FIC: A Million By Tuesday [1/?]
Jul. 10th, 2013 04:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: A Million By Tuesday
Author: Alex
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Martin/Douglas; Martin/Gordon Shappey
Disclaimer: Cabin Pressure is property of John Finnemore and the BBC.
Summary: From a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme. AU: Gordon Shappey's disgruntled ex-employee, Douglas Richardson, seeks revenge by kidnapping Gordon's trophy husband, Martin.
Warnings: Domestic violence, dubious consent.
Notes: Thanks to kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.
Can also be read on AO3
*
"I've got…you…under my skin…I've got you deep in the heart of me…so deep in my heart that you're really a part of me…no fluid leakage, no inlet-outlet obstructions, no missing parts…under my skin…."
What a fine day. A marvellous day, in fact: warm, sunny, blue skies from here to forever, and the prospect of Formula One racing, superb cuisine, and abundant pleasurable company in six or so hours. Douglas tapped a little rhythm out on the underside of GERTI's fuselage, and headed for the Portakabin, whistling. Monte Carlo! Clichéd as it might be, Douglas loved the place, particularly during the Grand Prix de Monaco – it was nonstop excitement, and Gordon Shappey insisted on settling there three days before and after the event, and Douglas was compelled to remain in case Gordon needed to fly at a moment's notice – not that it ever happened. Gordon concentrated on wining and dining the guests he was so terribly eager to impress, and if Douglas was obliged to lodge in more modest accommodations than Gordon, that was just fine. Not even the tawdry hotels in Monte Carlo were really tawdry. Douglas sighed contentedly. Life really was grand.
He let himself into the Portakabin and started at the sight of Gordon and his solicitor, Hollis Barton, both wearing grey suits and identical grim expressions. Piles of paper sat on the table in front of them, weighted by a sleek laptop. "Why, hello," Douglas said pleasantly. "Hope I haven't interrupted anything. Mr. Shappey, I've completed the walk-around, so we can depart at your convenience." He glanced around, but saw no sign of Gordon's much-younger partner, Marvin or whatever his name was. "I take it your guests haven't arrived yet."
"Not yet," Gordon said. "Sit down, Richardson."
Douglas set the logbook and his hat on the table and seated himself. He looked from one man to the other. "Goodness, such long faces, gentlemen."
"Get on with it," Gordon said.
Barton cleared his throat. "Mr. Richardson, I'm afraid I have some bad news."
"Oh, dear," Douglas said.
"Yes." A few endless moments ensued in which Barton chose to slide the computer to one side, shuffle through his papers, then exchange one stack with another and tidy them both as if the fate of nations hung upon his meticulousness.
Douglas waited patiently and watched Barton's fingers, then Gordon's, which drummed restlessly on the table's plastic surface and which bore two rather ostentatious diamond rings. Even one was in somewhat dubious taste, in Douglas' considered opinion, but two was really pushing things. True, one did appear to be a wedding band of sorts, but combined with the heavy gold Concord he wore (ringed with diamonds, also a trifle dubious. More than a trifle, come to think of it) and his shiny, overpriced suit, gold collar pin, and gold-and diamond tie-bar, the overall effect was that of a mob boss suffering a near paralysis of insecurity. A shame, really. Gordon was a good-looking man. And a wretched specimen of humanity, a writhing mass of greed and malice, but who was Douglas to judge? A week in Monte Carlo, a decent salary, and a fairly generous pension was worth the occasional witnessing of Gordon Shappey's soul-crushing avarice.
"Yes," Barton repeated, with a final tapping on his papers for emphasis. "Not good, I'm afraid. Mr. Richardson, you're aware, of course, that we're in the midst of a global financial crisis."
"I seem to recall reading something about it in the papers," Douglas remarked, and in a heroic effort, refrained from rolling his eyes.
"Yes. Well. As to that." Barton cleared his throat. "It's struck us all. You mightn't be aware of it, but –" He leant forward confidingly. "Even my wife and I have had to downsize. Belt-tightening is the order of the day."
"Dear me," Douglas murmured sympathetically. He could just imagine Barton's version of downsizing: from a £3 million house to a £1 million house. And they might have had to sell one of their three cars; probably the Land Rover, that was the least fuel-efficient. Gosh. Times certainly were tough.
