FIC: A Million By Tuesday [8/?]
Sep. 15th, 2013 04:08 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
*
As Douglas stared blankly at the phone, Martin's stomach churned; for one utterly horrible moment, he thought he was going to throw up. Gordon couldn't have – he couldn't have. Impossible. Please, God, it's not true. He couldn't have disconnected the call. Please. Please. He didn't dare speak aloud for fear of shattering the fragile possibility that it was all a dreadful mistake. For a long and silent minute, surely the worst minute of Martin's heretofore rather dreary but suddenly wholly acceptable and even precious life, he and Douglas merely stared at one another: Douglas because he didn't seem willing to speak, Martin because he couldn't gather either the breath or a single coherent thought to speak.
"Call him back," Martin finally pleaded in a whisper. "Call him back, you've cut him off somehow."
"He hung up on me," Douglas said in an equally soft voice. He continued to regard the phone in his hand, ashen-faced, looking as though he'd been punched in the stomach.
"That can't be. Something must have happened, the call dropped, it happens all the time, the house is in an odd spot for mobile service, just call him back, for God's sake."
A strange coughing, mirthless laugh emerged from Douglas' mouth. "You think he's going to change his tune? Is that what you think?"
"Douglas, I'm begging you. Please. Please." Martin heard his voice shaking and felt his chest tightening. He wanted to lean down and put his head between his knees, but he was still tied to the chair.
Douglas gave a slow shake of his head, then plugged Gordon's number into the phone. It rang once, twice, three times. Then, a quiet click.
Oh, thank God. Thank God.
"This is Gordon Shappey. Leave a message."
Douglas disconnected the call and let out a sigh that seemed to come from his toes. Slowly, heavily, he got to his feet.
"He can't," Martin said through a desert-dry throat. "He can't." He felt hot, shameful tears stinging his eyes. "He wouldn't…it's got to be some sort of…um…." There was no way to meet Douglas' eyes without letting on that he was crying, and now he couldn't even form a proper sentence. He blinked hard and pressed his lips together tightly.
"I'm going upstairs," Douglas said, and turned on his heel in slow motion. He dragged himself up the staircase like a man slogging through knee-deep mud, leaving Martin alone.
Don't go, Martin wanted to say, but all he managed was a hoarse croak. The moment the cellar door closed, his breath hitched alarmingly and he let out a single braying sob before clamping his mouth shut again. He wept as quietly as he could, sniffling, his nose clogged with involuntary tears, a sudden pain in his head swelling rapidly into agony, his heart consumed with hurt and confusion and bitter, ugly shame.
And the source of the shame, had he been able to put it into words, was that there was an infinitesimal part of him that wasn't altogether surprised.
A party in Knightsbridge, one of the poshest houses Martin had ever seen, let alone set foot in. The hostess, a brittle but friendly-enough woman, one of Gordon's clients, supremely elegant in pale-grey silk and a modest string of silvery-grey pearls that likely cost a year of Martin's earnings as a man with a van. Gamely, clearly sensing Martin's awkwardness, she attempted to draw him into light social conversation.
---And how did you and Gordon meet, Mr. Crieff? I must say you're the envy of several dozen people at this little fete alone.
---Oh, I-I worked for him for – erm – briefly.
No point mentioning that Gordon had hired him for a removal job, shifting stuff out of the office of an employee he'd summarily sacked, not at a gathering like this. Martin saw a famous actor in one corner, tall, slender, radiating charm and wit, and an equally famous Tory politician in a group near the piano, laughing uproariously. No, being a man with a van carried little enough distinction at the best of times, but surely much, much less here.
---So you don't work for him any longer? This is a bit of a boring question, but I'm genuinely curious. What is it that you do, Mr. Crieff? Must be quite fascinating to keep Gordon's attention. Oh, Gordon! There you are. I was just asking your friend how he managed to capture you.
Martin blushed and struggled to compose a smooth reply. ---Well, a-actually, I'm studying for my pilot's license.
---That's right. He's 'studying.' Gordon smirked and made invisible quotation marks with his fingers, then took a deep drink of his whisky.
---Oh? What does that mean?
---Means he's failed the test once already.
A ferocious blush crawled up Martin's neck. ---Well, yes, I'm afraid I get a bit nervous in testing scenarios, but I'm certain –
---Which bodes awfully well for his future as a pilot. I can see it now – sudden storm, and Martin panics completely. 'I reckon I'll just crash, kiss your arse goodbye!' Gordon snorted laughter, prompting fawning guffaws from a few people who'd gathered nearby.
The hostess frowned, tiny lines appearing between her groomed brows. ---Well, I think I ought to –
---That's not it at all, Gordon.
Martin scowled at Gordon, and their hostess smiled uneasily. ---I suppose you've got your work cut out for you, Martin. It was awfully nice talking to you. Gordon, I see a couple I want you to meet. Come this way….
Gordon had been tight-lipped and silent on the drive home, and Martin, sensing his annoyance, hadn't probed. But later, as they undressed, he couldn't help a slightly acid comment. ---I think I was the only one there who made under six figures. Or five figures, come to it.
---You humiliated me tonight, Martin. See that it doesn't happen again.
Martin had glared, surprised into anger. ---I humiliated you? What about the way you –
The slap came fast and hard, violent enough to drive Martin backward a few steps. He cried out in shock and touched his mouth, frightened to see blood on his fingers.
---That's for mouthing off to me in front of some very important people. It happens again, you'll smart for it, love. Got it?
---You hit me.
---Glad to see you're keeping up.
Martin backed up until he bumped against the burled-walnut wardrobe. Tears started in his eyes. ---You can't hit me. Why did you hit me?
