FIC: A Million By Tuesday [5/?]
Aug. 14th, 2013 11:05 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. Additional thanks to skywriter98, haveasipofmoriartea and smallsteps32 on tumblr for helping to resolve the coffee question. :)
Can also be read on AO3
*
Not for nothing had Douglas spent three decades as a pilot and seventeen years as a father; his reflexes were honed to a keen edge and cat-quick. Almost without thinking he reached out and grabbed the front of Martin's jacket, yanking him forward before he plummeted down the steep cellar stairs.
Martin clung to Douglas desperately for a moment, panting and gasping, before freezing in Douglas' inadvertent embrace. Slowly, he looked up and met Douglas' gaze. His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth.
"No," Douglas said, clamping one hand over Martin's mouth. "No, no. Don't."
Martin's eyes got even wider and he made a strangled whimpering noise. He started to fight, and Douglas spun him round and put him in a headlock, then pushed hard behind his knees, driving him to the floor. He grasped Martin's arm and twisted it behind his back. "Are you going to be quiet?"
"I don't – please, please, you're hurting me!"
Douglas eased up ever so slightly. "You realise you're in an exceedingly vulnerable position. I could break your arm."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me. Please." Martin's body was heaving, and his voice a bit garbled from the chokehold.
"We're going back downstairs, and you're going to stay quiet, or you'll be very, very sorry. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Martin gasped. "Please –"
Douglas pulled Martin up and dragged him to the stairs. "Watch your step." He kept a hold on Martin's arm as he propelled him down the stairs and back to the chair. "Sit," he snapped, pushing him down, and grabbed the gaffing tape from the bureau. He ripped off a piece and taped one of Martin's wrists to the end slat, then did the same with the other wrist. He taped Martin's ankles and knees for good measure, then ripped off one last piece.
"Wait," Martin said, giving Douglas a teary, beseeching look. "Please don't. My – my mouth is still raw from last night."
"Gosh, that's too bad," Douglas retorted. "Your comfort is my first priority."
"I know you," Martin blurted out. "You're Douglas Richardson."
Any vague hope that Douglas had harboured that Martin might not recognise him promptly dissolved. Angrily, he slapped the tape over Martin's mouth. "You know what that means for you?" Martin shook his head, and a tear slipped down his face. "I wouldn't cry if I were you. Might not be able to breathe properly." He double-checked the bindings – no chance he'd allow Martin to escape a second time – then went to the stairs, pivoting at the foot to face Martin once more. "You try to get away again, and you'll be very, very sorry, I promise you that."
Martin bowed his head and stared at his lap. Another tear fell, disappearing into the dark cotton fabric of his trousers.
Douglas ascended the stairs and closed the cellar door, then slumped into the nearest chair. Oh God, oh Christ almighty. He was sunk.
He was a better than fair actor; somewhere in the ancestral woodpile, he was sure, reposed some fine fellow or miss who'd trodden the boards at the Globe. As long as he was wearing the balaclava, as long as he had the mask of anonymity, he could be a totally authentic kidnapper. He'd thought his threats to Martin last night had been remarkably effective; certainly Martin had been cowed by them. But he hadn't been cowed enough to stay where he was. That said, Douglas had to give him points for determination. It must have taken a great deal of effort to free himself – good job he hadn't managed to do so until morning.
"Damn, damn, damn," Douglas groaned, and buried his face in his arms. Now what? Martin had seen his face, knew who he was. He certainly wasn't going to keep his mouth shut once he was freed. Douglas had put all his eggs in one basket and then flung it into a brick wall. He'd counted on Martin never seeing his face. He'd counted on him staying put and being perfectly docile. He'd counted on not really having to use violence at all. A perfectly pleasant, civilised abduction, straight down the toilet. And no matter how nasty his threats, he couldn't bring himself to kill or even really hurt Martin Crieff, who was after all an innocent victim, and whom he really couldn't blame for trying to escape. Douglas could manage to kill to defend his own life, or his daughter's, or even his ex-wives. But murdering in cold blood? God, no.
He could threaten to kill Martin; he'd as much as said so just now. Leave him somewhere that was difficult to find, after obtaining the ransom money, and get on a plane for anywhere. Ibiza. Florence. Nice. Maui. Barbados. He had about eight hundred in the bank, and he might be able to arrange for a quick if shady deal for the Lexus. Sophie would get the house….
He'd never see Sophie again, never see her blossom into adulthood, never see her marry, never see the children she might one day bear. As a fugitive, he couldn't endanger her or himself by making contact. The thought made him want to curl up and weep. What was the penalty for kidnapping in the UK anyhow? Douglas groaned again. You might have thought this out a bit more thoroughly. But his luck had never failed, up 'til now.
Wearily, he sat up and laid both hands flat on the table. No. You're going about this all wrong. You are an inherently fortunate individual. This is a stopgap, no more. Calm down, think it through, and everything will be fine.
Probably.
*
He showered and dressed, then came downstairs for a late breakfast. He read the newspaper as he ate, checking carefully for any mention of the kidnapping. Satisfied that Gordon was complying with his demands, he washed his plate and coffee cup, looked at the leftover bacon, and sighed. Quickly, he scrambled three eggs, grilled a tomato, buttered some toast and made more coffee, then descended the stairs with a tray carefully balanced in his hands. "Are you hun –" He froze.
Martin was gone.
He held on to the tray for lack of anything else to cling to, and then heard a muffled whimper. He frowned and peered through the gloom, taking two cautious steps forward. "Oh, bloody hell."
Martin hadn't escaped – he'd tipped the chair over, probably in another effort to free himself, and was lying awkwardly on the floor, still firmly taped to the chair. He looked at Douglas and made another pathetic whimpering noise.
"I should leave you there." Douglas set the tray on the bureau and glared down at Martin. "Trying to escape again?"
Red-faced, Martin squeezed his eyes shut and sniffled.
