FIC: A Million By Tuesday [12/?]
Nov. 10th, 2013 12:31 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
*
Looking inconspicuous wasn't as easy as it was cracked up to be. Martin pushed his borrowed sunglasses up on his nose, adjusted the brim of his also-borrowed cap lower over his eyes and affected a nonchalant slouch up against the phone box. He felt a bit ridiculous in one of Douglas' old uni rugby shirts, so faded and tattered it seemed a bit fetishistic to keep it, but it was a good disguise. Nobody would recognise him, particularly leaning against a phone box in the middle of Islington. He adjusted his cap once more and tried not to listen to Douglas' conversation. He failed spectacularly.
"Yes, I realise it's the third time, Herc, but you know how schedules can shift around. What have you got going on tomorrow or the next day?" There was a pause. "Oh. I can't say I'm too enthusiastic about going to Heidelberg. Yes, I know it's pretty, I'd just – what's that? No, of course I'm grateful, and I hope you'll do me the kindness of not holding this over my head for the rest of my life. Hm? No, I suppose not. Well, as long as he can get me to Tangier, that's all I care about. All right. Fine. What time? Right. Tell him thanks, and I'll see you Sunday morning." Douglas hung up the phone and sighed, then stepped out of the phone box. "Right, King's Cross. Let's hop back on," he said, indicating the entrance to the underground.
A blast of hot, slightly urinous air hit Martin in the face as they descended the stairs. He winced. "Is everything okay?"
"Yes. It's a bit later than I'd hoped to leave, but I have a paucity of options from which to choose." Douglas fed his ticket into the slot and passed through the turnstile, then waited for Martin to do the same. "The route is less than ideal, too, but it's free and it's private, so I must be grateful for that, at least. And Alfie was fine with waiting a few more days for the car. I can try to see Sophie one more time before I leave, too. Think positive," he said with a wry smile.
"That's good," Martin mumbled. He was glad for the sunglasses, even though it was gloomy in the tube station and he felt like a complete impostor. Since that ill-timed kiss and subsequent excruciatingly awkward conversation, he couldn't bring himself to meet Douglas' gaze. It wasn't just that he was embarrassed, though he was; it was that kissing Douglas had brought about a sort of sea change that he scarcely fathomed in his intense confusion. He'd figured there was some sort of Stockholm Syndrome thing happening between him and Douglas, but when they'd kissed – that wasn't just sympathy or some weird identification that made his heart beat so rapidly or that sent his thoughts into a maelstrom of confusion. Was it? He didn't think so. Couldn't be!
It was really bizarre, the whole kidnap. He knew that. He knew, too, that even though Douglas, after the initial threats and rough treatment, had been kind to him, his reaction had been a bit over the top. After all, it was probably normal for someone in a bad relationship to cling to the first kind soul to come along; it wasn't fair, but likely it happened every day. The thing to do was to understand it, and learn how to distance himself properly. Easy enough. Douglas would be leaving soon, and they'd never see each other again.
The thought gave him a sharp, slicing pain in his chest. He fastened his gaze on Douglas, walking slightly ahead of him, and wanted to bang his skull against the nearest hard surface. He quickened his pace and half-consciously reached up and touched the nape of his own neck, where Douglas had held him so gently. He'd felt Douglas' fingers threading through his hair as though it was a pleasure rather than an annoyance, and Douglas had kissed him so…so slowly, and…well, it had felt tender, even if it hadn't been. And Douglas had wanted to kiss him – he'd said so, hadn't he? Oh, God, what a mess.
You are the biggest, most pathetic, walking, talking cliché in the world. Who, in this century, falls in love with their kidnapper?
Douglas turned and smiled at Martin as the train pulled to a stop and disgorged a load of passengers. He put a proprietary hand on Martin's back as someone jostled him, and Martin couldn't help smiling back, even though there were tiny needles of ice embedded in his heart. What was he going to do when he left Gordon and he didn't have Douglas to talk to? He'd never considered himself the sort of person who couldn't be without a partner, simply because he'd rarely had one. Gordon had been one of exactly three people with whom he'd had sex; it was safe to say the scope of his experience was rather narrow. Still, he didn't consider himself the clingy type.
He sat on the bench next to Douglas, and through the concealing lenses of his sunglasses, watched Douglas in the window reflection. Douglas scrolled through his phone, humming under his breath. He had what sounded like a very lovely singing voice.
Oh, for goodness' sake. STOP.
He wrenched his gaze from Douglas and studied a poster on the wall, an advert for a play. He wondered if Douglas were the sort of fellow who went to plays. Probably. He probably went to plays and concerts and restaurants where the food was interesting and plentiful, not some place where one only went to be seen, and where the main fare was three peas and a two-microns-thin slice of salmon drizzled with a zigzag of wine reduction. Douglas read more than the financial section of the paper, if Martin's quick glance into his library was any indication, and he'd made his life's work the one burning ambition of Martin's entire existence.
