splix: (cumberbatch martin by redscharlach)
[personal profile] splix
Title: 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] kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.


Can also be read on AO3







*


It wasn't easy to catch Douglas Richardson on the hop. He'd coped with total engine failure whilst flying Gordon and six important guests to a remote region of Norway, Sophie's frightening and almost fatal struggle with meningitis as a little girl, and an incident in which Gabriella, a stewardess he was quite fond of and with whom he'd shared several lovely interludes, had thrown a clot and suffered a heart attack en route to Bruges. Douglas' cool head and steady hands had prevailed in those and other situations that would have caused lesser men to lose their wits, and he'd managed not only with competence, but with style and aplomb to spare.

It was a bit of a shock, therefore, when he found himself utterly unprepared for Martin Crieff not only clinging to him like a limpet, but kissing him with astonishing thoroughness. So surprised was he, in fact, that his brain short-circuited and he simply stood frozen to the spot as Martin determinedly mashed his lips against Douglas'. In a flash, all he could think of was Sophie playing with her Barbie dolls and smashing their faces together in an earnest attempt to duplicate snogging. Another few seconds passed as he realised that Martin was more ardent than skilled, and yet another few seconds went by before Douglas thought Martin could do with a lesson or two in real kissing. So perhaps a total of seven seconds elapsed before the Richardson poise kicked back in and Douglas gently twined the fingers of one hand through Martin's curls, put his other hand on the small of Martin's back, drew him closer, and kissed him properly.

Martin's eyes flew open, and he let out a small noise, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, that was lost as Douglas kissed him. Martin's lips, particularly in repose, were full, almost pillowy, but he held them taut and tense, and curled his tongue oddly, as if kissing were an unpalatable duty rather than a sensual and pleasurable experience. Slowly, Douglas traced the tip of his tongue over the soft inner rim of Martin's lips, over and over until they opened, almost of their own accord, allowing Douglas to fully avail himself of Martin's mouth. And when Martin finally yielded, how lush it was, how inexpressibly sweet.

Douglas felt the tentative press of Martin's hands on his back, very unlike the aggressive kiss Martin had planted on him. He pulled Martin closer, fitting their bodies together, and shivered a little as his cock began to stir. Lima Syndrome, bollocks. You're dying to fuck him – admit it. You want to see him naked and spread out and begging for your cock up his arse and oh dear God this is a really bad idea.

He disengaged his mouth from Martin's with an audible pop and held him away. His breath was coming in ragged pants, and he was quite sure his face was tomato-red.

"What…what?" Martin's eyes had been closed, but now they stared at Douglas, utterly confused. "What?"

"Martin…I can't."

"What?" It seemed to be the only word Martin was capable of uttering. Then he found a few other words. "Why did you stop?"

"We can't. I can't," Douglas amended.

Martin's face, which had been pink, flushed a deeper red. "Why?"

"Oh, God." Douglas still held Martin at arm's length, but couldn't bring himself to let go entirely. "I can't even begin to enumerate the number of reasons why it's a terrible idea."

"I don't understand," Martin whispered, and looked down at the floor. His mouth, lusciously pink, trembled.

"Look, I realise that I'm slightly more than morally suspect, but I don't think I've reached the bankruptcy stage quite yet. I want to kiss you, Martin, more than you can possibly imagine, but dear God in heaven, what sort of person would I be if I persisted in kissing you? Haven't I taken advantage enough?"

Martin looked up again and met Douglas' gaze, his eyes startlingly fierce. "What if I didn't care?"

"Martin, I've thrown you into utter chaos. It's an astounding intrusion on my part." Douglas' erection wasn't precisely rampant, but all at once he realised that it was at least a little evident. He let Martin go and turned away, giving himself a moment to calm down.

"I'm not stupid."

Douglas turned. "Sorry?"