"Good Lord." Douglas took hold of the chair and heaved it, and Martin, upright once more. "I suppose I'll have to bolt it to the wall. I brought you some food. If I take the tape off, are you going to stay quiet?" Martin nodded, and Douglas prised a corner of the tape free. "Right. Hold still, I'll move slowly." He peeled the tape off carefully, but it still adhered to Martin's mouth and took off bits of skin from his chapped lips. Martin flinched, but remained silent. "Sorry," Douglas said. Then, remembering that he was supposed to be ruthless and cold-blooded, he grasped Martin's hair. "You talk above a whisper and you'll regret it."
Martin licked his lips and nodded again, as best as he could with Douglas' fingers entwined in his messy curls. "Could I have a drink first?"
"It's coffee." Douglas lifted the heavy mug from the tray. "How do you take it?"
"Um – just black, please."
"Black. Very well." Douglas held the mug to Martin's lips. "Here."
Martin sipped carefully and hissed a little as the hot liquid touched his swollen, raw mouth. He sipped again. "Thank you."
Douglas put the coffee on the tray. "I didn't bring any condiments and don't feel like trotting upstairs for any, so you'll have to eat your eggs plain. You're not one of those tiresome vegan people, are you?"
"No. No, I like eggs." Martin glanced at him timidly. "And bacon."
"How extremely convenient." Douglas picked up the plate, then sighed. "Look. I don't fancy feeding you, so I'm going to undo one arm. I want to hear that you're not going to give me any trouble."
"No. No, I promise."
"Good." Douglas cut one hand free. "I'm going to run out of tape at this rate." He set the plate on Martin's lap and handed him a fork. "You're lucky you didn't break your arm or leg when you fell over, you know."
Martin opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly and looked down at his plate. He took a forkful of eggs and shovelled it in, as if he hadn't eaten for weeks.
Douglas sat on the bed and folded his arms. "What?"
"Sorry?"
"You were about to say something."
Martin swallowed. "No, no." He reached awkwardly for the coffee and took another sip, then carefully set it back on the bureau.
"No, please. Do speak your mind, as long as you're able to speak."
Martin licked his lips. "Well, I was going to thank you, but as you're the one who trapped me down here, I decided not to thank you after all."
"Fair enough." Douglas watched Martin eat for a moment. He certainly was enthusiastic. "Blurting my name out was a rather foolish tactic on your part."
Martin stopped in the middle of a huge bite of bacon, tomato, and toast. "Um –" He chewed hurriedly and swallowed. "I promise not to say anything. About your identity, I mean."
"Oh, rubbish. Of course you're going to tell Gordon who did it. I'm not a complete moron, Mr. Crieff." Douglas sighed heavily. "The exchange was meant to be simple – you for the money, but since you've thrown one hell of a spanner into my works, here's what's going to happen: on Tuesday, I'm going to collect the ransom money and leave you here. I'll give your darling Gordon some clues that will lead him on a bit of a wild goose chase, to give myself a head start. They'll find you, eventually – perhaps Thursday or Friday. You won't starve to death, though you might be a bit uncomfortable. It's no more than you deserve for catching me unawares. By the time they find you, I'll be long gone, and it won't matter what you tell him."
Picking up his fork again, Martin took another bite of bacon, then sliced clumsily at his tomato. Failing to cut it with the fork, he speared it on the tines and brought it to his mouth, taking a large bite. He chewed slowly, then said, "I might die of thirst."
"You won't die, for God's sake," Douglas snapped. "Look, I'll rig something up for you. A bottle of water and a straw or something."
Martin muttered something inaudible, then took another forkful of bacon and eggs.
Douglas frowned. "What's that?"
"I said maybe if you hadn't quit, you wouldn't have works to throw a spanner in. Or – never mind."
"Quit?"
"That's right," Martin said. His face was red. "If it was such a terrible job, you could have at least given him some notice, instead of – of leaving him in the lurch. You've worked for him for years, you know he goes to Monaco for the Grand Prix, and you chose to abandon him at a crucial juncture. You made him look ridiculous in front of his clients. When he finds out you kidnapped me, he's going to do everything he can to ensure that you receive the maximum penalty for what you've done." This little diatribe delivered, Martin lifted his chin. "You've thrown a spanner into your own works. S-so there."
Anger spilled into Douglas' heart, hot and acidic. He got to his feet. "Is that what he told you? That I quit?"
Martin blinked uncertainly. "Well – yes."
"That's what he told you," Douglas said in a soft voice. "That I quit. Well, I've got news for you, boy toy. I didn't quit. He bloody sacked me. He sacked me and dissolved my pension without so much as a by-your-leave and left me destitute. Fifteen years I worked for that wretched waste of space, and somehow it slipped his mind to tell me he'd re-incorporated in bloody Luxembourg. And why is that, I wonder? Because he never intended to tell me in the first place, that's why. Because he knew he could take a quarter of a million pounds that he promised me and dissolve it –" Douglas snapped his fingers. "Like that. Clever of him, I've got to admit."
"But…but…." Martin shook his head. "He said you quit."
"I guess there's a lot he doesn't tell you, either," Douglas spat. "Want to hear something else? He took a very handsome young man along with him to Paris two months ago. And to Amsterdam before that, different handsome young man. Can't think why, since he's got such a devoted husband at home." He snatched the tray from Martin's lap. "You've eaten enough." He set the tray on the bed, grabbed the roll of tape and ripped off a long length to re-secure Martin's right hand, then tore off another piece to gag him. He picked up the tray and marched to the steps, then looked at Martin, who was staring in fright or disbelief or simple stupefaction.
Jesus Christ, this has to be the stupidest mistake you've ever made in your life.
Douglas hurled the tray against the wall. The dish and coffee cup shattered. Brown liquid sprayed across the wall and dripped to the floor. Douglas stopped, startled into quietude by his own burst of rage. His heart raced unevenly, and he glanced at Martin, who now appeared genuinely frightened, cringing in his chair.
Covering his face with his hands, Douglas took a few deep breaths and willed himself to calm down. After a moment, he looked at the mess he'd made. The plate was Spode Lausanne, quite nice, and he'd broken it for nothing.