How could he not fall in love with someone like that?
Douglas touched his arm. "That was a rather deep breath. Are you all right?"
Martin nodded and gave Douglas a grin that he knew probably looked horribly false, but he couldn't bear to let Douglas see his forlorn, bedraggled spirit, nor his pathetic, still-lingering hope. "Are you nervous?" he asked, pitching his voice low.
"A bit, but I won't be the one doing the talking. How are you?"
"All right. I just hope it all works out."
"Well, we'll see, won't we? Here we are."
The phone box they found was hanging ajar. Biting his lip, Douglas went in, then beckoned to Martin.
It was a tight fit. Hoping nobody noticed the pair of them wedged into the box like sardines, Martin turned awkwardly and picked up the handset. "I haven't got any change," he said apologetically.
"Never mind, I do. I was a scout. Always prepared." Douglas stuffed his hand into his trouser pocket and came up with a fistful of coins. "Here you are."
"Thanks." Martin took a few coins and deposited them into the phone. He took a deep breath, let it out, and punched in Gordon's mobile number. He held the phone away from his ear so Douglas could hear both ends of the conversation.
Gordon picked up on the first ring. "Hello?"
"Gordon?"
"Martin!" There was a pause, and a sudden fuzz of static. "My God, love, are you all right?"
"Y-yes, I'm all right. How are you?" Douglas raised his eyebrows, and Martin shook his head and mouthed "Sorry."
"Frantic. My God, never mind about me." Gordon's voice was unusually loud, but not precisely brimming with affection. No surprises there. "I'm just beyond relieved, pet. You –"
"Gordon, please listen. I haven't got a lot of time. Um, the venue hasn't changed. Warren Street Station, five-thirty tomorrow. Two million pounds."
"Two -- what the fuck --" Gordon took an angry, hissing breath through his nose. "The deal was for one million."
Douglas shrugged.
"I'm afraid they're insisting on it." The line went fuzzy again. "No police, Gordon."
"No. No police," Gordon said flatly.
A chill ran down Martin's back. He glanced at Douglas, who was listening intently. "I've got to go. I-I'll see you tomorrow, Gordon." Slowly, he hung up the phone. "Douglas…something's wrong."
"Tell me in the car," Douglas said. "I don't want to linger here. I'm starting to feel conspicuous."
Wordlessly, they retraced their steps, taking the tube to the car park near Mile End. They climbed in, and Douglas started the car and began the drive to Fitton. "All right. Tell me."
"The police are there."
"Well, that doesn't really surprise me," Douglas said. "I didn't think he'd simply take this lying down. I'm certain he's not willing to relinquish that much money."
"Yes, but…even so, normally he'd be steaming at the thought of even the possibility of losing that much money."
"He rather was steaming, I thought."
"But he didn't even try to negotiate," Martin said. He took off the cap he wore and wrung it in his hands for a moment, staring out unseeingly at the passing cityscape. "Douglas. Don't go."
Douglas stared at him askance for a few seconds before returning his attention to the road. "You're joking."
"You're going to get caught." Martin heard his voice rising in anxiety. "Douglas, two million pounds isn't worth ten years in prison." He fielded another skeptical glance. "I'm not trying to protect Gordon. You mustn't think that. I don't want you to go to prison. There must be some alternative to all this." Timidly, he reached out and rested his hand on Douglas' upper arm for a moment. "I don't want to see you hurt."
Douglas was quiet for a long time. He turned onto the westward motorway toward Fitton, his eyes focused on the road.
Something sweet and pretty was playing on the radio, a classical piano piece Martin had heard a few times before but couldn't identify. Evening was approaching; the light was fading to a soft glow. Martin chewed on his lip. I should have thrown caution to the wind and said I'd go to Ibiza, or Tangier, or wherever Douglas was heading. We could have been there already. Too late now. God, I'm so stupid.
"Martin, I've come too far." Douglas' voice was soft and, Martin fancied, regretful. "It's too late now."
Douglas' tone frightened Martin. "Why do you say it like that? Douglas…Douglas, it's all right to admit you've made a mistake." He gave a shaky little laugh. "God knows I've had to admit a few myself this week."
"Don't worry about me, Martin. I was blessed with extraordinary luck. Things always turn out fine for me." Forced lightness crept into Douglas' delivery until the last words fell with a leaden thump.
Martin stared at Douglas' white knuckles on the wheel. "Promise me that if you see it going bad, you'll run," he said in a near whisper. "Do what you have to do to take care of yourself."