"The thing is, Mr. Richardson, I'm afraid Mr. Shappey's been forced to tighten his belt as well."
Sudden unease filtered its way into Douglas' stomach. "Really? What a shame. I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Shappey."
Gordon had taken a paper clip from a stack of paperwork and was bending it back and forth, mangling it beyond redemption. "Christ's sake, Hollis, get on with it!"
"Yes, of course. Mr. Richardson," Barton said, "I'm afraid after this trip to Monaco, Mr. Shappey will no longer be needing your services."
Douglas blinked, and displaying the sound judgment that had governed a fairly considerable portion of his decision-making life, remained silent as he processed those words.
Mr. Shappey will no longer be needing your services.
All right, a little interior voice cautioned. It's bad. Very bad indeed. You've been working for the man for fifteen years, and you're no spring chicken. Still, you're a superb pilot, a creature of marked intelligence, and a man of nearly inexhaustible resources. It's not the end of the world.
"Did you hear him, Richardson?" Gordon barked.
"Certainly," Douglas replied. "I'm sorry about it, though. It's most unexpected, and unpleasant, as you can probably guess."
Gordon pursed his lips. "I'm the one who's having to charter flights now, Richardson. It's a hell of a loss of face, but I suppose I couldn't expect you to know that."
"I suppose so." Douglas remained plank-faced. Gordon had always been rich; he'd inherited millions of pounds from his parents, who'd died in an automobile accident when he was twenty-two, their sole heir, and to give him credit, he'd quadrupled his inheritance in ten years on the Stock Exchange. It was likely that he'd always been a greedy little bastard, probably swindling his playmates out of sweets as a tot in the sandbox. He hadn't the first idea how ordinary citizens made their way in the world. So perhaps Douglas couldn't be expected to understand the pain of Gordon's downfall, and there didn't seem to be anything to gain by arguing. The thing to do now was salvage as much as possible. "I hope I can expect a reference, Mr. Shappey."
"All right. You write it, though – I haven't got time."
Too busy entertaining clients and prostitutes. He thought suddenly of the vulgar and brazen young men who'd been 'guests' on some flights, and felt sorry for Gordon's partner, a meek little fellow Gordon seemed to take pleasure in deriding. "Very well." Douglas stood and collected his hat. "Anytime you're ready, sir."
"Just a minute," Gordon snapped. "There's one more thing." He nudged Barton with his elbow. "Tell him."
"Some rather bad news, I'm afraid," Barton said.
"Oh?" Worse than getting sacked?
"Yes. Unfortunately, some financial setbacks have occurred, and Mr. Shappey has been forced to dissolve your pension."
A warning bell rang in the back of Douglas' head. He lifted an eyebrow, successfully endeavouring to conceal his growing trepidation. "Dissolve?"
"Yes. I'm very sorry, but he hadn't much choice. As I said, belt-tightening is the order of the day."
Douglas sat again. "Perhaps you can explain exactly what you mean by the word 'dissolve', because the term sounds a bit ominous to me." The bell rang steadily, a clamour he tried without success to banish.
"Simply put, circumstances have arisen that make it necessary for Mr. Shappey to come to that difficult decision. In the view of the present crisis and under enormous strain, several companies, not just Mr. Shappey's, have been forced to reduce their cost burden to ensure long-term security." Barton cleared his throat and tapped his papers delicately, an unhappy expression on his basset-hound face. "Ordinarily, under the Pension Protection Act, your pension would be secure, but a few years ago, Mr. Shappey re-incorporated Shappey Enterprises Limited in Luxembourg, and as a citizen of the United Kingdom, you don't…unfortunately…meet the criteria for collection."
A chill wind blew in Douglas' heart. He heard Barton talking, but at first it seemed a pointless and incoherent babble, the wordless roar of a Monegasque crowd cheering a daring driver. Then the words started to take shape, and became absurd, farcical. His pension was gone. Impossible. "Forgive me, but I don't understand. I've been an employee for fifteen years."
"But you never paid a penny into that pension, Mr. Richardson." Barton drew a yellowed sheaf of papers from a folder. "Mr. Shappey paid the entirety of that sum, and therefore the money is his. Unfortunately."
Unfortunately. "That can't be legal." Douglas heard his own voice; it sounded as if it were emerging from the bottom of a well.
Gordon snorted. "You signed an agreement, Richardson. It's perfectly legal and binding."