"You heard me." Martin's face was redder than ever, contrasting oddly with his ginger hair. "I might not be an intellectual giant, but I'm not stupid and I'm not some horny kid who can't keep h-his knob in his pants. If you don't fancy me, then say so, but don't kiss me back and then just tell me to sod off."

"I did nothing of the kind," Douglas replied, almost sputtering at Martin's sudden anger. "What on earth are you –" He blinked as Martin grasped his wrist, then all but launched himself at Douglas and kissed him again. This time Martin was even more aggressive, all but auguring his tongue down Douglas' throat. He mightn't have been a horny kid, but he certainly kissed like one. Douglas thought about pulling away for a second and a half, then kissed Martin back.

Clumsy and hesitant as Martin was – hadn't Gordon taught him anything about kissing? Hadn't anyone? – God, it felt so damned good. How had he held back for so long? Martin's body was pressed tightly against his, and his lower body was moving without, it seemed, conscious design, undulating slowly, rubbing with light, maddening pressure. Now that's not a bad trick. Douglas found his erection returning with considerable haste. He nibbled on Martin's full lower lip for a moment, then tasted the pale length of Martin's throat, warm, slightly salty. "Martin…we've got to stop," he groaned. "I've got nearly twenty years on you, for the love of God."

"Gordon's twenty-five years older than I am." Martin's hand slid down Douglas' chest, over his belly and found the erect cock beneath his suit trousers. "H-haven't you ever wanted to do something completely mad and impulsive, Douglas?"

"Last time I did something mad and impulsive, you wound up in the boot of my car." Douglas stifled a gasp as Martin's hand began to stroke him through wool and the slick silk of his boxers.

"What if that turned out to be the cleverest decision you ever made?"

"Somehow I doubt that." Douglas suckled on Martin's earlobe and reached round to fondle Martin's arse. It was firm, and round; Douglas wanted to bite the tender flesh, to kiss and suckle and tease at Martin with his tongue until Martin was writhing and begging beneath him. "Martin – Martin, no. No." He kissed Martin's mouth again, wallowing in its softness contrasting with the prickle of pale-ginger stubble on paler skin. His cock, caught lightly in Martin's hand, was aching. "You'd regret it, and you'd resent me, and God knows I've done enough to incur your resentment –"

"I don't care," Martin whispered harshly. "I don't care." He was panting. Slowly, but inexorably, he propelled Douglas toward the sofa. "I won't ever see you again."

Douglas froze, overwhelmed by an emotion he'd experienced only three or four times in his entire existence. Because of its rarity, he was still for a very long moment until he finally managed to identify the emotion as confusion. Complete, staggering, mind-numbing confusion.

Martin pulled away. "What's wrong?"

Martin's mouth was full and enticing, but Douglas only shook his head. "Good God."

"What?"

"Of all the times to realise…I'm sorry." Douglas pulled away. "I'm so, so sorry, Martin. I can't have a one-night stand with you."

"But…why, for goodness' sake? Why? I've seen you with women. Gordon mightn't have noticed anything, but I've seen you at airports, in Fitton, and you never seemed to give a toss about – is it because I'm a man? Is that it? Or something else. You managed liaisons with other men, but somehow I don't fit the bill." Martin's voice was ragged. "I'm not your type. Too small, too scrawny, too ginger."

"No." How could he explain? He didn't understand it himself. He couldn't fuck Martin once – or however many times they managed to fuck over the course of a day and an evening – and then simply go away. And why not? It had been working for years and years; of all the times to develop some sort of romantic crush, this was certainly the most ill-timed and inconvenient. You're not in love with him, for God's sake. You can't fall in love over the space of five days. That's for fairy tales. It's Lima Syndrome, that's all. An artificially charged environment and proximity and racing hormones thanks to stress and danger. Why can't you think rationally? "It's not –"

"'It's not you, it's me,'" Martin intoned. "Fine." He drew his hands up his cheeks, producing a scratchy noise, and scrubbed at his eyes. He stood still for a moment, then dropped his hands and met Gordon's gaze, looking more miserable than Douglas had ever seen him. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. Gordon always says that I have terrible impulse control. It was…that was totally inappropriate of me, and I apologise."