Douglas nodded. "All right. I suppose I can promise that much."
"Thank you." Martin yearned to touch Douglas again, but he didn't. Instead he twisted the cap in his hands and watched the orange disc of the setting sun.
*
The crowds of hungry tourists surging in and out of McDonald's provided ample cover for Martin and Douglas to watch the entrance to Warren Street Station without being detected. They sat next to the glass wall without speaking, each nursing a coffee. Douglas seemed incredibly relaxed for a man who was on the verge of being apprehended for kidnapping. It was a pessimistic way of thinking, but Martin couldn't help it; he was sure that there were plainclothes police crawling everywhere. Compulsively, he drummed his fingers on the cheap, shiny fake wood of the table until Douglas gently laid his hand atop Martin's.
"Relax."
"Right. Right." Martin had his back to the entrance of the restaurant. "Er – do you want another coffee? Something to eat?"
"No, thanks. I had a Big Mac once and it was one of the most distressing culinary experiences of my life."
Martin said nothing and hoped the blush on his cheeks wasn't too obvious. Before he'd moved in with Gordon, McDonald's had constituted a treat. Meat was so expensive and he never bought it, but every once in a while, after a removal job that had paid pretty well, he'd gone to McDonald's for a full meal on the cheap and had savoured every greasy, salty bite. He'd stopped after meeting Gordon, naturally; Gordon had nothing but contempt and loathing for McDonald's, considering it food fit only for the unwashed masses. "Are you sure you're going to do this on your own? You're not going to hire someone the way you did last time?"
"I think under the circumstances, I'll take my chances on my own. You're major news now, Mr. Crieff."
Martin, in cap and sunglasses once more, drummed his fingers again before catching himself and shook his head sadly. "I wish there were some other way to get that money for you."
"So do I, but as there isn't, I'll have to do the best I can." Douglas patted Martin's nervous hand. "It'll be all right. It's good of you to be concerned for me." The pat turned into a caress, and he snatched his hand away, clearing his throat loudly. "Sorry. Maybe we should go over the plan one more time. Not that there's much to it."
"Right. You'll take the stairs down to the platform and wait for Gordon. When the train lets its passengers out, you grab the bags and jump on the train. You've got the text ready to go?"
Douglas nodded. "All set."
"When you jump on the train, you'll text me, and I'll run down quickly to distract him." Martin gave Douglas a lopsided smile. "Though I-I don't think that I'm going to prove much of a distraction once Gordon's lost all that money."
"Just do your best. I think that – hold on." Douglas peered out the window. "There he is."
Martin looked out. "It's him. Oh my God." He stared in steadily increasing anxiety. Gordon was standing near the entrance to the tube station, fully turned out in a three-piece suit and toting two Sainsbury's carrier bags.
"Right, stay calm," Douglas said. "I can't see him well without leaning over. Don't be obvious about it, but take a good look about and tell me if you see anything or anyone suspicious."
"They're all suspicious," Martin muttered, scanning the crowds. It was difficult to take his eyes from Gordon, who looked good; clearly tense, but remarkably un-haggard for someone whose life partner had been abducted. But of course, he didn't give a tinker's damn for Martin's fate. Still hard to remember that properly. "It doesn't seem as if there's anyone about. Wait." He watched Gordon, who looked up, then to his left, then his right. "I can't see anyone," Martin said plaintively.
"I do," Douglas said. "The bag lady, to the right. With the light-green mac."
Martin stared. "How do you know?"
"How many bag ladies have little curly wires sticking out of their ear?" Douglas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "That's it. It's done."
Torn between relief and disappointment on Douglas' behalf, Martin continued to look around. "What are we going to do?"
"We're going to buy some food, then stroll out of here with the utmost nonchalance, chatting and laughing, and we're going back to the car. Come on." Douglas pushed himself up from the table and walked to the counter, not waiting for Martin to follow. He ordered two Big Macs, French fries, and two more coffees.
Martin pulled out his wallet. "Here," he said, extracting some cash. "I still have a few quid."
"Not necessary, M – Mike."
Martin glanced about quickly. God, there weren't police in the restaurant, were there? "No, really. I know you hate the stuff. It's on me." Besides, I think he might be even more skint than I am.
Douglas hesitated, then accepted the cash. "Thanks," he said softly. He paid for the food, collected the already grease-stained bags, and turned on his heel. "You see Bradley last night?" he said loudly, talking over his shoulder. "Yobbo was sliding all over the pitch like a madman, crashing into everyone like he was the bloody Titanic, and when he got a second yellow for the foul, he blamed it on the mud. Fair play, they caught him sliding before it happened, but he can't kick a ball if it's laid down in front of him. Arsehole." He held the door for Martin and began walking quickly but not conspicuously so down the street.