---You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut, that's why. Now get into bed.
Gordon's cock was hard; that and the look of mingled rage and lust on his face turned Martin's stomach.
---I bloody won't. I don't have to put up with this. He sidled to the bureau and opened the drawer reserved for his things: jeans and t-shirts, mostly, and two jumpers, one old and threadbare, one new, a beautiful deep green, a gift from Gordon. He'd leave it.
Gordon slipped into his dressing gown. ---Go if you want to, pet. I won't stop you. But if you leave, you're never coming back. Never.
Martin watched Gordon leave the room and touched his fingers to his mouth again. Not a lot of blood, but enough. Enough to propel him into rummaging for a couple of bin liners in the bathroom and filling them with his clothes. He stripped off his new suit, noting with bitter satisfaction two drops of blood on the spotless white shirt, and left the clothes crumpled on the floor as he put on track pants, an old t-shirt, the threadbare jumper, and battered trainers. He paused in the bathroom to rinse his mouth, scooped up the bin bags, and pounded downstairs.
Gordon was at the door with a whisky in one hand and what looked like a gin and tonic in the other.
---Don't leave, pet.
---Why shouldn't I? The tears spilled down Martin's cheeks. ---Why shouldn't I leave when you treat me like a – like a – like an old piece of toast or something?
---I'm sorry. It's this damned Barclays and RBS thing, it's got me so tied up in knots. I just lost my temper and I shouldn't have taken it out on you. Gordon moved close and gently encircled Martin's shoulders with one arm.
---No, you shouldn't have. Martin held himself stiffly, not yielding to Gordon's embrace.
---It won't happen again, pet. Come on, give us a smile. You know I'd be devastated if you left. You know that.
But it had happened again – if not with the frightening violence of that blow, then in a dozen other ways, just as upsetting, from verbal belittlement to physical coercion. Martin had wondered, at times, if Gordon actually liked him at all, or just kept him around as a convenient and all-too-willing sex toy, if Martin had in fact prostituted himself for a nice watch and a few ultra-fancy suits.
It seemed he had his answer.
Stronger people might have become angry. But all Martin could do was cry.
*
After a while – felt like hours – Douglas plodded downstairs and untied Martin without a word. He sat on the bed and took Martin's numb hands in his. "I shouldn't have left you tied so long. I'm sorry." Gently, without meeting Martin's eyes, he chafed Martin's wrists and hands, coaxing the circulation into activity once more. "I've made sandwiches and soup. I'm afraid I didn't have the energy for something more elaborate."
"It doesn't matter," Martin said through numb lips. Silently, he followed Douglas up the steps into the kitchen. Two bowls of steaming tomato bisque stood on the table, accompanied by what looked like thick ham and cheese sandwiches.
Douglas gestured to one of the bowls. "Sit. Eat."
"I could use some wine," Martin said. "Do you mind?"
"No." Douglas sat and began spooning up soup.
Martin poured two glasses and set one in front of Douglas before thumping into his own chair. He took a huge bite of his sandwich – evidently a massive blow to his self-esteem hadn't affected his appetite – and noticed Douglas eyeing his wineglass as if it were a coiled and hissing snake. As Douglas put the glass in the middle of the table, he frowned. "Something wrong?"
A faint smile twisted one side of Douglas' mouth. "A bit, yes. I'm an alcoholic, you see."
Martin blinked and swallowed the bite of his sandwich. "But you had wine last night –"
"And at the restaurant with my daughter. Funny how easily it can creep back into your life. I won't say I hardly noticed, but it did take place with surprising ease." Douglas got up, went to the sink, and drew himself a glass of water. "I think I'd better nip it in the bud. I'd hate to complicate my present crisis with the near-certainty of guzzling the entire bottle in front of the telly tonight."
"It's a bit odd to keep it handy if you're an alcoholic," Martin observed. "I mean – sorry, I don't know what I mean." He blushed.
"No, no, you're right. The fact is, I take some pride in being able to have it nearby. Heaven knows I always observed the bottle-and-throttle rule – mostly, anyhow – but that particular bottle was for a guest, and until yesterday, I hadn't even considered drinking during this entire debacle. Apparently I'm not entirely immune to the ravages of stress and worry. How extremely disappointing."
Martin studied Douglas' glum expression. "What are you going to do?" Try as he might, he couldn't keep the tremor from his voice.
"I told you, Martin – I'm not going to hurt you."
Relief swept through Martin at speed, leaving him feeling weak. "But what are you going to do?"
Douglas shook his head. "I haven't quite sorted it out yet. I must admit I'm rather at a loss. This little adventure has proven to be a valuable lesson in coping with the unforeseen. I expected Gordon to pay up promptly, you see."
"So did I," Martin said bitterly.
"I see now that was naïve of me, considering his past behaviour."
Martin blew on his soup spoon and wouldn't look up.
"So I need a bit of time to regroup. I suppose I'll follow through with my original plan – leave here and leave you here until I get a bit of a head-start, and then phone the police and give them your whereabouts."
As much as Martin appreciated Douglas' sense of delicacy in not mentioning that Gordon wouldn't care about his whereabouts, the blow of Gordon's treachery struck him afresh. He lowered his head and screwed his eyes shut. He sniffled – appalling habit, Gordon had always hated it – and wiped savagely at his nose with a paper napkin.
"Martin. Oh, dear…." Douglas pushed his chair back and moved to Martin's side, crouching down next to Martin's chair. "Martin, listen to me. That miserable toad isn't worth a moment more of your time, and certainly isn't worth your tears." He rested a tentative hand on Martin's shoulder. "Honestly –"
"Leave me alone! You don't know a thing about it." Martin turned away, shrugging off Douglas' hand and clutching the paper napkin between two hands, winding it tightly back and forth.
