight, but you can forget about it.”
“That’s quite all right, Carolyn,” Douglas said. “We’ll be delighted with the single room. Won’t we, Martin?” After a few months, they’d progressed from cuddling to a sort of teen-aged groping; slowly, slowly, Martin was coming round. Douglas couldn’t complain. The last few months of exploration had been nothing short of fantastic.
“Why, yes,” Martin said. “Yes, we will.” He glanced at Douglas, then at an indignant Carolyn and a beaming Arthur (where it concerned the human heart, Arthur was not a clot. Not in the least), tilted his cap back on his head, reached up, and drew Douglas into another kiss. “I can’t wait,” he whispered.
“Nor can I,” Douglas said, and kissed his captain again.
Douglas Richardson, you are a lucky, lucky man.