"You don't owe me an apology," Douglas sighed. He slumped onto the sofa. You've been with him – no, correction. You KIDNAPPED him less than a week ago, and your behaviour is drifting past infatuation and into Mills & Boon territory. "Perhaps I should apologise to you. If I misled you in any way, or gave you any reason to think –"

"You didn't," Martin said hastily. "No. It's…like I said, it's me and my impulsivity. Let's just forget it. I'd hate to think that the past week might be marred by awkwardness." He tried to smile and failed.

As he studied Martin's face, Douglas' heart gave a great, unlovely lurch in his chest. Oh my God. You're completely smitten. Of all the inconvenient and self-sabotaging acts of stupidity. What the hell is wrong with you? He managed to return the smile. "Yes, it's been a perfect idyll otherwise." He stood, glad his erection had subsided once more, and rested a hand briefly on Martin's shoulder. "It's the situation, Martin. Your world's in upheaval. You mustn't blame yourself."

Martin stared down at the floor and nodded. "I suppose you're right. Douglas, look…much as I'd like to, I can't take any of the ransom money."

Douglas frowned. "Why is that?"

"I'd like to say it came from a place of noble self-sacrifice, but honestly, I'm scared to take it. If I suddenly turn up in Fitton with a lot of money, people would start asking questions, and…well, I've never been really eloquent under pressure. I'm afraid I'd crack." He smiled – only a small, wry smile, but a smile nonetheless. "I appreciate the gesture, though."

"You're sure?" It was actually hurting Douglas to look at Martin now. "I won't say it's necessarily the right thing to do, but I shouldn't feel guilty about it were I you. If you had that much money, you wouldn't have to stay in Fitton, you know. You can start a life independent of Gordon; you can take the CPL as many times as you need to without having to worry about paying the rent. Not that I'm trying to force you into complicity." He held his breath, waiting and hoping. Idiot.

"I know." Martin heaved a sigh. "I'm not saying it wouldn't be useful. But Fitton's my home…and I can't. I'm sorry."

"All right." What else was there to say? "I've got a few calls to make. Why don't you head upstairs and read for a bit?"

"Are you going to call Gordon?"

"Yes, but I've got to think how. The police will be monitoring mobile phones, I imagine."

"I could disable the GPS chip on my mobile. It's easy – I saw it on a television programme."

"I think there's some pretty sophisticated software out there that doesn't require a GPS to track mobile signals."

"Oh." Martin's eyes clouded. "What'll you do?"

Douglas found himself wishing he hadn't cut off the kiss so quickly. What if he just…no. God, no. Pull yourself together. It's not going to happen. If you cut this thing off at the knees now, it'll be that much easier getting past it later.

He tried for a measure of his old confidence. "I'll think of something."

Somehow, it didn't seem convincing.


*


The IT specialist who accompanied the police inspector and her assistant reminded him a bit of Martin: slight, wiry, badly dressed. It was odd that Gordon found himself attracted to that sort of man. The specialist, who introduced himself as Kelvin (was that a first name or a surname?) was a bit younger than Martin, dark-haired and bespectacled. Gordon had given him a warm smile, but Kelvin had only stared at him blankly, pushed up the sleeves of his ancient and moth-eaten jumper, and buried himself in a hopeless snarl of wires and cables.

When he emerged at last, a peculiar arrangement of machinery sat silent and blinking ominously in the corner of Gordon's library, and the police inspector (Inspector Roy – not good-looking, and not his type at all) endeavoured to explain the machines' myriad confusing functions to him. Gordon couldn't have been less interested, though he tried not to show it. It was a relief when Jaye, the cook, tiptoed into the library. "Mr. Shappey, would the…would your guests like coffee?"