The cold wind turned into an icepick, stabbing repeatedly until Douglas' heart felt like a thin slice of Swiss cheese. It was true, he hadn't paid so much as a pound into the pension – and he hadn't saved much of his own money, because the pension had been extraordinarily generous. Actually, he hadn't saved any money, to be perfectly candid. He'd spent freely and often and quite happily, knowing his pension was secure, was being the operative word in fifteen years of profligacy. "I want to see it."
"Here you are. Page five, paragraph seven, line four." Barton handed the yellowed sheaf over.
Douglas scanned it rapidly, scarcely able to make head or tale of the nearly incomprehensible legalese. He found the pertinent line in which he'd apparently signed away his future. He flipped to his signature – decidedly his – and flipped back to the offending paragraph. It did seem to indicate - unfortunately - that he was penniless. "You can't do this."
"It's done," Gordon said. "Sorry about it, but it was necessary."
He was ruined. Impecunious. Beggared. Broke. Destitute. Indigent. And Gordon Shappey sat there, a twisted, smug little smile on his face, his diamonds and his shiny suit gleaming in the light streaming into the dirty windows of the Portakabin. Douglas rose to his feet, feeling oddly heavy. "You won't get away with this. I hope you realise that."
Gordon shook his head. "For God's sake. Take it like a man, Richardson. Nations rise and fall every damned day, economies collapse. You'll manage somehow. I said I'd sign your bloody reference, didn't I?"
Straightening, Douglas removed his coat – four stripes on the sleeves and the Shappey crest worked in gold thread, another Gordon Shappey-engineered horror of vulgarity. "I'd prefer to sup with the devil rather than obtain a reference from you. Good afternoon, gentlemen."
"Richardson! Get back here – you're flying me to Monte Carlo, or did it slip your mind? Richardson!"
Douglas ignored the shouting. He marched out with dignity, even grandeur. But when he reached his car and got inside, he slumped forward, forehead resting on the steering wheel.
What the hell am I going to do now?
TBC....
Author: Alex
Fandom: Cabin Pressure
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Martin/Douglas; Martin/Gordon Shappey
Disclaimer: Cabin Pressure is property of John Finnemore and the BBC.
Summary: From a prompt on the Cabin Pressure meme. AU: Gordon Shappey's disgruntled ex-employee, Douglas Richardson, seeks revenge by kidnapping Gordon's trophy husband, Martin.
Warnings: Domestic violence, dubious consent.
Notes: Thanks to kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.
Can also be read on AO3
*
"I've got…you…under my skin…I've got you deep in the heart of me…so deep in my heart that you're really a part of me…no fluid leakage, no inlet-outlet obstructions, no missing parts…under my skin…."
What a fine day. A marvellous day, in fact: warm, sunny, blue skies from here to forever, and the prospect of Formula One racing, superb cuisine, and abundant pleasurable company in six or so hours. Douglas tapped a little rhythm out on the underside of GERTI's fuselage, and headed for the Portakabin, whistling. Monte Carlo! Clichéd as it might be, Douglas loved the place, particularly during the Grand Prix de Monaco – it was nonstop excitement, and Gordon Shappey insisted on settling there three days before and after the event, and Douglas was compelled to remain in case Gordon needed to fly at a moment's notice – not that it ever happened. Gordon concentrated on wining and dining the guests he was so terribly eager to impress, and if Douglas was obliged to lodge in more modest accommodations than Gordon, that was just fine. Not even the tawdry hotels in Monte Carlo were really tawdry. Douglas sighed contentedly. Life really was grand.
He let himself into the Portakabin and started at the sight of Gordon and his solicitor, Hollis Barton, both wearing grey suits and identical grim expressions. Piles of paper sat on the table in front of them, weighted by a sleek laptop. "Why, hello," Douglas said pleasantly. "Hope I haven't interrupted anything. Mr. Shappey, I've completed the walk-around, so we can depart at your convenience." He glanced around, but saw no sign of Gordon's much-younger partner, Marvin or whatever his name was. "I take it your guests haven't arrived yet."
"Not yet," Gordon said. "Sit down, Richardson."
Douglas set the logbook and his hat on the table and seated himself. He looked from one man to the other. "Goodness, such long faces, gentlemen."
"Get on with it," Gordon said.
Barton cleared his throat. "Mr. Richardson, I'm afraid I have some bad news."