Douglas sighed, straightened, and went back to his seat. He ate in silence, discreetly averting his gaze from Martin's unattractively blotchy and tear-stained face. It was fully dark, and the sound of chirping night insects filtered through the open kitchen window. A little radio on the worktop sent out soft cello music, a serene, measured counterpoint to the crickets.
As Martin got himself under control again, he looked round the kitchen. It was pleasant, not as sleek as Gordon's kitchen with its massive range and glassed champagne fridge and burnished steel and stone surfaces, but a bit more rustic, with honey-coloured wood cabinets and gleaming tile worktops littered with implements of the kitchen trade – knives and pots and spices and tattered old cookbooks. It was a nice place to eat. "Who was your guest?" he asked suddenly, ashamed of the clogged tears in his voice, but might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.
"Sorry?"
"Your guest. The one who drank the wine. Lady friend?"
Douglas lifted an eyebrow. "Why, yes, as it happens."
"Oh. That's nice." Why should Martin feel, of all possible emotions, disappointed? Perhaps it was just that everyone but him seemed to enjoy a healthy romantic relationship. "Have you been seeing her long?"
"Heavens, no. It was a fleeting series of rendezvouses, not that they weren't highly enjoyable." Douglas spooned up the last of his soup. "Look, I realise that all of this must have thrown you for a loop. I'll do what I can to…well, to not compound the situation."
"Thanks," Martin said. "I – I mean that. I mean, all things considered, you've been fairly decent overall. You did scare the hell out of me at first, but you've fed me and let me shower and use the loo and you gave me all those books. It hasn't been the worst. Maybe under different circumstances, we might have become friends."
Douglas smiled a little. "That would have been nice."
Another odd pang of disappointment pierced Martin's insides, and he contained a sigh. "Yeah. It would have been."
Any friend at all would have been nice.
*
Gordon looked at the phone readout: an incoming call from a private number. The kidnapper calling back. Well, he hadn't been joking about negotiation. He let the call go to voice mail and waited five minutes, then ten.
No message. No further calls.
Good.
He waited another ten minutes, just to be certain, then breathed a sigh of relief. Evidently the kidnapper wasn't completely stupid, and was now – unpleasant thought as it was – most likely in the act of making good on their threat to kill Martin. The thing to do immediately was to call the police, in case they sent another snapshot, this time of Martin's body. It wouldn't do to linger too long before alerting the police; they'd wonder why.
His finger hovered over the 9, and as he was about to depress the key, the doorbell shrilled twice.
"Jesus Christ!" Gordon put his hand to his heart and strode toward the door, swinging it wide.
"Hi, Dad!" Arthur stood outside, amazingly with enough sense to huddle beneath the portico, out of the rain.
"Arthur. What are you doing here?"
Arthur's smile dimmed a bit. "I don't want to bother you or anything. It was Martin I really came to see. He promised to go down to the pub tonight for a pint. Well, Martin will have a pint. I'll probably just have an orange squash or pineapple juice or something. Even though they're little tiny –"
"Martin's not here, Arthur."
The smile dimmed a bit more. "Oh. Gosh. Where is he?"
"He's out with friends." The lie slipped out so quickly. Gordon bit his lip in irritation. Should he have told Arthur about the kidnapping? No, no – the less Arthur knew about anything, the better. And there would be a hundred questions, none of which Gordon was prepared to answer.
"Oh." Arthur's face fell completely. "But his car's in the drive."
"For God's sake, Arthur, they picked him up in their bloody car. You see how that works? Look here, I'm really very –"
"Okay." Arthur looked absolutely miserable and offered a smile unsuccessfully calculated to fool Gordon. "Well…tell him I stopped by, okay?"
"Fine." Gordon began to swing the door shut.
Arthur put his hand on the door. "Dad, wait! Could I use the loo before I go?"
Gordon tightened his mouth, and his sigh hissed through his nose. "Fine," he said again. "Just make it quick. I've got a mountain of paperwork to get through tonight." He closed the door behind Arthur, gestured wearily toward the loo, and went back into the library, sitting behind his desk and returning to his papers.
Yesterday, he'd increased the amount of both his and Martin's life insurance policy, and took out an additional kidnap insurance policy for both of them, telling the agent he'd just received a threat. The policy had taken effect immediately after paying a hefty fee, but the payout would be well worth it. His timing was good; even if forensics determined that Martin had been killed immediately following the phone call, it would still be well after he'd initiated the policy. Once the police found Martin…or Martin's body, at least, his financial worries would be over. He supposed he owed Martin for that. But in the meantime, there was an ocean of paperwork to get through.
Arthur appeared in the doorway, hovering uncertainly. The library had always been off-limits and amazingly, the lesson seemed to have penetrated his thick skull. "Thanks, Dad. I'm off, I guess." He strolled in and reverently touched the brass sextant on Gordon's desk.
Apparently the lesson hadn't penetrated after all. "Right. Sorry I can't chat, but I've loads of work, as you can see."
"Okay. Don't forget to tell Martin I stopped by, all right? I guess he just forgot." Arthur backed away.
"I guess so. Oh, Arthur, for God's sake!" Arthur's coat had caught the edge of some papers and swept them off the desk.
"Sorry, Dad. I've got them." Arthur knelt and gathered the scattered sheets up slowly.
"Come on, chop-chop," Gordon snapped, and held his hand out. Arthur glanced down at the papers, then handed them over. "You can see yourself out, can't you?"