"Oh, great," Roy said, flashing Jaye a smile. "Black, please."

"Black, one sugar," said her assistant, a stout, balding fellow with a voice like a foghorn.

"Half milk, four sugars," muttered Kelvin, tapping on his keyboard.

"Just bring a tray, if you would," Gordon said irritably. He didn't mind ordering Jaye about – that was her job, anyway – but he didn't like it when other people did. "Why do you suppose he hasn't called yet? It's been hours and hours. You don't think –" He forced an expression of woebegone anxiety onto his face, which transmuted into genuine pain when he looked at the aluminium case filled with stacks and stacks of cash – a million pounds' worth. It was DNA marked, or some such rubbish, so the likelihood of the kidnappers actually getting away with their crime was small, but the thought of losing so much money, however temporarily, was stomach-turning. He thought of the kidnap insurance (the police had swallowed his story of a prior threat with surprising ease) and his heart sank. Bloody Martin – it would be just like him to survive all this perfectly intact. Gordon gritted his teeth.

"Don't worry, Mr. Shappey. They'll call, I'm certain of it. How's Double-Oh-Six doing?" Inspector Roy asked Kelvin.

"Bright and shiny, and purring like a kitten," Kelvin said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "Nothing to do now but wait."

Inspector Roy turned to Gordon. "Double-Oh-Six is our little name for our IMSI catcher, that setup over there," she said, waving in the direction of a pile of blinking electronic junk. "It's a portable base transceiver station that enables us to intercept mobile calls. Really handy little device."

"Terrific," Gordon muttered.

"I realise it's terribly upsetting, Mr. Shappey, but you've got to keep your chin up," she said, misinterpreting Gordon's indifference for anxiety. "They'll have seen the news by now, and they're probably regrouping, but you'll hear from them."

"Can we be reasonably certain that Martin's still alive?"

"Statistically, yes. They want the money far more than they want Martin dead. This isn't a group with a grudge, or you'd have likely heard about it already. This is a greedy, desperate person or persons who saw your husband as an easy victim and took advantage. The good news is that greedy, desperate people almost always make mistakes."

"What sort of mistakes?" Gordon asked, interested despite himself.

"Oh, all sorts. Choosing the wrong friends, for one. Criminals seek their own level, you know, and it's almost inevitable that there's in-fighting, quarrelling over how to divide the ransom, sometimes violence. Often, one of the gang becomes disgruntled and flees, and we'll receive an anonymous phone tip. No honour among thieves, as they say."

"I suppose so," Gordon said. He wondered how many men were in the gang who'd kidnapped Martin, and if they'd taken their frustrations, if any, out on him.

"Then there's the sort who can't keep from boasting about what they've done, and you wouldn't believe how often it happens. Eventually the information finds its way to us. And then there's the sort who just plan poorly. They'll leave clues at the crime scene, DNA, fingerprints…our track record of rescuing kidnap victims is first-rate, Mr. Shappey. You'll have Martin back in no time. For what it's worth, I'm sorry you're being hounded by the press." Roy looked at a photograph of Gordon and Martin's wedding day and smiled. "It's obvious you're mad about Mr. Crieff."

"Is it?" He hoped Roy was telling the truth. He'd be damned if he'd let the kidnappers have the ransom; he'd go after them himself if the police didn't have the balls for it.

Just as Inspector Roy opened her mouth to answer, Gordon's mobile buzzed. Everyone in the room tensed. Gordon glanced down at the readout. "Christ." He shook his head and addressed Kelvin. "Don't record this, it's just my ex-wife." He picked up the phone. "What is it, Carolyn?"

"So lovely to speak to you, Gordon."

"Sorry, I haven't got time to chat. The police are here. We're waiting for a call from Martin's abductors."

"Surely you have call waiting."