Who gave a damn? It wasn't as if he needed to clean up, or take his plates with him.
He pounded up the stairs, not giving Martin another glance.
*
He watched television for two hours, clicking restlessly through the channels without settling on one programme for more than five minutes. Martin's stricken face kept drifting into his inner eye. It hadn't been disbelief or stupidity; it had been the expression of a man receiving a shattering mental blow.
Douglas was perfectly aware of his own capacity for cruelty. His wit stung at times, but it was for scoring cleverness points and getting one-up on people in arguments, and he almost always held it in check. The few times he'd stooped to hitting below the belt, it was always apparent – the target of his sarcasm or pique always showed, if only for a split second – a sagging of the face, a blink, tightening of the mouth. It was a cheap, nasty way to score points, and he felt cheap and nasty and he hadn't scored any points at all. It wasn't Martin's fault that Gordon was such a complete bastard, after all. Martin might have been a brainless boy-toy, but he didn't deserve to be kicked whilst already down.
Sighing, Douglas heaved himself up and trudged down the cellar stairs. Martin was sitting quietly, staring down at his knees. "Do you need the loo?"
Martin nodded without looking at him. Douglas cut him free, tied his hands in front of him with rope, and after brushing broken shards of good porcelain into the corner, led him upstairs, hovering about-face in the doorway as Martin made use of the facilities. When he was done, Douglas steered him back downstairs, re-tied his hands to the chair, and carefully peeled the tape from Martin's mouth. Martin winced, but said nothing, and went back to staring at his knees.
The bed creaked as Douglas lowered his weight onto it. "Look," he began. "Martin…." It was odd to say his name. "What I said before, about Gordon. It wasn't true. I was a bit frustrated and angry, and I shouldn't have said those things. I apologise."
From upstairs came the faint noise of some comedy programme – a quick burst of uproarious tinned laughter. Martin continued to stare downward. His chin trembled a bit, but he made no response.
"He travels with all sorts of people – men, women, young, old, good-looking, ugly – but I'm sure you know that."
Silence.
"Once I was flying him to Los Angeles and there were three would-be actors along for the ride, and –"
"Please leave me alone."
Martin's words, though softly spoken, had ferocious impact. "Martin –"
Martin looked up, and his eyes, though suspiciously bright as well as a bit red, gazed at Douglas evenly. "You didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. I realise I'm being forced to stay here, but there's absolutely no reason for us to try to make pointless conversation. So if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to be left alone, please."
It was beyond absurd, but Douglas felt a sudden pang of – was it disappointment? Hurt? God, don't be such an utter arse. Did you think he was going to fall prey to your fatal charm, especially after you terrified him, tied him up, then treated him like dirt and told him his husband was cheating on him? Clearly Stockholm Syndrome wasn't happening here, and that was probably just as well. He got up, then took the knotted tea towels from the bureau. "Open your mouth."
Martin heaved a sigh and opened obediently.
"I'm sorry to have to keep you trussed up like this, but I can't have you attracting attention. I'll be down with tea in a few hours. A sandwich or two. Ham and cheese." Stop talking, you sound like a complete idiot. He moved to the stairs, picked up the overturned tray, and clung to the supporting post for a moment. "Look, I'm a desperate man, but I'm not a –" Hold on. Do you really want to tell your kidnap victim that you're not a monster, not above doing whatever's necessary to obtain your final objective? "I don't usually deal in that sort of…verbal attack, I suppose. I shouldn't have said that to you."
Martin tilted his head delicately to one side as if in inquiry, then went back to gazing at his knees. Fascinating view, apparently.
Excellent. Now that you've established yourself as a polite, apologetic kidnapper with impulse control issues and thoroughly demoralised and bewildered the poor man, go upstairs and leave him alone as he asked you to.
*
Douglas fell asleep in front of the television and woke up to the news. Still nothing about Martin's disappearance. He couldn't quite believe how thoroughly Gordon was capitulating to his demands. If someone had abducted the love of Douglas' life, he wouldn't stop until he found the person responsible and had them thrown into prison.
That said…perhaps Gordon was looking for the person responsible.
Slowly and quietly, as if Gordon were in the next room, Douglas arose and went to the front door, opening it and peering out. Nothing; no police cars, no suspiciously innocuous vehicles. Mrs. Clay next door was watering her jonquils, the twins from the house four doors down were fighting desultorily over a book, and the newlyweds across the street – Arden or Ardwell or something – were having a picnic on the patch of grass in front of the house and snogging over glasses of wine. They noticed him and waved, and he waved back casually. The sky was fading blue with gilt-pink clouds from the sunset, and nobody knew that Douglas Richardson had a young man tied up in his basement. Things were looking up.
He went back inside and made tea and sandwiches, and took them down to the basement, setting the tray on the bureau. "I'm going to untie you so you can have a bit of a stretch and eat, but if you try to run or make trouble, you'll smart for it." He untied Martin, noting that the care and feeding of a captive was a bit more troublesome than he'd initially bargained for. But he knew better than most people how uncomfortable it could get sitting in one place for hours and hours, and he couldn't let the man starve. He was already on the slender side, as if he didn't get enough to eat. Interesting, as Gordon seemed to prefer the tanned, muscle-bound sort of physical specimen, at least judging by his taste in alternative companionship. He wondered what Gordon had seen in Martin, and vice versa. Especially vice versa.
Martin stood and stretched his arms. "Ooh."
Douglas went to the foot of the steps, guarding them. "Walk around a bit. Get the blood moving again. You don't want to end up with DVT. Er – a blood clot."
Martin frowned. Stiffly, he paced back and forth, then leant over to touch his toes. "I know what DVT means. Deep vein thrombosis."
"Sorry," Douglas said. "Have you had one before?" That would be perfect, to have Martin throw a clot under his care. Keeping. Whatever.
"No. It's one of the questions on the Class One medical, as you well know."