"Oh, dear," Douglas said.
"Yes." A few endless moments ensued in which Barton chose to slide the computer to one side, shuffle through his papers, then exchange one stack with another and tidy them both as if the fate of nations hung upon his meticulousness.
Douglas waited patiently and watched Barton's fingers, then Gordon's, which drummed restlessly on the table's plastic surface and which bore two rather ostentatious diamond rings. Even one was in somewhat dubious taste, in Douglas' considered opinion, but two was really pushing things. True, one did appear to be a wedding band of sorts, but combined with the heavy gold Concord he wore (ringed with diamonds, also a trifle dubious. More than a trifle, come to think of it) and his shiny, overpriced suit, gold collar pin, and gold-and diamond tie-bar, the overall effect was that of a mob boss suffering a near paralysis of insecurity. A shame, really. Gordon was a good-looking man. And a wretched specimen of humanity, a writhing mass of greed and malice, but who was Douglas to judge? A week in Monte Carlo, a decent salary, and a fairly generous pension was worth the occasional witnessing of Gordon Shappey's soul-crushing avarice.
"Yes," Barton repeated, with a final tapping on his papers for emphasis. "Not good, I'm afraid. Mr. Richardson, you're aware, of course, that we're in the midst of a global financial crisis."
"I seem to recall reading something about it in the papers," Douglas remarked, and in a heroic effort, refrained from rolling his eyes.
"Yes. Well. As to that." Barton cleared his throat. "It's struck us all. You mightn't be aware of it, but –" He leant forward confidingly. "Even my wife and I have had to downsize. Belt-tightening is the order of the day."
"Dear me," Douglas murmured sympathetically. He could just imagine Barton's version of downsizing: from a £3 million house to a £1 million house. And they might have had to sell one of their three cars; probably the Land Rover, that was the least fuel-efficient. Gosh. Times certainly were tough.
"The thing is, Mr. Richardson, I'm afraid Mr. Shappey's been forced to tighten his belt as well."
Sudden unease filtered its way into Douglas' stomach. "Really? What a shame. I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Shappey."
Gordon had taken a paper clip from a stack of paperwork and was bending it back and forth, mangling it beyond redemption. "Christ's sake, Hollis, get on with it!"
"Yes, of course. Mr. Richardson," Barton said, "I'm afraid after this trip to Monaco, Mr. Shappey will no longer be needing your services."
Douglas blinked, and displaying the sound judgment that had governed a fairly considerable portion of his decision-making life, remained silent as he processed those words.
Mr. Shappey will no longer be needing your services.
All right, a little interior voice cautioned. It's bad. Very bad indeed. You've been working for the man for fifteen years, and you're no spring chicken. Still, you're a superb pilot, a creature of marked intelligence, and a man of nearly inexhaustible resources. It's not the end of the world.
"Did you hear him, Richardson?" Gordon barked.
"Certainly," Douglas replied. "I'm sorry about it, though. It's most unexpected, and unpleasant, as you can probably guess."
Gordon pursed his lips. "I'm the one who's having to charter flights now, Richardson. It's a hell of a loss of face, but I suppose I couldn't expect you to know that."
"I suppose so." Douglas remained plank-faced. Gordon had always been rich; he'd inherited millions of pounds from his parents, who'd died in an automobile accident when he was twenty-two, their sole heir, and to give him credit, he'd quadrupled his inheritance in ten years on the Stock Exchange. It was likely that he'd always been a greedy little bastard, probably swindling his playmates out of sweets as a tot in the sandbox. He hadn't the first idea how ordinary citizens made their way in the world. So perhaps Douglas couldn't be expected to understand the pain of Gordon's downfall, and there didn't seem to be anything to gain by arguing. The thing to do now was salvage as much as possible. "I hope I can expect a reference, Mr. Shappey."
"All right. You write it, though – I haven't got time."
Too busy entertaining clients and prostitutes. He thought suddenly of the vulgar and brazen young men who'd been 'guests' on some flights, and felt sorry for Gordon's partner, a meek little fellow Gordon seemed to take pleasure in deriding. "Very well." Douglas stood and collected his hat. "Anytime you're ready, sir."
"Just a minute," Gordon snapped. "There's one more thing." He nudged Barton with his elbow. "Tell him."
"Some rather bad news, I'm afraid," Barton said.