"That's scarcely the point." Gordon glanced at Kelvin, Roy, and Roy's assistant, all of whom wore headphones and were pretending not to stare at him. Well, they had said all Gordon's calls would be monitored. He supposed Carolyn wouldn't be any bitchier than she usually was. He tried for the sympathy vote. "I'm a bit on edge, Carolyn. My husband's life is hanging in the balance, you know."

"Yes, that's the reason I'm calling," Carolyn said crisply.

"What? Why?"

"I realise it's an emotion entirely unfamiliar to you, Gordon, but I'm actually concerned about the poor boy."

Gordon half-covered the phone and swung abruptly to the police team. "Can't you stop recording for a minute?" he hissed. Kelvin grinned and shook his head. Gordon scowled and uncovered the phone. "Your concern's noted. Appreciated. Thanks, Carolyn. Look, I haven't heard from him, and I really shouldn't –"

"It must be positively nerve-wracking to be accused of engineering the whole thing."

"Yes," Gordon snapped. "And as usual, you're not melting with sympathy."

"So why didn't you pay the ransom immediately?"

Gordon wanted to ring off, but there was no point arousing the suspicions of the team, now watching him with open curiosity. "I don't have ready access to that sort of cash. You know that. Not that it's a particle of your business."

"In fact, it is, but we won't quibble over that at the moment. The papers say you purchased kidnap insurance recently."

"Yes?" Gordon's voice cooled by several degrees. Either someone at the insurance company had leaked information to the press, or Arthur had seen the paperwork, though Gordon's money was on an insurance informer. Arthur wasn't what could be termed observant on any level.

"I presume ransom money is part of the package."

"Yes." Gordon longed to reach through the phone and throttle her. "Since you clearly know nothing about kidnap insurance, I'll give you a few basics. Because I reported a prior threat, the company is withholding payment until there's definitive proof that I'm not behind the kidnap. It's complicated, Carolyn, and I'm really not inclined to discuss it further."

"You always were a miser."

"And you always were a fat, money-grubbing slag." God damn it! Carolyn never failed to make Gordon lose his cool, the miserable gash. Maybe the police would chalk his snappishness up to worry.

"Sticks and stones, Gordon, sticks and stones," Carolyn trilled, sounding delighted with herself. "Besides, I never asked you for a thing except Arthur's maintenance and the house because you pleaded cash poverty for so long. And despite your extravagant and vulgar lifestyle, I never questioned it because I wanted a bit of peace. Now I'm starting to wonder, however."

"What – you believe what they're printing in the Mail?" Gordon snorted. "Well, good luck to you. Are you trying to retro-fit your maintenance arrangement, Carolyn? You realise it doesn't work that way."

"Unless you've concealed assets, of course."

Gordon went cold. He didn't dare look over at the police team, but from the utter silence, he guessed they were watching him avidly. "Don't worry, Carolyn dear. Everything will stand up to investigation."

"We'll see, I suppose. I do hope Martin is returned safely. He's a good boy, despite his nervousness."

God, he hated her. She'd always been able to bait him with maddening success. For a fleeting moment, he wished they were still married and that the kidnappers had taken her instead. He would have asked for the address to their hideout so he could participate in the murder. "Too good for the likes of me. Isn't that what you mean?"

"Gordon, a common garden slug is too good for the likes of you. I don't know where you got your eye for people you can bully. I only hope that when Martin does come back, he sees that living with you is risky in more ways than one."

"I've heard enough of your vile insinuations," Gordon managed evenly, though his heart was pounding with rage and he felt blood surging to his face. "Good night." He clicked off and took a deep breath. Cunt. Greedy fucking cunt. Pushing his chair back, he stood up, set the phone down, and rested his fingertips on his desk.

Concealed assets.

God damn Martin Crieff to hell. He hoped they'd pulled his fingernails, laid hot pokers on the soles of his feet, and fucked him hard enough to leave a size thirteen arsehole. If he came back, Gordon would strip him of every watch, every set of cuff links, every cashmere jumper he'd showered upon the ungrateful little sod, and turn him out on the street, but not before having a go at Martin himself. He deserved it, for Christ's sake.