"'Course I can." Arthur's smile shone out again. "Hey, Dad, I've got that Spitfire all set up. You should come and see it, it's brilliant."
"Spitfire?" Gordon frowned. "I haven't got time, Arthur." He sighed. Martin was always chiding him about spending more time with his son, but his son was a colossal disappointment, and if Carolyn hadn't been the faithful sort, he'd wonder how someone so utterly lacking in brains could have possibly managed to be the fruit of his loins. "Maybe some other time. A few weeks, perhaps."
"Great! Oh, Mum says hi."
Gordon snorted. "I'm sure."
"Well, not hi exactly, but she did mention you."
Of that at least there was no doubt. Gordon had managed through a series of cleverly arranged if not quite entirely legal manoeuvres to severely limit her maintenance payouts, and she'd likely been cursing him ever since. It didn't seem to make a difference in Arthur's affections, however, not that he was desperate for Arthur's affections. "Give her my best. Good night, Arthur."
"'Bye, Dad." Arthur gave a shy little wave, and then mercifully was gone.
Gordon waited to hear the door close, then picked up his mobile again. He took a deep breath and dialed 999.
A colourless woman's voice answered. "Emergency services, which service do you need?"
"Police. Quickly." Gordon waited, and when the police answered, he took another deep breath. "Yes, I have an emergency. My husband has been abducted."
*
Martin woke and trudged upstairs to the loo. He thought about showering immediately and decided against it. He was exhausted; he'd spent the night tossing and turning, examining Gordon's betrayal from every angle and getting steadily more depressed. It was probably a terrible idea, but he couldn't keep from worrying at it, wondering if there was something he could have done to make Gordon more sympathetically disposed toward him, wondering when it was that Gordon had decided he wasn't worth saving, wondering how long Gordon's contempt had been building, and why he hadn't said anything. Martin would have found a job gladly, paid his own way, but Gordon had insisted…if he didn't love Martin, why hadn't he said something?
He washed his face, looking at the unkind reflection of his pale complexion, reddened eyes, patchy stubble, and corkscrewed hair. Couldn’t really blame Gordon for not wanting to pay a million quid to get him back. He was still borrowing the bathrobe Douglas had loaned him – it was comfortable and smelled good, like the cologne Douglas wore, something cedar-y and expensive-smelling, but warm and cosy too. It seemed as if Douglas was still asleep, so Martin shuffled into the kitchen and found a big tin of porridge. He got it started and rummaged some tea from a cupboard and made a generous mug to drink as he waited for the porridge to cook, leaning against the door and watching some little birds taking their morning swim in a pretty birdbath in the back garden.
"Morning." Douglas came in, belting his dressing gown and yawning widely.
"Morning," Martin said. "I started some porridge. There's enough for both of us. Hope that's all right."
"Sounds lovely," Douglas said, yawning again. "Sorry. Rough night."
"You too?"
A crooked smile crossed Douglas' face. "It'd be funny if it weren't so desperate. I think I got everything sorted in my head, though. Would you get the coffee from the freezer? I don't think tea's quite going to be enough this morning. I'm going to need a couple of espressos if I'm to have any motivation at all. I'll get the paper." He turned and went down the hall.
Martin opened the freezer and found the coffee. He opened it and took a deep sniff. Nice. Maybe coffee was a better idea than tea.
The front door closed, but Douglas didn't reappear. Martin got milk from the fridge and looked for the sugar in two cupboards without success. "Douglas? Where do you keep the sugar?"
"Dear God."
Martin frowned and peered down the hall. Douglas came toward him holding the newspaper, his face paper-white. "Goodness gracious – what on earth's the matter?"
Wordlessly, Douglas held out the paper.
Martin took it, seeing the Fitton Voice banner and unfolding it. He started in surprise at the sight of his own picture and the headline.
KIDNAP TERROR
Martin Crieff, Partner Of Gordon Shappey, Feared Dead
*
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
*
As Douglas stared blankly at the phone, Martin's stomach churned; for one utterly horrible moment, he thought he was going to throw up. Gordon couldn't have – he couldn't have. Impossible. Please, God, it's not true. He couldn't have disconnected the call. Please. Please. He didn't dare speak aloud for fear of shattering the fragile possibility that it was all a dreadful mistake. For a long and silent minute, surely the worst minute of Martin's heretofore rather dreary but suddenly wholly acceptable and even precious life, he and Douglas merely stared at one another: Douglas because he didn't seem willing to speak, Martin because he couldn't gather either the breath or a single coherent thought to speak.
"Call him back," Martin finally pleaded in a whisper. "Call him back, you've cut him off somehow."
"He hung up on me," Douglas said in an equally soft voice. He continued to regard the phone in his hand, ashen-faced, looking as though he'd been punched in the stomach.
"That can't be. Something must have happened, the call dropped, it happens all the time, the house is in an odd spot for mobile service, just call him back, for God's sake."
A strange coughing, mirthless laugh emerged from Douglas' mouth. "You think he's going to change his tune? Is that what you think?"
"Douglas, I'm begging you. Please. Please." Martin heard his voice shaking and felt his chest tightening. He wanted to lean down and put his head between his knees, but he was still tied to the chair.
Douglas gave a slow shake of his head, then plugged Gordon's number into the phone. It rang once, twice, three times. Then, a quiet click.
Oh, thank God. Thank God.
"This is Gordon Shappey. Leave a message."
Douglas disconnected the call and let out a sigh that seemed to come from his toes. Slowly, heavily, he got to his feet.
