FIC: A Million By Tuesday [2/?]
Jul. 17th, 2013 03:36 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![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.
Can also be read on AO3
*
Wrapping gifts was harder than it looked, particularly enormous gifts in huge, unwieldy boxes, but Martin was determined to get it exactly right, and besides, he was a believer in 'measure twice, cut once.' Somehow, though, he'd had to use an entire tube of paper and the thing still wasn't wrapped. If he bunged it up one more time he'd have to run to the shops to look for another tube and Gordon was due home any moment.
"All right. Last try." He nodded firmly and slid the ultra-sharp scissors up the grid pattern on the back of the paper, placed there specifically for the uncoordinated or unlucky. The scissors veered to the right, shearing the paper unevenly. "Oh, for goodness' sake –" Martin dropped the scissors, closed his eyes, and massaged his temples. This should have been a simple task, really.
Twenty minutes later, by dint of much pasting and strategic pattern-placement, he'd achieved some semblance of order. He affixed the pre-made bow onto the top of the parcel and regarded it a bit dubiously. It looked lopsided, but if he made one more mistake he'd end up chucking the whole thing and starting over, and there simply wasn't time.
The front door creaked open and banged shut. Martin hurried to the cupboard, rubbing his gluey hands on the seat of his jeans, and pulled out the makings of a gin and tonic. He threw cracked ice into a glass and was just pouring the gin when Gordon walked in, looking stormy. "Bad day?" Martin inquired sympathetically.
Gordon unbuttoned his coat and threw it over a chair. "It was fine. Why?"
"You look a bit upset." Justifiably so; Gordon's pilot, Douglas Richardson, had walked out without so much of a word of explanation on the day he'd been due to fly to Monte Carlo, and since Gordon had insisted on the economy of using only one pilot, he'd had a dreadful time trying to hire a new one – a bit odd, really, since unemployed pilots seemed to be thick on the ground lately, at least according to Flyer. When Martin had mentioned this, however, Gordon had nearly snapped his head off. He'd been able to get his guests to Monaco, though they'd had to delay two days and had almost missed the Grand Prix. He'd been out of sorts ever since.
"Bloody Carolyn – that horrifying gorgon – rang me up today and demanded that I – that we," he amended, "attend Arthur's bloody birthday party tonight. Christ's sake – he's twenty-eight, or twenty-nine, I can't remember, but you'd think he'd be a bit old for birthday parties."
"But I told you about the party weeks ago, Gordon." Martin pointed at the refrigerator, where the invitation stared them in the face. A few replies zoomed rapidly over the threshold of Martin's consciousness: Gordon should have remembered his son's birthday; knowing Arthur, he should have known that Arthur was always excited about his birthday; people were entitled to have parties no matter how old they were. Two years ago, he might have said all that. However, he now realised the wisdom of maintaining a prudent silence. Gordon already looked irritated.
And evidently, he was. His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward Martin. "What?"
Martin forced a smile to drag his mouth upward and, with deceptive casualness, turned to pour tonic water into the glass of ice and gin. "You're so busy, of course it slipped your mind. I should have chivvied you a week ago."
"Why didn't you, for God's sake?" Gordon took the glass that Martin proffered.
"Sorry. Stupid of me." He indicated the gift on the kitchen table with a backward wave of his hand. "I just wrapped his gift. I can mark it from both of us if you like."
"Do that." Gordon sat heavily in a chair and sipped his drink. He didn't inquire what was beneath the wrapping. "We've got to be there at seven. Go and tart yourself up."
Martin stiffened at the disdainful, abrupt tone of Gordon's voice. For a moment – just a tiny, fleeting moment – he hated him, his peremptory commands, the anger he seemed to nurture and thrive upon, the temper that sometimes erupted, with Martin as a target.
Not for the first time, he wondered just how he'd got in so deep.
*
He towelled off quickly and wriggled into fresh clothes, dark jeans and a soft cashmere pullover the colour of milky tea. He was trying to comb down the worst of his cowlicks when Gordon strolled into the room with a fresh drink, possibly his third, if the ruddiness of his face was any indicator of consumption. He seemed more relaxed, but not necessarily more happy. Martin trod softly. "Almost ready."