Douglas blinked at the curious admixture of hauteur and defensiveness in Martin's voice. "You took the Class One medical? Are you a pilot?" This was new. Gordon had never mentioned it, and Douglas had scarcely said two words to Martin before all this.
"You don't have to say it like that." Martin linked his hands together behind his back, bent over, and raised his hands toward the ceiling.
"Sorry, I'm just surprised. You never said. Gordon never said."
"Well, I'm not a pilot, as it happens. I failed the CPL." Red-faced, Martin straightened up and glared.
"Ah. It is a difficult test." Douglas had breezed through his CPL, but it didn't seem the appropriate time to mention it. "Lots of people fail on their first go."
"And on their second and third?" Martin thumped onto the bed and drew the tray close. He picked up a ham and cheese sandwich and began to eat.
"Ah."
"I'm not stupid," Martin said around a mouthful of sandwich. "I just – I freeze up when I'm taking examinations, that's all. I've always been like that." He sipped tea and gulped another bite.
Douglas decided to tread lightly. "Perhaps Gordon can quiz you beforehand." He found it difficult to imagine Gordon patiently revising with Martin – according to Gordon's ex-wife, he'd scarcely given his own son the time of day – but love was odd. One did things for lovers that would be unthinkable for blood relatives.
"No, he'd never – he's too busy."
No, he'd never was probably more like it. Douglas gazed intently at Martin's face, but Martin was eating and except for a faint furrow in his forehead, seemed placid enough. "How's the sandwich?"
"Delicious." Martin chewed another bite, took a sip of tea, and ran his hand back and forth over the surface of Sophie's old duvet. "Did Gordon really sack you?"
Douglas' mouth twisted wryly. "Yes."
"And strip away your pension?"
"Yes."
Martin sighed softly. "That doesn't…it doesn't give you the right to kidnap someone, no matter how angry you are." He peeked at Douglas quickly, then took another sip. "I-I mean I see why you did it, but it's not right."
"There's very little justice in the world," Douglas said. "If Gordon does everything he's meant to do, you'll be back home within the week." He watched Martin eat the last of his sandwich. "One more loo break before I –" He stopped, uncertain.
"Before you tether me for the night?"
There was unexpected anger in Martin's voice. Douglas had seen touches of Martin's ire, and couldn't help liking him a little for it. "That's right," he replied evenly.
"Fine." They went upstairs again. Martin stopped just over the bathroom threshold and turned to Douglas. "I don't suppose you could let me do this in private? It's not as if there's a window to escape from."
A window through which I might escape, Douglas corrected mentally. "I suppose not. There's nothing more lethal than a safety razor in the cupboards. You get five minutes before I come in, though."
"Hmph." Martin gave him a glare and closed the door. He was feistier with food in him.
Douglas rummaged through the hall closet and found Sophie's old boom box. It was lavender, with lots of chrome. When Martin was through, he came out and eyed the stereo, but said nothing, squaring his shoulders and marching downstairs with a dignity at odds with his slight frame and faintly bedraggled appearance. Douglas followed him down and plugged the stereo into an outlet. "I'd give you a book, but it's hard to read with your hands tied, and I've only got the one television. You can listen to the stereo, though. Radio 4?"
"All right," Martin replied. "Thank you," he added grudgingly.
Douglas took more care binding Martin to the bed this time. He gave him a bit more slack, but double-knotted the rope and checked it thoroughly. "Is the duvet enough?"
"Yes. Was it your girlfriend's?"
"If it were, I'd have been arrested for underage sex long before I entered into a career as a kidnapper. How many grown women do you know who use Sky Dancer bedding?"
Martin turned a bit red. "I was just curious."
"It belonged to my daughter. She didn't take it with her when she moved out, more's the pity." A stab of longing pierced Douglas' middle. Sophie was on summer hols; he'd try to see her once more before he had to flee the country. Tomorrow was the only day to do it.
"The blonde girl who was with you before we flew to St. Moritz?"
"That's right," Douglas said, surprised. "How did you know?" He tuned the stereo to Radio 4, leaving it loud enough to hear but not so loud as to be obnoxious.
"I saw you with her. You were hugging and kissing her and…well, I suppose I remembered, that's all." Martin sounded defensive again.
"Funny, I rather thought I was beneath your notice." Douglas picked up the tea towels.
Martin's face was even ruddier. "I'm not a snob."
"Gordon certainly is."
"Well, I'm not Gordon."
Douglas lifted an eyebrow. "So I'm discovering."
"Please," Martin said. "Let me go. I promise I won't say anything, and I – I'll even ask Gordon to give you a reference. I swear, I won't say a word."
"And don't you think that Gordon will put two and two together if you just happen to ask me for a reference immediately following your kidnapping?" He slipped the gag back into Martin's mouth, tied it tightly, and picked up the tray. He wavered for a moment, then took the plunge. "Look, I'm not going to hurt you. Cooperate with me, and you'll be home in no time. All right?" He wasn't entirely certain why he'd said that…unless it was the little remark about seeing Sophie. That was…Martin Crieff wasn't quite what he'd expected.
Clear relief flooded Martin's eyes as he nodded, and Douglas went back upstairs to watch a bit more telly before turning in for the night.
Once again, his thoughts strayed to Martin, but the thoughts were tinged a softer hue. Douglas realised that he shouldn't have said a word about not hurting him, but the relief in Martin's eyes had been…gratifying, somehow.
Before he went to bed, he opened the cellar door and listened, then tiptoed downstairs. Radio 4 was murmuring quietly, and Martin was asleep, his face turned toward Douglas, his mouth slightly open. He was snoring softly.
Douglas, the ruthless, brutal kidnapper, found himself smiling as he ascended the stairs.
*
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. Additional thanks to skywriter98, haveasipofmoriartea and smallsteps32 on tumblr for helping to resolve the coffee question. :)Can also be read on AO3
*
Not for nothing had Douglas spent three decades as a pilot and seventeen years as a father; his reflexes were honed to a keen edge and cat-quick. Almost without thinking he reached out and grabbed the front of Martin's jacket, yanking him forward before he plummeted down the steep cellar stairs.