"He can't," Martin said through a desert-dry throat. "He can't." He felt hot, shameful tears stinging his eyes. "He wouldn't…it's got to be some sort of…um…." There was no way to meet Douglas' eyes without letting on that he was crying, and now he couldn't even form a proper sentence. He blinked hard and pressed his lips together tightly.
"I'm going upstairs," Douglas said, and turned on his heel in slow motion. He dragged himself up the staircase like a man slogging through knee-deep mud, leaving Martin alone.
Don't go, Martin wanted to say, but all he managed was a hoarse croak. The moment the cellar door closed, his breath hitched alarmingly and he let out a single braying sob before clamping his mouth shut again. He wept as quietly as he could, sniffling, his nose clogged with involuntary tears, a sudden pain in his head swelling rapidly into agony, his heart consumed with hurt and confusion and bitter, ugly shame.
And the source of the shame, had he been able to put it into words, was that there was an infinitesimal part of him that wasn't altogether surprised.
A party in Knightsbridge, one of the poshest houses Martin had ever seen, let alone set foot in. The hostess, a brittle but friendly-enough woman, one of Gordon's clients, supremely elegant in pale-grey silk and a modest string of silvery-grey pearls that likely cost a year of Martin's earnings as a man with a van. Gamely, clearly sensing Martin's awkwardness, she attempted to draw him into light social conversation.
---And how did you and Gordon meet, Mr. Crieff? I must say you're the envy of several dozen people at this little fete alone.
---Oh, I-I worked for him for – erm – briefly.
No point mentioning that Gordon had hired him for a removal job, shifting stuff out of the office of an employee he'd summarily sacked, not at a gathering like this. Martin saw a famous actor in one corner, tall, slender, radiating charm and wit, and an equally famous Tory politician in a group near the piano, laughing uproariously. No, being a man with a van carried little enough distinction at the best of times, but surely much, much less here.
---So you don't work for him any longer? This is a bit of a boring question, but I'm genuinely curious. What is it that you do, Mr. Crieff? Must be quite fascinating to keep Gordon's attention. Oh, Gordon! There you are. I was just asking your friend how he managed to capture you.
Martin blushed and struggled to compose a smooth reply. ---Well, a-actually, I'm studying for my pilot's license.
---That's right. He's 'studying.' Gordon smirked and made invisible quotation marks with his fingers, then took a deep drink of his whisky.
---Oh? What does that mean?
---Means he's failed the test once already.
A ferocious blush crawled up Martin's neck. ---Well, yes, I'm afraid I get a bit nervous in testing scenarios, but I'm certain –
---Which bodes awfully well for his future as a pilot. I can see it now – sudden storm, and Martin panics completely. 'I reckon I'll just crash, kiss your arse goodbye!' Gordon snorted laughter, prompting fawning guffaws from a few people who'd gathered nearby.
The hostess frowned, tiny lines appearing between her groomed brows. ---Well, I think I ought to –
---That's not it at all, Gordon.
Martin scowled at Gordon, and their hostess smiled uneasily. ---I suppose you've got your work cut out for you, Martin. It was awfully nice talking to you. Gordon, I see a couple I want you to meet. Come this way….
Gordon had been tight-lipped and silent on the drive home, and Martin, sensing his annoyance, hadn't probed. But later, as they undressed, he couldn't help a slightly acid comment. ---I think I was the only one there who made under six figures. Or five figures, come to it.
---You humiliated me tonight, Martin. See that it doesn't happen again.
Martin had glared, surprised into anger. ---I humiliated you? What about the way you –
The slap came fast and hard, violent enough to drive Martin backward a few steps. He cried out in shock and touched his mouth, frightened to see blood on his fingers.
---That's for mouthing off to me in front of some very important people. It happens again, you'll smart for it, love. Got it?
---You hit me.
---Glad to see you're keeping up.
Martin backed up until he bumped against the burled-walnut wardrobe. Tears started in his eyes. ---You can't hit me. Why did you hit me?
---You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut, that's why. Now get into bed.
Gordon's cock was hard; that and the look of mingled rage and lust on his face turned Martin's stomach.
---I bloody won't. I don't have to put up with this. He sidled to the bureau and opened the drawer reserved for his things: jeans and t-shirts, mostly, and two jumpers, one old and threadbare, one new, a beautiful deep green, a gift from Gordon. He'd leave it.
Gordon slipped into his dressing gown. ---Go if you want to, pet. I won't stop you. But if you leave, you're never coming back. Never.
Martin watched Gordon leave the room and touched his fingers to his mouth again. Not a lot of blood, but enough. Enough to propel him into rummaging for a couple of bin liners in the bathroom and filling them with his clothes. He stripped off his new suit, noting with bitter satisfaction two drops of blood on the spotless white shirt, and left the clothes crumpled on the floor as he put on track pants, an old t-shirt, the threadbare jumper, and battered trainers. He paused in the bathroom to rinse his mouth, scooped up the bin bags, and pounded downstairs.
Gordon was at the door with a whisky in one hand and what looked like a gin and tonic in the other.
---Don't leave, pet.
---Why shouldn't I? The tears spilled down Martin's cheeks. ---Why shouldn't I leave when you treat me like a – like a – like an old piece of toast or something?
---I'm sorry. It's this damned Barclays and RBS thing, it's got me so tied up in knots. I just lost my temper and I shouldn't have taken it out on you. Gordon moved close and gently encircled Martin's shoulders with one arm.
---No, you shouldn't have. Martin held himself stiffly, not yielding to Gordon's embrace.
---It won't happen again, pet. Come on, give us a smile. You know I'd be devastated if you left. You know that.