Gordon went to the closet and pulled open Martin's half – well, quarter was probably more accurate – and withdrew a navy-blue suit. "I'd rather you wore this. I've got friends coming to this ridiculous little soiree, and I'd prefer less mutton dressed as lamb."
Martin looked down at the polished surface of the dressing table and pressed his lips together. He glanced up and saw Gordon watching him in the mirror. "I'm only thirty-two," he said lightly. "Planning to trade me in for a younger model?"
Gordon moved closer, then smacked Martin hard on the backside. "Not yet. I'll wait 'til you turn thirty-five." He gave Martin a little push. "I'm joking, for God's sake, don't pull that long face on me. Come on, chickpea, get dressed."
"Carolyn said not to bother to dress."
"She would, though, wouldn't she? The cunt dresses like a landfill."
Martin hated to hear Gordon tear Carolyn down. She was a bit scary and decidedly snippy and sarcastic, but he was fond of her all the same. "Gordon –"
"Time's wasting, Martin."
Nodding, Martin took the suit from Gordon, avoiding his eyes, and laid it carefully on the bed. He stripped quickly and hurried into a crisp white shirt and the suit. The suit never looked quite right on him. Certainly it was handsome, well-cut, and expensive, but he always felt as if he were impersonating a banker when he had it on. Laboriously, he knotted the tie, a birthday gift from Gordon, and then tried a final pat-down of his hair.
Gordon stepped behind him, set his drink on the dressing table, and clasped Martin in his arms. "That's smashing, love." One hand slipped low and fondled roughly.
Martin laughed. "Time's wasting."
"I think we've got time for a quickie."
"You should have said so before I showered." Martin tried to wriggle out of Gordon's grasp. "Really, Gordon –" He managed to turn around, but Gordon wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him in for a kiss. His teeth pressed against Martin's lower lip until Martin acquiesced and opened his mouth to keep from being bruised. "Gordon, come on," he mumbled, or tried to, since his mouth was being plundered by Gordon's tongue.
Still kissing Martin, Gordon opened a drawer of the dressing table and rummaged, pulling out the container of lubricant. "I want that sweet little arse."
"We'll be late." Martin tried to pull away, but Gordon held him close and rubbed his cock through his trousers, and it began to stand to attention. "Gordon –"
"Shut up and unbutton." Gordon was unbuttoning his own trousers.
"I really think we should –" A surprised little cry escaped him as Gordon darted forward and grasped his jaw. He stumbled backward and banged into the dressing table. Nowhere to go.
Gordon squeezed Martin's face, hard, fingers digging into Martin's cheeks. "You think? You think what, chickpea? Since when do I ask you to think?" His voice was deadly soft, and his eyes, though bloodshot, regarded Martin with what seemed affection and even amusement.
Martin didn't dare grab at Gordon's wrist. "Gordon –"
"Shut up. Shut the fuck up. You're going to take your fucking trousers down, and then you're going to turn around and bend over. That doesn't require much thinking, pet." He let Martin's face go and took a step back.
Tears of pain dammed up in Martin's eyes, but he nodded, unfastened his trousers, and then turned around. He looked at himself in the mirror, saw the angry red marks on his face and leant over, supporting himself on his forearms and staring down at the dressing table as Gordon kicked his legs apart and yanked his trousers to his knees. He concentrated on the items littering the table's surface – a pair of gold cufflinks, a thin gold chain, a platinum collar pin, his iPod – all gifts from Gordon, each present a link in the chain that fettered him to the man thrusting two lubricant-slick fingers up his arse.
He squeezed his eyes shut as Gordon pushed himself inside so hard it shoved Martin forward, nearly upsetting the dressing table and its contents. He held on and gritted his teeth, wincing as his own cock twitched unwillingly, aroused despite the brutality of Gordon's thrusts. It would be over soon; all he had to do was wait it out and say nothing. Gordon never took long, but if he were interrupted, Martin would have to contend with more than hard fingertips grinding into his face. Gordon rooted and lunged, grunting; Martin kept his eyes closed and counted backward from one hundred. His face ached, and the ramming sensation hurt enough to force a few involuntary tears from his eyes. Gordon's hands gripped Martin's hips, holding him still, demanding compliance.