Martin clung to Douglas desperately for a moment, panting and gasping, before freezing in Douglas' inadvertent embrace. Slowly, he looked up and met Douglas' gaze. His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth.
"No," Douglas said, clamping one hand over Martin's mouth. "No, no. Don't."
Martin's eyes got even wider and he made a strangled whimpering noise. He started to fight, and Douglas spun him round and put him in a headlock, then pushed hard behind his knees, driving him to the floor. He grasped Martin's arm and twisted it behind his back. "Are you going to be quiet?"
"I don't – please, please, you're hurting me!"
Douglas eased up ever so slightly. "You realise you're in an exceedingly vulnerable position. I could break your arm."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me. Please." Martin's body was heaving, and his voice a bit garbled from the chokehold.
"We're going back downstairs, and you're going to stay quiet, or you'll be very, very sorry. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Martin gasped. "Please –"
Douglas pulled Martin up and dragged him to the stairs. "Watch your step." He kept a hold on Martin's arm as he propelled him down the stairs and back to the chair. "Sit," he snapped, pushing him down, and grabbed the gaffing tape from the bureau. He ripped off a piece and taped one of Martin's wrists to the end slat, then did the same with the other wrist. He taped Martin's ankles and knees for good measure, then ripped off one last piece.
"Wait," Martin said, giving Douglas a teary, beseeching look. "Please don't. My – my mouth is still raw from last night."
"Gosh, that's too bad," Douglas retorted. "Your comfort is my first priority."
"I know you," Martin blurted out. "You're Douglas Richardson."
Any vague hope that Douglas had harboured that Martin might not recognise him promptly dissolved. Angrily, he slapped the tape over Martin's mouth. "You know what that means for you?" Martin shook his head, and a tear slipped down his face. "I wouldn't cry if I were you. Might not be able to breathe properly." He double-checked the bindings – no chance he'd allow Martin to escape a second time – then went to the stairs, pivoting at the foot to face Martin once more. "You try to get away again, and you'll be very, very sorry, I promise you that."
Martin bowed his head and stared at his lap. Another tear fell, disappearing into the dark cotton fabric of his trousers.
Douglas ascended the stairs and closed the cellar door, then slumped into the nearest chair. Oh God, oh Christ almighty. He was sunk.
He was a better than fair actor; somewhere in the ancestral woodpile, he was sure, reposed some fine fellow or miss who'd trodden the boards at the Globe. As long as he was wearing the balaclava, as long as he had the mask of anonymity, he could be a totally authentic kidnapper. He'd thought his threats to Martin last night had been remarkably effective; certainly Martin had been cowed by them. But he hadn't been cowed enough to stay where he was. That said, Douglas had to give him points for determination. It must have taken a great deal of effort to free himself – good job he hadn't managed to do so until morning.
"Damn, damn, damn," Douglas groaned, and buried his face in his arms. Now what? Martin had seen his face, knew who he was. He certainly wasn't going to keep his mouth shut once he was freed. Douglas had put all his eggs in one basket and then flung it into a brick wall. He'd counted on Martin never seeing his face. He'd counted on him staying put and being perfectly docile. He'd counted on not really having to use violence at all. A perfectly pleasant, civilised abduction, straight down the toilet. And no matter how nasty his threats, he couldn't bring himself to kill or even really hurt Martin Crieff, who was after all an innocent victim, and whom he really couldn't blame for trying to escape. Douglas could manage to kill to defend his own life, or his daughter's, or even his ex-wives. But murdering in cold blood? God, no.
He could threaten to kill Martin; he'd as much as said so just now. Leave him somewhere that was difficult to find, after obtaining the ransom money, and get on a plane for anywhere. Ibiza. Florence. Nice. Maui. Barbados. He had about eight hundred in the bank, and he might be able to arrange for a quick if shady deal for the Lexus. Sophie would get the house….
He'd never see Sophie again, never see her blossom into adulthood, never see her marry, never see the children she might one day bear. As a fugitive, he couldn't endanger her or himself by making contact. The thought made him want to curl up and weep. What was the penalty for kidnapping in the UK anyhow? Douglas groaned again. You might have thought this out a bit more thoroughly. But his luck had never failed, up 'til now.
Wearily, he sat up and laid both hands flat on the table. No. You're going about this all wrong. You are an inherently fortunate individual. This is a stopgap, no more. Calm down, think it through, and everything will be fine.
Probably.
*
He showered and dressed, then came downstairs for a late breakfast. He read the newspaper as he ate, checking carefully for any mention of the kidnapping. Satisfied that Gordon was complying with his demands, he washed his plate and coffee cup, looked at the leftover bacon, and sighed. Quickly, he scrambled three eggs, grilled a tomato, buttered some toast and made more coffee, then descended the stairs with a tray carefully balanced in his hands. "Are you hun –" He froze.
Martin was gone.
He held on to the tray for lack of anything else to cling to, and then heard a muffled whimper. He frowned and peered through the gloom, taking two cautious steps forward. "Oh, bloody hell."
Martin hadn't escaped – he'd tipped the chair over, probably in another effort to free himself, and was lying awkwardly on the floor, still firmly taped to the chair. He looked at Douglas and made another pathetic whimpering noise.
"I should leave you there." Douglas set the tray on the bureau and glared down at Martin. "Trying to escape again?"
Red-faced, Martin squeezed his eyes shut and sniffled.
"Good Lord." Douglas took hold of the chair and heaved it, and Martin, upright once more. "I suppose I'll have to bolt it to the wall. I brought you some food. If I take the tape off, are you going to stay quiet?" Martin nodded, and Douglas prised a corner of the tape free. "Right. Hold still, I'll move slowly." He peeled the tape off carefully, but it still adhered to Martin's mouth and took off bits of skin from his chapped lips. Martin flinched, but remained silent. "Sorry," Douglas said. Then, remembering that he was supposed to be ruthless and cold-blooded, he grasped Martin's hair. "You talk above a whisper and you'll regret it."