He turned to the silent police, still watching him. "Would you excuse me for a moment? Call of nature." He wheeled, went out of the library, pushing past Jaye, overburdened with a tray of coffee and little cakes, and slipped into the loo, closing the door quietly behind him. He snapped the light on and stared into the mirror.

Gordon was a cool liar under pressure, but he couldn't prevent the raw panic that clawed at his insides. His affairs would stand up to investigation – to a certain point. He'd been careful to keep the dodgiest of his investments away from actual ownership, just far enough away to avoid ordinary scrutiny, but close scrutiny – dear God. That on top of margin calls and the bloody, fucking million-pound ransom and the sodding insurance company who refused to pay immediately – everything was falling apart, and he didn't know how to hold it together any longer.

His gaze fell on the Makuzu Kozan vase in the wall niche. It was indigo-blue, decorated with slender stems, leaves, and flowers in a delicate cream colour, and its shape was so perfect, so beautifully and gracefully rounded that it made the heart ache just to look at it. Martin had asked him if he'd found it at Ikea, because he'd once seen something similar there.

Ikea, for the love of Christ. Little fuck.

Gordon's hand swept out, hurling the vase to the tile floor, where it landed with a shattering crash, spraying shards of expensive porcelain all over the slate. Blankly, he stared down at the splinters and stepped on a piece the size of a playing card, listening to the satisfying crunch under his shoe.

An urgent pounding sounded at the door. "Mr. Shappey? You all right?" It was the burly no-name assistant. Gordon decided to call him Sergeant Busybody.

"Just a minute, Busybody," he muttered, and ran the water, splashing some on his face and rubbing his eyes. He squinted at himself in the mirror, then turned and opened the door.

"I heard a crash." Busybody's piggy little eyes crawled over him, then tried to look past him into the loo. "Everything all right?"

Gordon rubbed at his eyes again. "I broke a vase," he said hoarsely. "It was Martin's favourite." He put his hands to his face for a moment, then stiffened as Busybody touched his shoulder. He managed – just – not to punch the invasive little toad in the face.

"Come on in the library, Mr. Shappey. Some coffee, that's the thing. We'll tell the maid about the vase, she can clean it up."

"Jaye's the cook, not the maid," Gordon mumbled, but allowed himself to be steered into the library. Roy was staring at him, her expression concerned, and Kelvin was banging away on his laptop. Fuck off! he wanted to scream. Fuck off, all of you! Take your laptops and your forensic kit and your fucking Double-Oh-Six and get the fuck out of my house! He felt a scream building up in his chest and took a deep breath before he succumbed to rage. Wouldn't do to hit one of these bastards.

Just as he got his breathing under control, his mobile shrilled.


*



TBC....

 photo 35041d28-2a41-41c0-87e9-88619421d600_zps68de3d17.jpg

Date: 2013-10-25 05:03 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] drinkingcocoa.livejournal.com
Argh! I was so wrapped up in the story that the chapter end caught me by surprise! Loving this, especially Carolyn!

Date: 2013-10-25 05:37 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] splix.livejournal.com
Eee, so glad you're enjoying it! I want to try to post on a more regular schedule, but RL is irritatingly challenging right now. Thank you so much! I love Carolyn, she is such a boss.

Date: 2013-10-25 03:38 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] space-oddity-75.livejournal.com
I see you're still going strong with this. Keep up the good work, this fic is awesome!!!

Date: 2013-10-25 05:38 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] splix.livejournal.com
Thank you very much indeed - I couldn't be more pleased that you're enjoying it! :D

Date: 2013-10-25 11:52 pm (UTC)
ext_1059: (Agrippa)
From: [identity profile] shezan.livejournal.com
CAROLYN! My heroine!

Date: 2013-10-27 02:51 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] splix.livejournal.com
She's great! :)

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