Finally, finally, it was over. Gordon sagged against him, panting, and pulled out with a disgusting wet sound. Martin stayed still, listening to Gordon re-fasten his trousers and retrieve his drink. He heard the clink of ice against Waterford, and then felt Gordon's hands, gentle now, cleaning him with a pocket handkerchief, easing him up. He straightened slowly, his back and arse and face sore, and allowed Gordon to urge him round.
"Come on now." Gordon tossed the handkerchief in the laundry bin, zipped up Martin's trousers and tidied his shirt, then drew Martin into his arms. "Come on, don't pout. I don't understand you, chickpea." He kissed Martin's wet cheek and pushed damp curls from Martin's forehead. "You can't pretend you didn't like it. You're still half-hard, for Christ's sake."
Which was true. Martin held himself stiffly, unyielding as Gordon hugged him and murmured into his ear. Get away, he wanted to say – to scream, in fact, to bellow and roar. Get away, you heartless bastard. Instead, he said, "Why did you –" His voice hitched. "Gordon, you can't – you can't –" He tried for a voice filled with anger and disdain, and failed utterly. And that was all. He couldn't get another word out. He'd blubber, and his half-hard cock, wilting now, had betrayed him. Oh, God. I hate this. I hate this.
"I don't ask much of you, do I?" Gordon murmured. "Do I? I don't force you to go out to work, I don't make you cook or clean. I give you everything you could possibly want. A bit of respect, a little understanding when I've had a rough day, that's all I ask in return. Don't get dramatic on me." His voice dipped downward, still calm, but carrying a decided warning.
Martin nodded. "I don't suppose I have time for another shower." He felt dirty, achy, and oddly scorched, as if he'd stood in a wind and sun-blasted desert for hours.
Gordon chuckled, happy now. "Hardly. We're late as it is. Let's go." He gave Martin's bum a pat, picked up his glass, and was out the door.
Slowly, Martin followed. If a friend – if he'd had any friends – had asked him why he didn't just leave, why he didn't tell Gordon that it was over, they were through, and good riddance – he didn't know what he would say. No-one was forcing him to stay, after all. But where would he go? He hadn't a pound to his name; he'd depleted his bank account. Buying Arthur's gift had wiped it out almost completely. He'd sold his van because Gordon had complained it was an eyesore and he wouldn't have it in the driveway. If he'd gone to his mother or to Simon or Caitlin for help, they would probably laugh at him, or treat him with scorn – and who was to say he didn't deserve it? He'd dug himself a deep hole and if he couldn't clamber out it was his own bloody fault.
It was all cause and effect. Wasn't it?
*
Arthur's face, as he tore the clumsy wrapping from the package, lit up as spectacularly as a skyrocket. "Wow!" He beamed at his father, then at Martin. "That's brilliant!"
Martin couldn't help grinning back at Arthur. He'd seen the remote-control Spitfire in a hobby shop window and had known immediately that Arthur would love it. Suddenly, emptying his bank account seemed a very reasonable action.
Beside him, Gordon muttered, "Damned ridiculous thing to get for a grown man." Then he plastered a big smile on his face. "I knew you'd like it, son."
As Arthur continued to exclaim over his gift, Martin felt Gordon expanding, his feathers becoming smoother and shinier as he basked in Arthur's joy, a singularly odd thing for him to do, as he generally seemed to regard Arthur with the same contempt he displayed for the rest of the human race. All eyes were on him, though, and he was collecting good-dad points, which Arthur bestowed upon him freely. There would be no gratitude for Martin's choice, only the usurpation of it.
Not even the slightest whiff of credit came Martin's way as Gordon propelled him through the crowded room, chatting to guests, nodding graciously at the compliments to his thoughtfulness and excellent display of parenthood, one hand proprietorially gripping Martin's arm above the elbow as if Martin were about to break loose and run for the hills.
"Oh, Christ, no," Gordon said, as Carolyn steamrollered her way toward them. "I'm off for a drink." He let Martin go and disappeared into the crowd.
"Martin," Carolyn said. "Lovely of you and Gordon to show up." Pointed intonation shaded her voice.
"He was tied up at work, Carolyn," Martin apologised. "Thanks for inviting me."