Martin blinked in confusion. "Erm. Yeah. That was brutal." He took the burger Douglas fished out of the paper bag and unwrapped it halfway, then took a big bite. Delicious. "I really liked the…way he passes, though." He didn't dare look round, afraid that the police were following them. "O-of course otherwise they should probably sack him." He paused. "We are talking about football, right?"
Douglas gave him a sideways look of mingled amusement and exasperation. "Trying."
"Sorry, I've never been much good at that. I've never really been sporty or anything."
"It's all right. I think we're okay. Just keep walking and chatting. How's your Big Mac?"
"Really good," Martin said, taking another huge bite. "Haven't had one in ages."
"Ugh."
"Well, you got one for yourself. Why didn't you get a chicken sandwich?"
Douglas snorted. "I doubt the chicken is any more reliable than the beef."
"Have a French fry, then."
"Oh, God. Even worse. How is it possible to so thoroughly mangle a simple chip?"
"Well, I'll eat your share," Martin said, and took a sip of coffee. He smiled at Douglas, but Douglas wasn't looking at him; instead he was staring ahead intently, and walking so fast Martin had to trot to keep up. Something told Martin that their moment of friendly banter was over.
They reached the viciously expensive center-city car park and got in the car. Douglas paid the fare and drove off, and they travelled for fifteen minutes without speaking. Martin watched Douglas' face out of the corner of his eye, noting the tense set to his mouth, his furrowed brow. Douglas' foot rested lightly on the accelerator, but he gave the impression of wanting to slam it down to the floor.
"Douglas," Martin said at last, "I'm really sorry."
Douglas nodded. "I'm going to take you home, Martin. If you don't mind, we'll wait until it gets dark, and I'll drop you at a bus stop near your house. Not too near, though, just in case there are any police about. I hope that's acceptable."
"Of course – whatever you need to do. I don't mind." Martin put the crumpled Big Mac wrapper in the bag. His appetite was gone. He folded and re-folded the top of the bag, and looked unhappily out the window. "I'm sorry," he said again.
Douglas patted his thigh, a gesture that should have been warm and friendly but instead seemed perfunctory and cheerless. "It's all right."
But it wasn't.
*
"You're sure it's every half hour?" Douglas inquired.
"It was a few weeks ago," Martin said. "I didn't double-check because my phone battery finally died."
Douglas reached for his own mobile. "I can check –"
"No, it's all right. I don't mind waiting a bit. You probably…you probably shouldn't linger, though. I don't want anyone to see us together. Erm, thanks for the books." He patted the stack of flight books Douglas had given him.
"My pleasure. Right." Douglas let out a long breath. "Well. What are you going to do when you get home?"
"Say hello," Martin said. "Then start packing. Gordon won't mind. He'll probably won't even notice I'm leaving, he'll be so overjoyed that he saved all that dosh. Oh – sorry." He felt his face burning. God, he was so tactless. Douglas would likely be delighted to get rid of him. "Sorry. That was – oh, God, Douglas. I'm an idiot."
"You're not an idiot, Martin, but you are quite something." He smiled, and his eyes twinkled. "You know, in spite of the fact that I'm no more financially well-off than I was when I began this ridiculous little caper, I'm not sorry it happened. That is, I'm sorry that I frightened you, but otherwise, it's been rather nice getting to know you. I am sorry we won't see each other again."
"Maybe we will. At least you won't have to leave." They'd agreed that Martin would tell Gordon he'd been blindfolded or left in a dark room for the duration of his kidnap and hadn't seen his abductors' faces and didn't know where he'd been held, but that there were three perpetrators and they seemed to be Welsh.
"Yes, I'm grateful for that, at least. Though I might have to leave in any case if I can't find a job. Gordon, in all likelihood, still has his axe out for me all over town. So I probably won't see you again. It's too bad."
"It is. I'm glad we got to know each other, too. Kidnap notwithstanding." Martin gave Douglas a shaky smile. The looming embarrassment of his clumsy amorous assault still hovered between them, and yet he wanted to kiss Douglas so very badly. He stuck his hand out. "Good luck, Douglas."
Douglas took his hand and squeezed it gently. "Good luck to you, Martin. There's a lot of vim and vigour in there. You're going to be just fine. And you'll get that CPL someday. I'm certain of it." He hesitated, as if he were about to say something else, then he pulled Martin into his arms and gave him a fierce hug.
Martin's eyes burned as he wound his arms round Douglas' solidity, and he buried his nose in Douglas' neck, a sort of sneaky thing to do, but oh God, he couldn't help himself. Ferociously, he pressed his lips against Douglas' pulse and inhaled his now-familiar scent. I love him. I love him. I don't care if it's a cliché, if it's Stockholm Syndrome, or whatever. I just love him, and that's all.