But it had happened again – if not with the frightening violence of that blow, then in a dozen other ways, just as upsetting, from verbal belittlement to physical coercion. Martin had wondered, at times, if Gordon actually liked him at all, or just kept him around as a convenient and all-too-willing sex toy, if Martin had in fact prostituted himself for a nice watch and a few ultra-fancy suits.
It seemed he had his answer.
Stronger people might have become angry. But all Martin could do was cry.
*
After a while – felt like hours – Douglas plodded downstairs and untied Martin without a word. He sat on the bed and took Martin's numb hands in his. "I shouldn't have left you tied so long. I'm sorry." Gently, without meeting Martin's eyes, he chafed Martin's wrists and hands, coaxing the circulation into activity once more. "I've made sandwiches and soup. I'm afraid I didn't have the energy for something more elaborate."
"It doesn't matter," Martin said through numb lips. Silently, he followed Douglas up the steps into the kitchen. Two bowls of steaming tomato bisque stood on the table, accompanied by what looked like thick ham and cheese sandwiches.
Douglas gestured to one of the bowls. "Sit. Eat."
"I could use some wine," Martin said. "Do you mind?"
"No." Douglas sat and began spooning up soup.
Martin poured two glasses and set one in front of Douglas before thumping into his own chair. He took a huge bite of his sandwich – evidently a massive blow to his self-esteem hadn't affected his appetite – and noticed Douglas eyeing his wineglass as if it were a coiled and hissing snake. As Douglas put the glass in the middle of the table, he frowned. "Something wrong?"
A faint smile twisted one side of Douglas' mouth. "A bit, yes. I'm an alcoholic, you see."
Martin blinked and swallowed the bite of his sandwich. "But you had wine last night –"
"And at the restaurant with my daughter. Funny how easily it can creep back into your life. I won't say I hardly noticed, but it did take place with surprising ease." Douglas got up, went to the sink, and drew himself a glass of water. "I think I'd better nip it in the bud. I'd hate to complicate my present crisis with the near-certainty of guzzling the entire bottle in front of the telly tonight."
"It's a bit odd to keep it handy if you're an alcoholic," Martin observed. "I mean – sorry, I don't know what I mean." He blushed.
"No, no, you're right. The fact is, I take some pride in being able to have it nearby. Heaven knows I always observed the bottle-and-throttle rule – mostly, anyhow – but that particular bottle was for a guest, and until yesterday, I hadn't even considered drinking during this entire debacle. Apparently I'm not entirely immune to the ravages of stress and worry. How extremely disappointing."
Martin studied Douglas' glum expression. "What are you going to do?" Try as he might, he couldn't keep the tremor from his voice.
"I told you, Martin – I'm not going to hurt you."
Relief swept through Martin at speed, leaving him feeling weak. "But what are you going to do?"
Douglas shook his head. "I haven't quite sorted it out yet. I must admit I'm rather at a loss. This little adventure has proven to be a valuable lesson in coping with the unforeseen. I expected Gordon to pay up promptly, you see."
"So did I," Martin said bitterly.
"I see now that was naïve of me, considering his past behaviour."
Martin blew on his soup spoon and wouldn't look up.
"So I need a bit of time to regroup. I suppose I'll follow through with my original plan – leave here and leave you here until I get a bit of a head-start, and then phone the police and give them your whereabouts."
As much as Martin appreciated Douglas' sense of delicacy in not mentioning that Gordon wouldn't care about his whereabouts, the blow of Gordon's treachery struck him afresh. He lowered his head and screwed his eyes shut. He sniffled – appalling habit, Gordon had always hated it – and wiped savagely at his nose with a paper napkin.
"Martin. Oh, dear…." Douglas pushed his chair back and moved to Martin's side, crouching down next to Martin's chair. "Martin, listen to me. That miserable toad isn't worth a moment more of your time, and certainly isn't worth your tears." He rested a tentative hand on Martin's shoulder. "Honestly –"
"Leave me alone! You don't know a thing about it." Martin turned away, shrugging off Douglas' hand and clutching the paper napkin between two hands, winding it tightly back and forth.
Douglas sighed, straightened, and went back to his seat. He ate in silence, discreetly averting his gaze from Martin's unattractively blotchy and tear-stained face. It was fully dark, and the sound of chirping night insects filtered through the open kitchen window. A little radio on the worktop sent out soft cello music, a serene, measured counterpoint to the crickets.
As Martin got himself under control again, he looked round the kitchen. It was pleasant, not as sleek as Gordon's kitchen with its massive range and glassed champagne fridge and burnished steel and stone surfaces, but a bit more rustic, with honey-coloured wood cabinets and gleaming tile worktops littered with implements of the kitchen trade – knives and pots and spices and tattered old cookbooks. It was a nice place to eat. "Who was your guest?" he asked suddenly, ashamed of the clogged tears in his voice, but might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.
"Sorry?"
"Your guest. The one who drank the wine. Lady friend?"
Douglas lifted an eyebrow. "Why, yes, as it happens."
"Oh. That's nice." Why should Martin feel, of all possible emotions, disappointed? Perhaps it was just that everyone but him seemed to enjoy a healthy romantic relationship. "Have you been seeing her long?"
"Heavens, no. It was a fleeting series of rendezvouses, not that they weren't highly enjoyable." Douglas spooned up the last of his soup. "Look, I realise that all of this must have thrown you for a loop. I'll do what I can to…well, to not compound the situation."
"Thanks," Martin said. "I – I mean that. I mean, all things considered, you've been fairly decent overall. You did scare the hell out of me at first, but you've fed me and let me shower and use the loo and you gave me all those books. It hasn't been the worst. Maybe under different circumstances, we might have become friends."