Martin licked his lips and nodded again, as best as he could with Douglas' fingers entwined in his messy curls. "Could I have a drink first?"
"It's coffee." Douglas lifted the heavy mug from the tray. "How do you take it?"
"Um – just black, please."
"Black. Very well." Douglas held the mug to Martin's lips. "Here."
Martin sipped carefully and hissed a little as the hot liquid touched his swollen, raw mouth. He sipped again. "Thank you."
Douglas put the coffee on the tray. "I didn't bring any condiments and don't feel like trotting upstairs for any, so you'll have to eat your eggs plain. You're not one of those tiresome vegan people, are you?"
"No. No, I like eggs." Martin glanced at him timidly. "And bacon."
"How extremely convenient." Douglas picked up the plate, then sighed. "Look. I don't fancy feeding you, so I'm going to undo one arm. I want to hear that you're not going to give me any trouble."
"No. No, I promise."
"Good." Douglas cut one hand free. "I'm going to run out of tape at this rate." He set the plate on Martin's lap and handed him a fork. "You're lucky you didn't break your arm or leg when you fell over, you know."
Martin opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly and looked down at his plate. He took a forkful of eggs and shovelled it in, as if he hadn't eaten for weeks.
Douglas sat on the bed and folded his arms. "What?"
"Sorry?"
"You were about to say something."
Martin swallowed. "No, no." He reached awkwardly for the coffee and took another sip, then carefully set it back on the bureau.
"No, please. Do speak your mind, as long as you're able to speak."
Martin licked his lips. "Well, I was going to thank you, but as you're the one who trapped me down here, I decided not to thank you after all."
"Fair enough." Douglas watched Martin eat for a moment. He certainly was enthusiastic. "Blurting my name out was a rather foolish tactic on your part."
Martin stopped in the middle of a huge bite of bacon, tomato, and toast. "Um –" He chewed hurriedly and swallowed. "I promise not to say anything. About your identity, I mean."
"Oh, rubbish. Of course you're going to tell Gordon who did it. I'm not a complete moron, Mr. Crieff." Douglas sighed heavily. "The exchange was meant to be simple – you for the money, but since you've thrown one hell of a spanner into my works, here's what's going to happen: on Tuesday, I'm going to collect the ransom money and leave you here. I'll give your darling Gordon some clues that will lead him on a bit of a wild goose chase, to give myself a head start. They'll find you, eventually – perhaps Thursday or Friday. You won't starve to death, though you might be a bit uncomfortable. It's no more than you deserve for catching me unawares. By the time they find you, I'll be long gone, and it won't matter what you tell him."
Picking up his fork again, Martin took another bite of bacon, then sliced clumsily at his tomato. Failing to cut it with the fork, he speared it on the tines and brought it to his mouth, taking a large bite. He chewed slowly, then said, "I might die of thirst."
"You won't die, for God's sake," Douglas snapped. "Look, I'll rig something up for you. A bottle of water and a straw or something."
Martin muttered something inaudible, then took another forkful of bacon and eggs.
Douglas frowned. "What's that?"
"I said maybe if you hadn't quit, you wouldn't have works to throw a spanner in. Or – never mind."
"Quit?"
"That's right," Martin said. His face was red. "If it was such a terrible job, you could have at least given him some notice, instead of – of leaving him in the lurch. You've worked for him for years, you know he goes to Monaco for the Grand Prix, and you chose to abandon him at a crucial juncture. You made him look ridiculous in front of his clients. When he finds out you kidnapped me, he's going to do everything he can to ensure that you receive the maximum penalty for what you've done." This little diatribe delivered, Martin lifted his chin. "You've thrown a spanner into your own works. S-so there."
Anger spilled into Douglas' heart, hot and acidic. He got to his feet. "Is that what he told you? That I quit?"
Martin blinked uncertainly. "Well – yes."
"That's what he told you," Douglas said in a soft voice. "That I quit. Well, I've got news for you, boy toy. I didn't quit. He bloody sacked me. He sacked me and dissolved my pension without so much as a by-your-leave and left me destitute. Fifteen years I worked for that wretched waste of space, and somehow it slipped his mind to tell me he'd re-incorporated in bloody Luxembourg. And why is that, I wonder? Because he never intended to tell me in the first place, that's why. Because he knew he could take a quarter of a million pounds that he promised me and dissolve it –" Douglas snapped his fingers. "Like that. Clever of him, I've got to admit."
"But…but…." Martin shook his head. "He said you quit."
"I guess there's a lot he doesn't tell you, either," Douglas spat. "Want to hear something else? He took a very handsome young man along with him to Paris two months ago. And to Amsterdam before that, different handsome young man. Can't think why, since he's got such a devoted husband at home." He snatched the tray from Martin's lap. "You've eaten enough." He set the tray on the bed, grabbed the roll of tape and ripped off a long length to re-secure Martin's right hand, then tore off another piece to gag him. He picked up the tray and marched to the steps, then looked at Martin, who was staring in fright or disbelief or simple stupefaction.
Jesus Christ, this has to be the stupidest mistake you've ever made in your life.
Douglas hurled the tray against the wall. The dish and coffee cup shattered. Brown liquid sprayed across the wall and dripped to the floor. Douglas stopped, startled into quietude by his own burst of rage. His heart raced unevenly, and he glanced at Martin, who now appeared genuinely frightened, cringing in his chair.
Covering his face with his hands, Douglas took a few deep breaths and willed himself to calm down. After a moment, he looked at the mess he'd made. The plate was Spode Lausanne, quite nice, and he'd broken it for nothing.
Who gave a damn? It wasn't as if he needed to clean up, or take his plates with him.
He pounded up the stairs, not giving Martin another glance.
*
He watched television for two hours, clicking restlessly through the channels without settling on one programme for more than five minutes. Martin's stricken face kept drifting into his inner eye. It hadn't been disbelief or stupidity; it had been the expression of a man receiving a shattering mental blow.