After a moment, Douglas detached himself. His eyes were unusually bright in the dim illumination of the dashboard lights. "I think that's the bus coming up behind us. Off you go."
"All right." Martin's voice was hoarse. He gave Douglas a last beseeching look. Please. Please.
"Goodbye, Martin," Douglas said quietly.
Martin's heart sank. It was over.
He opened the car door and got out. "Goodbye, Douglas." He shut the door. "I love you."
The bus pulled up to the kerb, and Martin got on, paid the fare, and found a seat. He slumped down and watched Douglas pull smoothly away and drive off. His throat was aching and his eyes still burned. He swiped at them angrily and rested his head against the window.
Not a soul gave him a second glance. He wasn't famous, wasn't more than a bland, forgettable face with tabloid headlines splashed across it, obscuring his features. Even if his story was ongoing, it was the story that mattered, not Martin Crieff. Nobody gave a damn about Martin Crieff.
Martin breathed on the window, making a cloud of condensation. On an impulse – a stupid, childish impulse – he traced Douglas' initials onto the glass.
Back in the world, free again.
It felt bloody awful.
He sat staring out at the growing darkness until the bus arrived at his stop. He rose, feeling more weary than he'd ever felt in his life, and shuffled up the aisle. He thanked the driver and got off, then trudged toward his street. Gordon's street, Gordon's house.
Martin expected to see a phalanx of police cars round the house, but only Gordon's Land Rover sat in the drive. The front gate light was on, and a light burned in the front room, but otherwise the house was dark. Martin set his books in a little niche at the foot of the gatepost; he'd collect them when he left. He rummaged his keys from his pocket, unlocked the gate, and went up the drive to the house, struggling against an overwhelmingly oppressive tide of surging apprehension. He paused at the front door, then steeled himself, unlocked it, and went in.
The front hall was dark. Quietly, he closed the door behind him and went into the front room where the light had burned. It was empty, but a stack of computer equipment, lights blinking and wires snarled everywhere, stood in one corner, incongruous against the pale furniture and soft lighting.
Probably in the library. Martin went back into the hall and moved toward the library. Wouldn't it be funny if Gordon were entertaining someone? Maybe the someone (or someones) he'd taken to Monte Carlo? He was surprised to discover that he really didn't care.
The door was shut, so he knocked before entering – force of habit.
"I'm not through, Jaye. Come back in half an hour."
Martin opened the door. Gordon, wearing the same suit he'd worn to the city that morning, sat at his desk surrounded by paperwork. A plate of Hungarian goulash sat cooling beside him, and a half-empty bottle of wine reposed atop a thick stack of papers. The knot of Gordon's tie was pushed down, his laptop open and glowing, his hair awry. Once the sight had filled Martin with affection. Now he felt only weariness and a wish to be gone.
"Jaye, I said --"
"Hello, Gordon."
Gordon's head gave a violent jerk upwards. He stared at Martin in utter shock. All the colour drained from his face. "Jesus."
Martin stepped over the threshold. "Hi."
"Martin. What the fuck?"
"I'm home."
"I can see that." Gordon blinked. "How?"
"They let me go."
"I was at Warren Street Station this morning. Nobody showed."
Martin's mouth twisted a bit. "I think they changed their minds. They were afraid of security, of being caught by the police."
"Too fucking right. There were coppers every ten feet. They'd have blown that bastard's head clean off."
Martin leant against the door as weakness suffused his nervous system. Thank God. Thank God they'd left. "Well. I'm home."
"So you are." Gordon got to his feet and moved toward Martin. "You need a shave."
"I know."
Gordon stopped a metre or so away and scrutinised Martin carefully. "How did you get here?"
"They drove me. I was in a van, and they put a pillow case over my head. Then they took it off, pushed me out, and drove away. I tried to get a look at the number plate, but it was too late, they were too far away. It was a black van, though. I think. It might have been blue or green. I only saw it in the dark." Oh God. Don't embellish.
Gordon's eyes narrowed. He bit his lip in thought. "Did anyone see you? Did you talk to anyone, police, reporters, anything?"
Martin shook his head. "No. I came here straight away."
"Good." Gordon let out an audible sigh. "Good." He deflated a bit, then gave Martin a huge smile and held his arms out. "Pet. Come here."
Stiff and reluctant, Martin took a step forward, and Gordon pulled him into his arms. He tried not to cringe as Gordon's arms wrapped round his body, and as a voice spoke in his ear.
"I'm so glad you're home."