Douglas smiled a little. "That would have been nice."
Another odd pang of disappointment pierced Martin's insides, and he contained a sigh. "Yeah. It would have been."
Any friend at all would have been nice.
*
Gordon looked at the phone readout: an incoming call from a private number. The kidnapper calling back. Well, he hadn't been joking about negotiation. He let the call go to voice mail and waited five minutes, then ten.
No message. No further calls.
Good.
He waited another ten minutes, just to be certain, then breathed a sigh of relief. Evidently the kidnapper wasn't completely stupid, and was now – unpleasant thought as it was – most likely in the act of making good on their threat to kill Martin. The thing to do immediately was to call the police, in case they sent another snapshot, this time of Martin's body. It wouldn't do to linger too long before alerting the police; they'd wonder why.
His finger hovered over the 9, and as he was about to depress the key, the doorbell shrilled twice.
"Jesus Christ!" Gordon put his hand to his heart and strode toward the door, swinging it wide.
"Hi, Dad!" Arthur stood outside, amazingly with enough sense to huddle beneath the portico, out of the rain.
"Arthur. What are you doing here?"
Arthur's smile dimmed a bit. "I don't want to bother you or anything. It was Martin I really came to see. He promised to go down to the pub tonight for a pint. Well, Martin will have a pint. I'll probably just have an orange squash or pineapple juice or something. Even though they're little tiny –"
"Martin's not here, Arthur."
The smile dimmed a bit more. "Oh. Gosh. Where is he?"
"He's out with friends." The lie slipped out so quickly. Gordon bit his lip in irritation. Should he have told Arthur about the kidnapping? No, no – the less Arthur knew about anything, the better. And there would be a hundred questions, none of which Gordon was prepared to answer.
"Oh." Arthur's face fell completely. "But his car's in the drive."
"For God's sake, Arthur, they picked him up in their bloody car. You see how that works? Look here, I'm really very –"
"Okay." Arthur looked absolutely miserable and offered a smile unsuccessfully calculated to fool Gordon. "Well…tell him I stopped by, okay?"
"Fine." Gordon began to swing the door shut.
Arthur put his hand on the door. "Dad, wait! Could I use the loo before I go?"
Gordon tightened his mouth, and his sigh hissed through his nose. "Fine," he said again. "Just make it quick. I've got a mountain of paperwork to get through tonight." He closed the door behind Arthur, gestured wearily toward the loo, and went back into the library, sitting behind his desk and returning to his papers.
Yesterday, he'd increased the amount of both his and Martin's life insurance policy, and took out an additional kidnap insurance policy for both of them, telling the agent he'd just received a threat. The policy had taken effect immediately after paying a hefty fee, but the payout would be well worth it. His timing was good; even if forensics determined that Martin had been killed immediately following the phone call, it would still be well after he'd initiated the policy. Once the police found Martin…or Martin's body, at least, his financial worries would be over. He supposed he owed Martin for that. But in the meantime, there was an ocean of paperwork to get through.
Arthur appeared in the doorway, hovering uncertainly. The library had always been off-limits and amazingly, the lesson seemed to have penetrated his thick skull. "Thanks, Dad. I'm off, I guess." He strolled in and reverently touched the brass sextant on Gordon's desk.
Apparently the lesson hadn't penetrated after all. "Right. Sorry I can't chat, but I've loads of work, as you can see."
"Okay. Don't forget to tell Martin I stopped by, all right? I guess he just forgot." Arthur backed away.
"I guess so. Oh, Arthur, for God's sake!" Arthur's coat had caught the edge of some papers and swept them off the desk.
"Sorry, Dad. I've got them." Arthur knelt and gathered the scattered sheets up slowly.
"Come on, chop-chop," Gordon snapped, and held his hand out. Arthur glanced down at the papers, then handed them over. "You can see yourself out, can't you?"
"'Course I can." Arthur's smile shone out again. "Hey, Dad, I've got that Spitfire all set up. You should come and see it, it's brilliant."
"Spitfire?" Gordon frowned. "I haven't got time, Arthur." He sighed. Martin was always chiding him about spending more time with his son, but his son was a colossal disappointment, and if Carolyn hadn't been the faithful sort, he'd wonder how someone so utterly lacking in brains could have possibly managed to be the fruit of his loins. "Maybe some other time. A few weeks, perhaps."
"Great! Oh, Mum says hi."
Gordon snorted. "I'm sure."
"Well, not hi exactly, but she did mention you."
Of that at least there was no doubt. Gordon had managed through a series of cleverly arranged if not quite entirely legal manoeuvres to severely limit her maintenance payouts, and she'd likely been cursing him ever since. It didn't seem to make a difference in Arthur's affections, however, not that he was desperate for Arthur's affections. "Give her my best. Good night, Arthur."
"'Bye, Dad." Arthur gave a shy little wave, and then mercifully was gone.
Gordon waited to hear the door close, then picked up his mobile again. He took a deep breath and dialed 999.
A colourless woman's voice answered. "Emergency services, which service do you need?"
"Police. Quickly." Gordon waited, and when the police answered, he took another deep breath. "Yes, I have an emergency. My husband has been abducted."
*
Martin woke and trudged upstairs to the loo. He thought about showering immediately and decided against it. He was exhausted; he'd spent the night tossing and turning, examining Gordon's betrayal from every angle and getting steadily more depressed. It was probably a terrible idea, but he couldn't keep from worrying at it, wondering if there was something he could have done to make Gordon more sympathetically disposed toward him, wondering when it was that Gordon had decided he wasn't worth saving, wondering how long Gordon's contempt had been building, and why he hadn't said anything. Martin would have found a job gladly, paid his own way, but Gordon had insisted…if he didn't love Martin, why hadn't he said something?