"Certainly. I see Gordon still hasn't developed a backbone," Carolyn said. "Skulking in the corner with a drink in his hand and avoiding me and leaving you to do his dirty work." She sighed. "Well, never mind. I expect you'll come to your senses one day. What on earth happened to your face?"
Caught off guard, Martin blushed and stammered. "I, er, I slipped and fell in the shower. It's not as bad as it looks."
Carolyn's gaze narrowed, and deep vertical lines appeared between her brows. "Did you indeed," she said flatly. "I seem to recall falling in the shower once or twice when Gordon and I were married."
"Did you? Gosh, that's awful. I – I mean it's –" Helplessly he groped for a response. Surely she didn't mean what he thought she might have meant. Carolyn was intimidating in her strength; Gordon had intimated that she'd bullied him nearly into a premature grave. Confused, he retreated to an excuse. "I should probably get one of those floor mat things with the little sticky bits on the bottom."
"Yes. Or perhaps you should leave that no-good, selfish, miserable rodent posthaste."
"Martin!"
Martin breathed a sigh of relief as Arthur descended upon them. "Hello, Arthur. Happy birthday." He offered Arthur his hand, but Arthur ignored the hand and swept Martin into an enthusiastic hug that squeezed the breath out of him. "How are you?" he wheezed.
"I'm great! Thanks a million for the Spitfire, Martin. Best birthday gift ever. Except for the car when I was twenty, that was nice. Mum gave me that. And the helicopter ride three years ago. And that book Cars and Trucks and Things That Go when I was five. But your gift is fantastic!" Arthur flashed an infectious grin. "Why don't you come on over tomorrow and help me put it together?"
"I'd like that," Martin replied. "I'll check and see if it's all r –" He saw Carolyn tilt her head to one side in speculative disapproval. "That is, I'm sure it'll be fine. Gordon – your dad was thrilled that you liked it."
"Yeah, but you're the one who picked it out. Dad would never get me a present like that. He gets me things like ties and subscriptions to Smart Investor. Besides, you and I were talking about aeroplanes a couple of months ago, remember? Anyway, thanks, it's brilliant."
A little glow suffused Martin's entire being. "I – I'm really glad you like it, Arthur."
"Oh, I do. What happened to your face?"
Martin's hand flew up to his cheek. "I fell. Carolyn, would you point me toward the loo?"
Carolyn lifted an eyebrow. "Down the hall, third door on the left."
He didn't need the loo, but it was the most convenient method of escape he could conceive. "Thanks." Martin pushed through the crowd, safe in his anonymity. Some people knew him, but only as an adjunct to Gordon. He doubted any of Gordon's friends even knew his name. If he walked out of the house and disappeared, nobody would miss him. Gordon might not even realise he was gone until the following day; he had a remarkable talent for ignoring Martin when he chose.
He found the loo and went inside, flipping the switch and locking the door behind him. Confronted by a large, gilt-edged mirror, he stared at himself: his perpetually awry hair that no comb or product could tame, the expensive and faintly ludicrous blue suit, the Dunhill tie, the finger-shaped bruises on his face. Everything courtesy of Gordon.
It wasn't so bad. He might have fallen, after all, and received multiple bruises. Anyhow, it had only happened once.
Oh, really?
And besides, Gordon hadn't meant it; he was under terrible stress at work, and hadn't found a new pilot, and things were usually okay. He didn't lose his temper often. Things were just…stressful now, that was all.
Stressful. Right.
He turned away from the mirror and his accusatory reflection.
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
*
Wrapping gifts was harder than it looked, particularly enormous gifts in huge, unwieldy boxes, but Martin was determined to get it exactly right, and besides, he was a believer in 'measure twice, cut once.' Somehow, though, he'd had to use an entire tube of paper and the thing still wasn't wrapped. If he bunged it up one more time he'd have to run to the shops to look for another tube and Gordon was due home any moment.
"All right. Last try." He nodded firmly and slid the ultra-sharp scissors up the grid pattern on the back of the paper, placed there specifically for the uncoordinated or unlucky. The scissors veered to the right, shearing the paper unevenly. "Oh, for goodness' sake –" Martin dropped the scissors, closed his eyes, and massaged his temples. This should have been a simple task, really.