*
Quimby Kelvin, whose title was Intelligence Researcher but whose duties spread far beyond his stated purview sat bored at his laptop, desultorily playing Assassin's Creed IV while waiting for the forensics lab results to come back. A good set of tyre prints had been lifted, and now there was nothing to do but wait, and play Assassins' Creed IV.
It was going pretty well. Edward's story was getting flipping dull, though. He was about ready to shut the game off and read a magazine or something. He sipped at his mochaccino, ready to pillage another port.
The phone rang; he caught it up before the second ring. "Kelvin."
"Quim, it's Joe."
He gritted his teeth. He hated when people called him Quim. It was why he insisted on Kelvin.
"Got a match, Joe?"
"I don't sm – oh, ha ha, that's funny! Yeah, we got a match, and you'll never guess what."
"No, I never will. Tell me."
There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone. "Oh. Yeah. Anyhow, yeah, we got a match. It's someone who knows Shappey. Big fucking coincidence."
"A lot of people know him, and apparently he's got lots of friends, though I don't know why. All that money, I guess. What a prick."
"Yeah, well, anyway, whoever this is was lucky for a while, but not no more."
"Right. Send me what you've got ASAP." Kelvin hung up the phone and looked at his screen: Edward Kenway, sword in hand, about to board another ship. He unfroze the game and swung.
"Got you."
*
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
*
Looking inconspicuous wasn't as easy as it was cracked up to be. Martin pushed his borrowed sunglasses up on his nose, adjusted the brim of his also-borrowed cap lower over his eyes and affected a nonchalant slouch up against the phone box. He felt a bit ridiculous in one of Douglas' old uni rugby shirts, so faded and tattered it seemed a bit fetishistic to keep it, but it was a good disguise. Nobody would recognise him, particularly leaning against a phone box in the middle of Islington. He adjusted his cap once more and tried not to listen to Douglas' conversation. He failed spectacularly.
"Yes, I realise it's the third time, Herc, but you know how schedules can shift around. What have you got going on tomorrow or the next day?" There was a pause. "Oh. I can't say I'm too enthusiastic about going to Heidelberg. Yes, I know it's pretty, I'd just – what's that? No, of course I'm grateful, and I hope you'll do me the kindness of not holding this over my head for the rest of my life. Hm? No, I suppose not. Well, as long as he can get me to Tangier, that's all I care about. All right. Fine. What time? Right. Tell him thanks, and I'll see you Sunday morning." Douglas hung up the phone and sighed, then stepped out of the phone box. "Right, King's Cross. Let's hop back on," he said, indicating the entrance to the underground.
A blast of hot, slightly urinous air hit Martin in the face as they descended the stairs. He winced. "Is everything okay?"
"Yes. It's a bit later than I'd hoped to leave, but I have a paucity of options from which to choose." Douglas fed his ticket into the slot and passed through the turnstile, then waited for Martin to do the same. "The route is less than ideal, too, but it's free and it's private, so I must be grateful for that, at least. And Alfie was fine with waiting a few more days for the car. I can try to see Sophie one more time before I leave, too. Think positive," he said with a wry smile.
"That's good," Martin mumbled. He was glad for the sunglasses, even though it was gloomy in the tube station and he felt like a complete impostor. Since that ill-timed kiss and subsequent excruciatingly awkward conversation, he couldn't bring himself to meet Douglas' gaze. It wasn't just that he was embarrassed, though he was; it was that kissing Douglas had brought about a sort of sea change that he scarcely fathomed in his intense confusion. He'd figured there was some sort of Stockholm Syndrome thing happening between him and Douglas, but when they'd kissed – that wasn't just sympathy or some weird identification that made his heart beat so rapidly or that sent his thoughts into a maelstrom of confusion. Was it? He didn't think so. Couldn't be!
It was really bizarre, the whole kidnap. He knew that. He knew, too, that even though Douglas, after the initial threats and rough treatment, had been kind to him, his reaction had been a bit over the top. After all, it was probably normal for someone in a bad relationship to cling to the first kind soul to come along; it wasn't fair, but likely it happened every day. The thing to do was to understand it, and learn how to distance himself properly. Easy enough. Douglas would be leaving soon, and they'd never see each other again.
The thought gave him a sharp, slicing pain in his chest. He fastened his gaze on Douglas, walking slightly ahead of him, and wanted to bang his skull against the nearest hard surface. He quickened his pace and half-consciously reached up and touched the nape of his own neck, where Douglas had held him so gently. He'd felt Douglas' fingers threading through his hair as though it was a pleasure rather than an annoyance, and Douglas had kissed him so…so slowly, and…well, it had felt tender, even if it hadn't been. And Douglas had wanted to kiss him – he'd said so, hadn't he? Oh, God, what a mess.