"Oh?" Worse than getting sacked?
"Yes. Unfortunately, some financial setbacks have occurred, and Mr. Shappey has been forced to dissolve your pension."
A warning bell rang in the back of Douglas' head. He lifted an eyebrow, successfully endeavouring to conceal his growing trepidation. "Dissolve?"
"Yes. I'm very sorry, but he hadn't much choice. As I said, belt-tightening is the order of the day."
Douglas sat again. "Perhaps you can explain exactly what you mean by the word 'dissolve', because the term sounds a bit ominous to me." The bell rang steadily, a clamour he tried without success to banish.
"Simply put, circumstances have arisen that make it necessary for Mr. Shappey to come to that difficult decision. In the view of the present crisis and under enormous strain, several companies, not just Mr. Shappey's, have been forced to reduce their cost burden to ensure long-term security." Barton cleared his throat and tapped his papers delicately, an unhappy expression on his basset-hound face. "Ordinarily, under the Pension Protection Act, your pension would be secure, but a few years ago, Mr. Shappey re-incorporated Shappey Enterprises Limited in Luxembourg, and as a citizen of the United Kingdom, you don't…unfortunately…meet the criteria for collection."
A chill wind blew in Douglas' heart. He heard Barton talking, but at first it seemed a pointless and incoherent babble, the wordless roar of a Monegasque crowd cheering a daring driver. Then the words started to take shape, and became absurd, farcical. His pension was gone. Impossible. "Forgive me, but I don't understand. I've been an employee for fifteen years."
"But you never paid a penny into that pension, Mr. Richardson." Barton drew a yellowed sheaf of papers from a folder. "Mr. Shappey paid the entirety of that sum, and therefore the money is his. Unfortunately."
Unfortunately. "That can't be legal." Douglas heard his own voice; it sounded as if it were emerging from the bottom of a well.
Gordon snorted. "You signed an agreement, Richardson. It's perfectly legal and binding."
The cold wind turned into an icepick, stabbing repeatedly until Douglas' heart felt like a thin slice of Swiss cheese. It was true, he hadn't paid so much as a pound into the pension – and he hadn't saved much of his own money, because the pension had been extraordinarily generous. Actually, he hadn't saved any money, to be perfectly candid. He'd spent freely and often and quite happily, knowing his pension was secure, was being the operative word in fifteen years of profligacy. "I want to see it."
"Here you are. Page five, paragraph seven, line four." Barton handed the yellowed sheaf over.
Douglas scanned it rapidly, scarcely able to make head or tale of the nearly incomprehensible legalese. He found the pertinent line in which he'd apparently signed away his future. He flipped to his signature – decidedly his – and flipped back to the offending paragraph. It did seem to indicate - unfortunately - that he was penniless. "You can't do this."
"It's done," Gordon said. "Sorry about it, but it was necessary."
He was ruined. Impecunious. Beggared. Broke. Destitute. Indigent. And Gordon Shappey sat there, a twisted, smug little smile on his face, his diamonds and his shiny suit gleaming in the light streaming into the dirty windows of the Portakabin. Douglas rose to his feet, feeling oddly heavy. "You won't get away with this. I hope you realise that."
Gordon shook his head. "For God's sake. Take it like a man, Richardson. Nations rise and fall every damned day, economies collapse. You'll manage somehow. I said I'd sign your bloody reference, didn't I?"
Straightening, Douglas removed his coat – four stripes on the sleeves and the Shappey crest worked in gold thread, another Gordon Shappey-engineered horror of vulgarity. "I'd prefer to sup with the devil rather than obtain a reference from you. Good afternoon, gentlemen."
"Richardson! Get back here – you're flying me to Monte Carlo, or did it slip your mind? Richardson!"
Douglas ignored the shouting. He marched out with dignity, even grandeur. But when he reached his car and got inside, he slumped forward, forehead resting on the steering wheel.
What the hell am I going to do now?
TBC....
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-07-16 01:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-16 03:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 01:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 03:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-17 05:12 pm (UTC):D
You are evil. Gordon is evil-er, but you are the one writing this. :D
And I'm loving this. Gorgeous reason for Douglas to need to get his own back. (Like you, I love that Gordon is a bastard - makes for such great fic possibilities!)
no subject
Date: 2013-08-18 04:53 am (UTC)