Twenty minutes later, by dint of much pasting and strategic pattern-placement, he'd achieved some semblance of order. He affixed the pre-made bow onto the top of the parcel and regarded it a bit dubiously. It looked lopsided, but if he made one more mistake he'd end up chucking the whole thing and starting over, and there simply wasn't time.
The front door creaked open and banged shut. Martin hurried to the cupboard, rubbing his gluey hands on the seat of his jeans, and pulled out the makings of a gin and tonic. He threw cracked ice into a glass and was just pouring the gin when Gordon walked in, looking stormy. "Bad day?" Martin inquired sympathetically.
Gordon unbuttoned his coat and threw it over a chair. "It was fine. Why?"
"You look a bit upset." Justifiably so; Gordon's pilot, Douglas Richardson, had walked out without so much of a word of explanation on the day he'd been due to fly to Monte Carlo, and since Gordon had insisted on the economy of using only one pilot, he'd had a dreadful time trying to hire a new one – a bit odd, really, since unemployed pilots seemed to be thick on the ground lately, at least according to Flyer. When Martin had mentioned this, however, Gordon had nearly snapped his head off. He'd been able to get his guests to Monaco, though they'd had to delay two days and had almost missed the Grand Prix. He'd been out of sorts ever since.
"Bloody Carolyn – that horrifying gorgon – rang me up today and demanded that I – that we," he amended, "attend Arthur's bloody birthday party tonight. Christ's sake – he's twenty-eight, or twenty-nine, I can't remember, but you'd think he'd be a bit old for birthday parties."
"But I told you about the party weeks ago, Gordon." Martin pointed at the refrigerator, where the invitation stared them in the face. A few replies zoomed rapidly over the threshold of Martin's consciousness: Gordon should have remembered his son's birthday; knowing Arthur, he should have known that Arthur was always excited about his birthday; people were entitled to have parties no matter how old they were. Two years ago, he might have said all that. However, he now realised the wisdom of maintaining a prudent silence. Gordon already looked irritated.
And evidently, he was. His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward Martin. "What?"
Martin forced a smile to drag his mouth upward and, with deceptive casualness, turned to pour tonic water into the glass of ice and gin. "You're so busy, of course it slipped your mind. I should have chivvied you a week ago."
"Why didn't you, for God's sake?" Gordon took the glass that Martin proffered.
"Sorry. Stupid of me." He indicated the gift on the kitchen table with a backward wave of his hand. "I just wrapped his gift. I can mark it from both of us if you like."
"Do that." Gordon sat heavily in a chair and sipped his drink. He didn't inquire what was beneath the wrapping. "We've got to be there at seven. Go and tart yourself up."
Martin stiffened at the disdainful, abrupt tone of Gordon's voice. For a moment – just a tiny, fleeting moment – he hated him, his peremptory commands, the anger he seemed to nurture and thrive upon, the temper that sometimes erupted, with Martin as a target.
Not for the first time, he wondered just how he'd got in so deep.
*
He towelled off quickly and wriggled into fresh clothes, dark jeans and a soft cashmere pullover the colour of milky tea. He was trying to comb down the worst of his cowlicks when Gordon strolled into the room with a fresh drink, possibly his third, if the ruddiness of his face was any indicator of consumption. He seemed more relaxed, but not necessarily more happy. Martin trod softly. "Almost ready."
Gordon went to the closet and pulled open Martin's half – well, quarter was probably more accurate – and withdrew a navy-blue suit. "I'd rather you wore this. I've got friends coming to this ridiculous little soiree, and I'd prefer less mutton dressed as lamb."
Martin looked down at the polished surface of the dressing table and pressed his lips together. He glanced up and saw Gordon watching him in the mirror. "I'm only thirty-two," he said lightly. "Planning to trade me in for a younger model?"
Gordon moved closer, then smacked Martin hard on the backside. "Not yet. I'll wait 'til you turn thirty-five." He gave Martin a little push. "I'm joking, for God's sake, don't pull that long face on me. Come on, chickpea, get dressed."
"Carolyn said not to bother to dress."
"She would, though, wouldn't she? The cunt dresses like a landfill."
Martin hated to hear Gordon tear Carolyn down. She was a bit scary and decidedly snippy and sarcastic, but he was fond of her all the same. "Gordon –"
"Time's wasting, Martin."