You are the biggest, most pathetic, walking, talking cliché in the world. Who, in this century, falls in love with their kidnapper?
Douglas turned and smiled at Martin as the train pulled to a stop and disgorged a load of passengers. He put a proprietary hand on Martin's back as someone jostled him, and Martin couldn't help smiling back, even though there were tiny needles of ice embedded in his heart. What was he going to do when he left Gordon and he didn't have Douglas to talk to? He'd never considered himself the sort of person who couldn't be without a partner, simply because he'd rarely had one. Gordon had been one of exactly three people with whom he'd had sex; it was safe to say the scope of his experience was rather narrow. Still, he didn't consider himself the clingy type.
He sat on the bench next to Douglas, and through the concealing lenses of his sunglasses, watched Douglas in the window reflection. Douglas scrolled through his phone, humming under his breath. He had what sounded like a very lovely singing voice.
Oh, for goodness' sake. STOP.
He wrenched his gaze from Douglas and studied a poster on the wall, an advert for a play. He wondered if Douglas were the sort of fellow who went to plays. Probably. He probably went to plays and concerts and restaurants where the food was interesting and plentiful, not some place where one only went to be seen, and where the main fare was three peas and a two-microns-thin slice of salmon drizzled with a zigzag of wine reduction. Douglas read more than the financial section of the paper, if Martin's quick glance into his library was any indication, and he'd made his life's work the one burning ambition of Martin's entire existence.
How could he not fall in love with someone like that?
Douglas touched his arm. "That was a rather deep breath. Are you all right?"
Martin nodded and gave Douglas a grin that he knew probably looked horribly false, but he couldn't bear to let Douglas see his forlorn, bedraggled spirit, nor his pathetic, still-lingering hope. "Are you nervous?" he asked, pitching his voice low.
"A bit, but I won't be the one doing the talking. How are you?"
"All right. I just hope it all works out."
"Well, we'll see, won't we? Here we are."
The phone box they found was hanging ajar. Biting his lip, Douglas went in, then beckoned to Martin.
It was a tight fit. Hoping nobody noticed the pair of them wedged into the box like sardines, Martin turned awkwardly and picked up the handset. "I haven't got any change," he said apologetically.
"Never mind, I do. I was a scout. Always prepared." Douglas stuffed his hand into his trouser pocket and came up with a fistful of coins. "Here you are."
"Thanks." Martin took a few coins and deposited them into the phone. He took a deep breath, let it out, and punched in Gordon's mobile number. He held the phone away from his ear so Douglas could hear both ends of the conversation.
Gordon picked up on the first ring. "Hello?"
"Gordon?"
"Martin!" There was a pause, and a sudden fuzz of static. "My God, love, are you all right?"
"Y-yes, I'm all right. How are you?" Douglas raised his eyebrows, and Martin shook his head and mouthed "Sorry."
"Frantic. My God, never mind about me." Gordon's voice was unusually loud, but not precisely brimming with affection. No surprises there. "I'm just beyond relieved, pet. You –"
"Gordon, please listen. I haven't got a lot of time. Um, the venue hasn't changed. Warren Street Station, five-thirty tomorrow. Two million pounds."
"Two -- what the fuck --" Gordon took an angry, hissing breath through his nose. "The deal was for one million."
Douglas shrugged.
"I'm afraid they're insisting on it." The line went fuzzy again. "No police, Gordon."
"No. No police," Gordon said flatly.
A chill ran down Martin's back. He glanced at Douglas, who was listening intently. "I've got to go. I-I'll see you tomorrow, Gordon." Slowly, he hung up the phone. "Douglas…something's wrong."
"Tell me in the car," Douglas said. "I don't want to linger here. I'm starting to feel conspicuous."
Wordlessly, they retraced their steps, taking the tube to the car park near Mile End. They climbed in, and Douglas started the car and began the drive to Fitton. "All right. Tell me."
"The police are there."
"Well, that doesn't really surprise me," Douglas said. "I didn't think he'd simply take this lying down. I'm certain he's not willing to relinquish that much money."
"Yes, but…even so, normally he'd be steaming at the thought of even the possibility of losing that much money."
"He rather was steaming, I thought."
"But he didn't even try to negotiate," Martin said. He took off the cap he wore and wrung it in his hands for a moment, staring out unseeingly at the passing cityscape. "Douglas. Don't go."
Douglas stared at him askance for a few seconds before returning his attention to the road. "You're joking."
"You're going to get caught." Martin heard his voice rising in anxiety. "Douglas, two million pounds isn't worth ten years in prison." He fielded another skeptical glance. "I'm not trying to protect Gordon. You mustn't think that. I don't want you to go to prison. There must be some alternative to all this." Timidly, he reached out and rested his hand on Douglas' upper arm for a moment. "I don't want to see you hurt."