Douglas was perfectly aware of his own capacity for cruelty. His wit stung at times, but it was for scoring cleverness points and getting one-up on people in arguments, and he almost always held it in check. The few times he'd stooped to hitting below the belt, it was always apparent – the target of his sarcasm or pique always showed, if only for a split second – a sagging of the face, a blink, tightening of the mouth. It was a cheap, nasty way to score points, and he felt cheap and nasty and he hadn't scored any points at all. It wasn't Martin's fault that Gordon was such a complete bastard, after all. Martin might have been a brainless boy-toy, but he didn't deserve to be kicked whilst already down.
Sighing, Douglas heaved himself up and trudged down the cellar stairs. Martin was sitting quietly, staring down at his knees. "Do you need the loo?"
Martin nodded without looking at him. Douglas cut him free, tied his hands in front of him with rope, and after brushing broken shards of good porcelain into the corner, led him upstairs, hovering about-face in the doorway as Martin made use of the facilities. When he was done, Douglas steered him back downstairs, re-tied his hands to the chair, and carefully peeled the tape from Martin's mouth. Martin winced, but said nothing, and went back to staring at his knees.
The bed creaked as Douglas lowered his weight onto it. "Look," he began. "Martin…." It was odd to say his name. "What I said before, about Gordon. It wasn't true. I was a bit frustrated and angry, and I shouldn't have said those things. I apologise."
From upstairs came the faint noise of some comedy programme – a quick burst of uproarious tinned laughter. Martin continued to stare downward. His chin trembled a bit, but he made no response.
"He travels with all sorts of people – men, women, young, old, good-looking, ugly – but I'm sure you know that."
Silence.
"Once I was flying him to Los Angeles and there were three would-be actors along for the ride, and –"
"Please leave me alone."
Martin's words, though softly spoken, had ferocious impact. "Martin –"
Martin looked up, and his eyes, though suspiciously bright as well as a bit red, gazed at Douglas evenly. "You didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. I realise I'm being forced to stay here, but there's absolutely no reason for us to try to make pointless conversation. So if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to be left alone, please."
It was beyond absurd, but Douglas felt a sudden pang of – was it disappointment? Hurt? God, don't be such an utter arse. Did you think he was going to fall prey to your fatal charm, especially after you terrified him, tied him up, then treated him like dirt and told him his husband was cheating on him? Clearly Stockholm Syndrome wasn't happening here, and that was probably just as well. He got up, then took the knotted tea towels from the bureau. "Open your mouth."
Martin heaved a sigh and opened obediently.
"I'm sorry to have to keep you trussed up like this, but I can't have you attracting attention. I'll be down with tea in a few hours. A sandwich or two. Ham and cheese." Stop talking, you sound like a complete idiot. He moved to the stairs, picked up the overturned tray, and clung to the supporting post for a moment. "Look, I'm a desperate man, but I'm not a –" Hold on. Do you really want to tell your kidnap victim that you're not a monster, not above doing whatever's necessary to obtain your final objective? "I don't usually deal in that sort of…verbal attack, I suppose. I shouldn't have said that to you."
Martin tilted his head delicately to one side as if in inquiry, then went back to gazing at his knees. Fascinating view, apparently.
Excellent. Now that you've established yourself as a polite, apologetic kidnapper with impulse control issues and thoroughly demoralised and bewildered the poor man, go upstairs and leave him alone as he asked you to.
*
Douglas fell asleep in front of the television and woke up to the news. Still nothing about Martin's disappearance. He couldn't quite believe how thoroughly Gordon was capitulating to his demands. If someone had abducted the love of Douglas' life, he wouldn't stop until he found the person responsible and had them thrown into prison.
That said…perhaps Gordon was looking for the person responsible.
Slowly and quietly, as if Gordon were in the next room, Douglas arose and went to the front door, opening it and peering out. Nothing; no police cars, no suspiciously innocuous vehicles. Mrs. Clay next door was watering her jonquils, the twins from the house four doors down were fighting desultorily over a book, and the newlyweds across the street – Arden or Ardwell or something – were having a picnic on the patch of grass in front of the house and snogging over glasses of wine. They noticed him and waved, and he waved back casually. The sky was fading blue with gilt-pink clouds from the sunset, and nobody knew that Douglas Richardson had a young man tied up in his basement. Things were looking up.
He went back inside and made tea and sandwiches, and took them down to the basement, setting the tray on the bureau. "I'm going to untie you so you can have a bit of a stretch and eat, but if you try to run or make trouble, you'll smart for it." He untied Martin, noting that the care and feeding of a captive was a bit more troublesome than he'd initially bargained for. But he knew better than most people how uncomfortable it could get sitting in one place for hours and hours, and he couldn't let the man starve. He was already on the slender side, as if he didn't get enough to eat. Interesting, as Gordon seemed to prefer the tanned, muscle-bound sort of physical specimen, at least judging by his taste in alternative companionship. He wondered what Gordon had seen in Martin, and vice versa. Especially vice versa.
Martin stood and stretched his arms. "Ooh."
Douglas went to the foot of the steps, guarding them. "Walk around a bit. Get the blood moving again. You don't want to end up with DVT. Er – a blood clot."
Martin frowned. Stiffly, he paced back and forth, then leant over to touch his toes. "I know what DVT means. Deep vein thrombosis."
"Sorry," Douglas said. "Have you had one before?" That would be perfect, to have Martin throw a clot under his care. Keeping. Whatever.
"No. It's one of the questions on the Class One medical, as you well know."
Douglas blinked at the curious admixture of hauteur and defensiveness in Martin's voice. "You took the Class One medical? Are you a pilot?" This was new. Gordon had never mentioned it, and Douglas had scarcely said two words to Martin before all this.
"You don't have to say it like that." Martin linked his hands together behind his back, bent over, and raised his hands toward the ceiling.
"Sorry, I'm just surprised. You never said. Gordon never said."
"Well, I'm not a pilot, as it happens. I failed the CPL." Red-faced, Martin straightened up and glared.