Nodding, Martin took the suit from Gordon, avoiding his eyes, and laid it carefully on the bed. He stripped quickly and hurried into a crisp white shirt and the suit. The suit never looked quite right on him. Certainly it was handsome, well-cut, and expensive, but he always felt as if he were impersonating a banker when he had it on. Laboriously, he knotted the tie, a birthday gift from Gordon, and then tried a final pat-down of his hair.
Gordon stepped behind him, set his drink on the dressing table, and clasped Martin in his arms. "That's smashing, love." One hand slipped low and fondled roughly.
Martin laughed. "Time's wasting."
"I think we've got time for a quickie."
"You should have said so before I showered." Martin tried to wriggle out of Gordon's grasp. "Really, Gordon –" He managed to turn around, but Gordon wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him in for a kiss. His teeth pressed against Martin's lower lip until Martin acquiesced and opened his mouth to keep from being bruised. "Gordon, come on," he mumbled, or tried to, since his mouth was being plundered by Gordon's tongue.
Still kissing Martin, Gordon opened a drawer of the dressing table and rummaged, pulling out the container of lubricant. "I want that sweet little arse."
"We'll be late." Martin tried to pull away, but Gordon held him close and rubbed his cock through his trousers, and it began to stand to attention. "Gordon –"
"Shut up and unbutton." Gordon was unbuttoning his own trousers.
"I really think we should –" A surprised little cry escaped him as Gordon darted forward and grasped his jaw. He stumbled backward and banged into the dressing table. Nowhere to go.
Gordon squeezed Martin's face, hard, fingers digging into Martin's cheeks. "You think? You think what, chickpea? Since when do I ask you to think?" His voice was deadly soft, and his eyes, though bloodshot, regarded Martin with what seemed affection and even amusement.
Martin didn't dare grab at Gordon's wrist. "Gordon –"
"Shut up. Shut the fuck up. You're going to take your fucking trousers down, and then you're going to turn around and bend over. That doesn't require much thinking, pet." He let Martin's face go and took a step back.
Tears of pain dammed up in Martin's eyes, but he nodded, unfastened his trousers, and then turned around. He looked at himself in the mirror, saw the angry red marks on his face and leant over, supporting himself on his forearms and staring down at the dressing table as Gordon kicked his legs apart and yanked his trousers to his knees. He concentrated on the items littering the table's surface – a pair of gold cufflinks, a thin gold chain, a platinum collar pin, his iPod – all gifts from Gordon, each present a link in the chain that fettered him to the man thrusting two lubricant-slick fingers up his arse.
He squeezed his eyes shut as Gordon pushed himself inside so hard it shoved Martin forward, nearly upsetting the dressing table and its contents. He held on and gritted his teeth, wincing as his own cock twitched unwillingly, aroused despite the brutality of Gordon's thrusts. It would be over soon; all he had to do was wait it out and say nothing. Gordon never took long, but if he were interrupted, Martin would have to contend with more than hard fingertips grinding into his face. Gordon rooted and lunged, grunting; Martin kept his eyes closed and counted backward from one hundred. His face ached, and the ramming sensation hurt enough to force a few involuntary tears from his eyes. Gordon's hands gripped Martin's hips, holding him still, demanding compliance.
Finally, finally, it was over. Gordon sagged against him, panting, and pulled out with a disgusting wet sound. Martin stayed still, listening to Gordon re-fasten his trousers and retrieve his drink. He heard the clink of ice against Waterford, and then felt Gordon's hands, gentle now, cleaning him with a pocket handkerchief, easing him up. He straightened slowly, his back and arse and face sore, and allowed Gordon to urge him round.
"Come on now." Gordon tossed the handkerchief in the laundry bin, zipped up Martin's trousers and tidied his shirt, then drew Martin into his arms. "Come on, don't pout. I don't understand you, chickpea." He kissed Martin's wet cheek and pushed damp curls from Martin's forehead. "You can't pretend you didn't like it. You're still half-hard, for Christ's sake."