He washed his face, looking at the unkind reflection of his pale complexion, reddened eyes, patchy stubble, and corkscrewed hair. Couldn’t really blame Gordon for not wanting to pay a million quid to get him back. He was still borrowing the bathrobe Douglas had loaned him – it was comfortable and smelled good, like the cologne Douglas wore, something cedar-y and expensive-smelling, but warm and cosy too. It seemed as if Douglas was still asleep, so Martin shuffled into the kitchen and found a big tin of porridge. He got it started and rummaged some tea from a cupboard and made a generous mug to drink as he waited for the porridge to cook, leaning against the door and watching some little birds taking their morning swim in a pretty birdbath in the back garden.
"Morning." Douglas came in, belting his dressing gown and yawning widely.
"Morning," Martin said. "I started some porridge. There's enough for both of us. Hope that's all right."
"Sounds lovely," Douglas said, yawning again. "Sorry. Rough night."
"You too?"
A crooked smile crossed Douglas' face. "It'd be funny if it weren't so desperate. I think I got everything sorted in my head, though. Would you get the coffee from the freezer? I don't think tea's quite going to be enough this morning. I'm going to need a couple of espressos if I'm to have any motivation at all. I'll get the paper." He turned and went down the hall.
Martin opened the freezer and found the coffee. He opened it and took a deep sniff. Nice. Maybe coffee was a better idea than tea.
The front door closed, but Douglas didn't reappear. Martin got milk from the fridge and looked for the sugar in two cupboards without success. "Douglas? Where do you keep the sugar?"
"Dear God."
Martin frowned and peered down the hall. Douglas came toward him holding the newspaper, his face paper-white. "Goodness gracious – what on earth's the matter?"
Wordlessly, Douglas held out the paper.
Martin took it, seeing the Fitton Voice banner and unfolding it. He started in surprise at the sight of his own picture and the headline.
KIDNAP TERROR
Martin Crieff, Partner Of Gordon Shappey, Feared Dead
*
TBC....
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2013-09-15 10:37 pm (UTC)Not Brilliant. :(
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Date: 2013-09-15 10:41 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for reading. :D
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Date: 2013-09-16 06:14 am (UTC)Shappey is such an awful rat of a man, but I must admit I wasn't expecting that twist. Yikes!
Brilliant fic. Mind if I friend for updates?
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Date: 2013-09-17 01:53 am (UTC)It's a lot of fun to write a real hissing villain, I'm having a ball with it. Friend away! Just so you know, I post a lot of rambling though, so no hard feelings if it's not your cup of tea. :) If that's the case, I'm updating on AO3 as well, so you can follow there if you have an account. Thanks again!
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Date: 2013-09-16 12:26 pm (UTC)Oh, Martin, Martin, sweetheart, you think you're not strong - but you have a core of steel and those of us who know you are just *waiting* for the needle to hit "pissed off". :D (I'm sort of hoping that the whole, Gordon going to the police *after* he thinks Martin is dead, not when Martin was kidnapped, thing might just do it.) Your determination, Carolyn's ferociousness, Douglas's scheming and Arthur's helping will soon have this mess sorted out and Gordon getting his just deserts. :D
Can I just tell you I ADORE your handling of viewpoint? The things Martin and Douglas *aren't* noticing about each other - like Mr Suave and Cool being willing to be vulnerable and open with Martin (and Martin not really seeing that ) and Martin's shame and awkwardness and disappointment and "we might have become friends" and just... Ooooh! :D And Martin not really noticing what he's starting to feel for Douglas (maybe Gordon going after "the kidnapper" might bring a certain clarity?) and being too proud to accept the comfort he needs.
And Gordon not having the slightest suspicion of "Stupid" Arthur. :D You have to love Arthur
The layers this gives to a reader. :D
Oh and the sheer *domesticity* - off to the loo, do I want a shower, I guess I'd better make breakfast. LOL. I've felt less at ease in friends' houses than Martin is at home chez Douglas. Love this so much. <3
Gordon is a rat (from Ballarat?) and it's nice to be abe to hate him - every fairy tale needs a good, old-fashioned villain. Douglas isn't Snow White (he drifted...) but compared to Gordon he is Prince Charming. ... And now I have Adam Ant on the brain....
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Date: 2013-09-17 01:57 am (UTC)Martin *does* have a core of steel - he just needs to tap into it. I won't spoil the plot, I'll just say I'm very glad you're following along! Hopefully there will be some twists and turns to come.
I'm so pleased you're enjoying the viewpoints! Third person limited is absolutely my favorite POV because of the very thing you mentioned - the character may not be able to see everything that's happening, but the reader certainly can. That's a lot of fun for me, both to read and to write.
Domesticity isn't my usual thing, but I'm having a great time writing it, especially because it's sort of sneaky. And totally agree about the villain. And about Douglas. Aaaand, now I'm picturing him in pirate garb with streaks of white on his face. :D
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Date: 2013-09-17 02:42 am (UTC)Ridicule is nothing to be scared of!
Can you see *Benedict* in that jacket, breeches and knee-high boots? Roger dressed like that feels a bit more Pirate King from Pirates of Penzance. Or maybe Roderick from Ruddigore...
Oh - and given our casting chat: I once mooted a Pirates of Penzance/Sherlock crossover. Sherlock = Pirate King, Lestrade = Chief of Police, John = Major General Stanley, Dimmock = Frederick, Molly = Mabel, Sally = Edith....