"Ah. It is a difficult test." Douglas had breezed through his CPL, but it didn't seem the appropriate time to mention it. "Lots of people fail on their first go."
"And on their second and third?" Martin thumped onto the bed and drew the tray close. He picked up a ham and cheese sandwich and began to eat.
"Ah."
"I'm not stupid," Martin said around a mouthful of sandwich. "I just – I freeze up when I'm taking examinations, that's all. I've always been like that." He sipped tea and gulped another bite.
Douglas decided to tread lightly. "Perhaps Gordon can quiz you beforehand." He found it difficult to imagine Gordon patiently revising with Martin – according to Gordon's ex-wife, he'd scarcely given his own son the time of day – but love was odd. One did things for lovers that would be unthinkable for blood relatives.
"No, he'd never – he's too busy."
No, he'd never was probably more like it. Douglas gazed intently at Martin's face, but Martin was eating and except for a faint furrow in his forehead, seemed placid enough. "How's the sandwich?"
"Delicious." Martin chewed another bite, took a sip of tea, and ran his hand back and forth over the surface of Sophie's old duvet. "Did Gordon really sack you?"
Douglas' mouth twisted wryly. "Yes."
"And strip away your pension?"
"Yes."
Martin sighed softly. "That doesn't…it doesn't give you the right to kidnap someone, no matter how angry you are." He peeked at Douglas quickly, then took another sip. "I-I mean I see why you did it, but it's not right."
"There's very little justice in the world," Douglas said. "If Gordon does everything he's meant to do, you'll be back home within the week." He watched Martin eat the last of his sandwich. "One more loo break before I –" He stopped, uncertain.
"Before you tether me for the night?"
There was unexpected anger in Martin's voice. Douglas had seen touches of Martin's ire, and couldn't help liking him a little for it. "That's right," he replied evenly.
"Fine." They went upstairs again. Martin stopped just over the bathroom threshold and turned to Douglas. "I don't suppose you could let me do this in private? It's not as if there's a window to escape from."
A window through which I might escape, Douglas corrected mentally. "I suppose not. There's nothing more lethal than a safety razor in the cupboards. You get five minutes before I come in, though."
"Hmph." Martin gave him a glare and closed the door. He was feistier with food in him.
Douglas rummaged through the hall closet and found Sophie's old boom box. It was lavender, with lots of chrome. When Martin was through, he came out and eyed the stereo, but said nothing, squaring his shoulders and marching downstairs with a dignity at odds with his slight frame and faintly bedraggled appearance. Douglas followed him down and plugged the stereo into an outlet. "I'd give you a book, but it's hard to read with your hands tied, and I've only got the one television. You can listen to the stereo, though. Radio 4?"
"All right," Martin replied. "Thank you," he added grudgingly.
Douglas took more care binding Martin to the bed this time. He gave him a bit more slack, but double-knotted the rope and checked it thoroughly. "Is the duvet enough?"
"Yes. Was it your girlfriend's?"
"If it were, I'd have been arrested for underage sex long before I entered into a career as a kidnapper. How many grown women do you know who use Sky Dancer bedding?"
Martin turned a bit red. "I was just curious."
"It belonged to my daughter. She didn't take it with her when she moved out, more's the pity." A stab of longing pierced Douglas' middle. Sophie was on summer hols; he'd try to see her once more before he had to flee the country. Tomorrow was the only day to do it.
"The blonde girl who was with you before we flew to St. Moritz?"
"That's right," Douglas said, surprised. "How did you know?" He tuned the stereo to Radio 4, leaving it loud enough to hear but not so loud as to be obnoxious.
"I saw you with her. You were hugging and kissing her and…well, I suppose I remembered, that's all." Martin sounded defensive again.
"Funny, I rather thought I was beneath your notice." Douglas picked up the tea towels.
Martin's face was even ruddier. "I'm not a snob."
"Gordon certainly is."
"Well, I'm not Gordon."
Douglas lifted an eyebrow. "So I'm discovering."
"Please," Martin said. "Let me go. I promise I won't say anything, and I – I'll even ask Gordon to give you a reference. I swear, I won't say a word."
"And don't you think that Gordon will put two and two together if you just happen to ask me for a reference immediately following your kidnapping?" He slipped the gag back into Martin's mouth, tied it tightly, and picked up the tray. He wavered for a moment, then took the plunge. "Look, I'm not going to hurt you. Cooperate with me, and you'll be home in no time. All right?" He wasn't entirely certain why he'd said that…unless it was the little remark about seeing Sophie. That was…Martin Crieff wasn't quite what he'd expected.
Clear relief flooded Martin's eyes as he nodded, and Douglas went back upstairs to watch a bit more telly before turning in for the night.
Once again, his thoughts strayed to Martin, but the thoughts were tinged a softer hue. Douglas realised that he shouldn't have said a word about not hurting him, but the relief in Martin's eyes had been…gratifying, somehow.
Before he went to bed, he opened the cellar door and listened, then tiptoed downstairs. Radio 4 was murmuring quietly, and Martin was asleep, his face turned toward Douglas, his mouth slightly open. He was snoring softly.
Douglas, the ruthless, brutal kidnapper, found himself smiling as he ascended the stairs.
*
TBC....
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Date: 2013-08-15 06:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-16 04:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-16 08:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-17 03:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-17 05:46 pm (UTC)Oh I'm LOVING this. I hope it's gonna be LONG. :D Sorry. Just... I do so love your take on them, the voices, the scenario... and the potential of that prompt!
EEEE! *cuddles fic close*
ETA: Oh! Oh! OH! A scene where DOUGLAS helps Martin revise and study and generally get his CPL has been set up SO perfectly here! :D :D The smileys are insufficiently smiley!
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Date: 2013-08-18 05:02 am (UTC)It should be a decent length - I'm glad that pleases you! *beams* And it is a good opportunity for them to be study buddies. As well as other buddies. Bless you for your lovely comments, they totally made my day!!