Which was true. Martin held himself stiffly, unyielding as Gordon hugged him and murmured into his ear. Get away, he wanted to say – to scream, in fact, to bellow and roar. Get away, you heartless bastard. Instead, he said, "Why did you –" His voice hitched. "Gordon, you can't – you can't –" He tried for a voice filled with anger and disdain, and failed utterly. And that was all. He couldn't get another word out. He'd blubber, and his half-hard cock, wilting now, had betrayed him. Oh, God. I hate this. I hate this.
"I don't ask much of you, do I?" Gordon murmured. "Do I? I don't force you to go out to work, I don't make you cook or clean. I give you everything you could possibly want. A bit of respect, a little understanding when I've had a rough day, that's all I ask in return. Don't get dramatic on me." His voice dipped downward, still calm, but carrying a decided warning.
Martin nodded. "I don't suppose I have time for another shower." He felt dirty, achy, and oddly scorched, as if he'd stood in a wind and sun-blasted desert for hours.
Gordon chuckled, happy now. "Hardly. We're late as it is. Let's go." He gave Martin's bum a pat, picked up his glass, and was out the door.
Slowly, Martin followed. If a friend – if he'd had any friends – had asked him why he didn't just leave, why he didn't tell Gordon that it was over, they were through, and good riddance – he didn't know what he would say. No-one was forcing him to stay, after all. But where would he go? He hadn't a pound to his name; he'd depleted his bank account. Buying Arthur's gift had wiped it out almost completely. He'd sold his van because Gordon had complained it was an eyesore and he wouldn't have it in the driveway. If he'd gone to his mother or to Simon or Caitlin for help, they would probably laugh at him, or treat him with scorn – and who was to say he didn't deserve it? He'd dug himself a deep hole and if he couldn't clamber out it was his own bloody fault.
It was all cause and effect. Wasn't it?
*
Arthur's face, as he tore the clumsy wrapping from the package, lit up as spectacularly as a skyrocket. "Wow!" He beamed at his father, then at Martin. "That's brilliant!"
Martin couldn't help grinning back at Arthur. He'd seen the remote-control Spitfire in a hobby shop window and had known immediately that Arthur would love it. Suddenly, emptying his bank account seemed a very reasonable action.
Beside him, Gordon muttered, "Damned ridiculous thing to get for a grown man." Then he plastered a big smile on his face. "I knew you'd like it, son."
As Arthur continued to exclaim over his gift, Martin felt Gordon expanding, his feathers becoming smoother and shinier as he basked in Arthur's joy, a singularly odd thing for him to do, as he generally seemed to regard Arthur with the same contempt he displayed for the rest of the human race. All eyes were on him, though, and he was collecting good-dad points, which Arthur bestowed upon him freely. There would be no gratitude for Martin's choice, only the usurpation of it.
Not even the slightest whiff of credit came Martin's way as Gordon propelled him through the crowded room, chatting to guests, nodding graciously at the compliments to his thoughtfulness and excellent display of parenthood, one hand proprietorially gripping Martin's arm above the elbow as if Martin were about to break loose and run for the hills.
"Oh, Christ, no," Gordon said, as Carolyn steamrollered her way toward them. "I'm off for a drink." He let Martin go and disappeared into the crowd.
"Martin," Carolyn said. "Lovely of you and Gordon to show up." Pointed intonation shaded her voice.
"He was tied up at work, Carolyn," Martin apologised. "Thanks for inviting me."
"Certainly. I see Gordon still hasn't developed a backbone," Carolyn said. "Skulking in the corner with a drink in his hand and avoiding me and leaving you to do his dirty work." She sighed. "Well, never mind. I expect you'll come to your senses one day. What on earth happened to your face?"
Caught off guard, Martin blushed and stammered. "I, er, I slipped and fell in the shower. It's not as bad as it looks."
Carolyn's gaze narrowed, and deep vertical lines appeared between her brows. "Did you indeed," she said flatly. "I seem to recall falling in the shower once or twice when Gordon and I were married."
"Did you? Gosh, that's awful. I – I mean it's –" Helplessly he groped for a response. Surely she didn't mean what he thought she might have meant. Carolyn was intimidating in her strength; Gordon had intimated that she'd bullied him nearly into a premature grave. Confused, he retreated to an excuse. "I should probably get one of those floor mat things with the little sticky bits on the bottom."
"Yes. Or perhaps you should leave that no-good, selfish, miserable rodent posthaste."
"Martin!"
Martin breathed a sigh of relief as Arthur descended upon them. "Hello, Arthur. Happy birthday." He offered Arthur his hand, but Arthur ignored the hand and swept Martin into an enthusiastic hug that squeezed the breath out of him. "How are you?" he wheezed.
"I'm great! Thanks a million for the Spitfire, Martin. Best birthday gift ever. Except for the car when I was twenty, that was nice. Mum gave me that. And the helicopter ride three years ago. And that book Cars and Trucks and Things That Go when I was five. But your gift is fantastic!" Arthur flashed an infectious grin. "Why don't you come on over tomorrow and help me put it together?"
"I'd like that," Martin replied. "I'll check and see if it's all r –" He saw Carolyn tilt her head to one side in speculative disapproval. "That is, I'm sure it'll be fine. Gordon – your dad was thrilled that you liked it."
"Yeah, but you're the one who picked it out. Dad would never get me a present like that. He gets me things like ties and subscriptions to Smart Investor. Besides, you and I were talking about aeroplanes a couple of months ago, remember? Anyway, thanks, it's brilliant."
A little glow suffused Martin's entire being. "I – I'm really glad you like it, Arthur."
"Oh, I do. What happened to your face?"
Martin's hand flew up to his cheek. "I fell. Carolyn, would you point me toward the loo?"
Carolyn lifted an eyebrow. "Down the hall, third door on the left."
He didn't need the loo, but it was the most convenient method of escape he could conceive. "Thanks." Martin pushed through the crowd, safe in his anonymity. Some people knew him, but only as an adjunct to Gordon. He doubted any of Gordon's friends even knew his name. If he walked out of the house and disappeared, nobody would miss him. Gordon might not even realise he was gone until the following day; he had a remarkable talent for ignoring Martin when he chose.
He found the loo and went inside, flipping the switch and locking the door behind him. Confronted by a large, gilt-edged mirror, he stared at himself: his perpetually awry hair that no comb or product could tame, the expensive and faintly ludicrous blue suit, the Dunhill tie, the finger-shaped bruises on his face. Everything courtesy of Gordon.
It wasn't so bad. He might have fallen, after all, and received multiple bruises. Anyhow, it had only happened once.
Oh, really?
And besides, Gordon hadn't meant it; he was under terrible stress at work, and hadn't found a new pilot, and things were usually okay. He didn't lose his temper often. Things were just…stressful now, that was all.
Stressful. Right.
He turned away from the mirror and his accusatory reflection.
tbc....
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Date: 2013-07-17 11:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 03:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 01:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 03:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-18 02:50 am (UTC)So you'll have to picture it: Most of the postal delivery vehicles around here are minivans. So I've got the back popped open and half emptied of mail, parked on a residential street between two driveways. And I'm sitting in the open back. Reading this on my phone.
Heh. Well, I found it amusing. (It's right up there with the times I've listened to Three-Patch Podcast while working in the huge mail room of a ginormous apartment complex.)
ANYWAY. I'm enjoying the hell out of this story. Ugh, poor Martin. I <3 Carolyn but I tend to <3 her generally. You've got everyone's "voices" really nailed down!
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Date: 2013-07-18 03:59 am (UTC)Ehehe. I'm glad you're enjoying it. I adore Carolyn, she's made of steel, that woman. Thank you for the lovely comment!
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Date: 2013-08-17 05:22 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you at least suggested that Carolyn had been through the wringer with Gordon, too. As the one human being on the planet that Arthur doesn't think is brilliant (and who he is desperate to please, poor lamb) we know Gordon has to be truly, truly AWFUL. Also I love fics that cover the fact that it isn't weak people who get abused. (Had a few friends go through it... and yeah. Not weak women at all.)
Hmmm. How d'you plan on getting Carolyn G-ERTI?
Saying again - LOVING THIS. <3
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Date: 2013-08-18 04:55 am (UTC)I decided to leave it fluid [for now] about how long Carolyn would have stayed with Gordon, but certainly long enough to get to the truth of who he is and the things of which he's capable. And totally agreed on weakness not being a factor.
All shall be revealed! Thank you so very much.