Douglas was quiet for a long time. He turned onto the westward motorway toward Fitton, his eyes focused on the road.
Something sweet and pretty was playing on the radio, a classical piano piece Martin had heard a few times before but couldn't identify. Evening was approaching; the light was fading to a soft glow. Martin chewed on his lip. I should have thrown caution to the wind and said I'd go to Ibiza, or Tangier, or wherever Douglas was heading. We could have been there already. Too late now. God, I'm so stupid.
"Martin, I've come too far." Douglas' voice was soft and, Martin fancied, regretful. "It's too late now."
Douglas' tone frightened Martin. "Why do you say it like that? Douglas…Douglas, it's all right to admit you've made a mistake." He gave a shaky little laugh. "God knows I've had to admit a few myself this week."
"Don't worry about me, Martin. I was blessed with extraordinary luck. Things always turn out fine for me." Forced lightness crept into Douglas' delivery until the last words fell with a leaden thump.
Martin stared at Douglas' white knuckles on the wheel. "Promise me that if you see it going bad, you'll run," he said in a near whisper. "Do what you have to do to take care of yourself."
Douglas nodded. "All right. I suppose I can promise that much."
"Thank you." Martin yearned to touch Douglas again, but he didn't. Instead he twisted the cap in his hands and watched the orange disc of the setting sun.
*
The crowds of hungry tourists surging in and out of McDonald's provided ample cover for Martin and Douglas to watch the entrance to Warren Street Station without being detected. They sat next to the glass wall without speaking, each nursing a coffee. Douglas seemed incredibly relaxed for a man who was on the verge of being apprehended for kidnapping. It was a pessimistic way of thinking, but Martin couldn't help it; he was sure that there were plainclothes police crawling everywhere. Compulsively, he drummed his fingers on the cheap, shiny fake wood of the table until Douglas gently laid his hand atop Martin's.
"Relax."
"Right. Right." Martin had his back to the entrance of the restaurant. "Er – do you want another coffee? Something to eat?"
"No, thanks. I had a Big Mac once and it was one of the most distressing culinary experiences of my life."
Martin said nothing and hoped the blush on his cheeks wasn't too obvious. Before he'd moved in with Gordon, McDonald's had constituted a treat. Meat was so expensive and he never bought it, but every once in a while, after a removal job that had paid pretty well, he'd gone to McDonald's for a full meal on the cheap and had savoured every greasy, salty bite. He'd stopped after meeting Gordon, naturally; Gordon had nothing but contempt and loathing for McDonald's, considering it food fit only for the unwashed masses. "Are you sure you're going to do this on your own? You're not going to hire someone the way you did last time?"
"I think under the circumstances, I'll take my chances on my own. You're major news now, Mr. Crieff."
Martin, in cap and sunglasses once more, drummed his fingers again before catching himself and shook his head sadly. "I wish there were some other way to get that money for you."
"So do I, but as there isn't, I'll have to do the best I can." Douglas patted Martin's nervous hand. "It'll be all right. It's good of you to be concerned for me." The pat turned into a caress, and he snatched his hand away, clearing his throat loudly. "Sorry. Maybe we should go over the plan one more time. Not that there's much to it."
"Right. You'll take the stairs down to the platform and wait for Gordon. When the train lets its passengers out, you grab the bags and jump on the train. You've got the text ready to go?"
Douglas nodded. "All set."
"When you jump on the train, you'll text me, and I'll run down quickly to distract him." Martin gave Douglas a lopsided smile. "Though I-I don't think that I'm going to prove much of a distraction once Gordon's lost all that money."
"Just do your best. I think that – hold on." Douglas peered out the window. "There he is."
Martin looked out. "It's him. Oh my God." He stared in steadily increasing anxiety. Gordon was standing near the entrance to the tube station, fully turned out in a three-piece suit and toting two Sainsbury's carrier bags.
"Right, stay calm," Douglas said. "I can't see him well without leaning over. Don't be obvious about it, but take a good look about and tell me if you see anything or anyone suspicious."
"They're all suspicious," Martin muttered, scanning the crowds. It was difficult to take his eyes from Gordon, who looked good; clearly tense, but remarkably un-haggard for someone whose life partner had been abducted. But of course, he didn't give a tinker's damn for Martin's fate. Still hard to remember that properly. "It doesn't seem as if there's anyone about. Wait." He watched Gordon, who looked up, then to his left, then his right. "I can't see anyone," Martin said plaintively.
"I do," Douglas said. "The bag lady, to the right. With the light-green mac."
Martin stared. "How do you know?"
"How many bag ladies have little curly wires sticking out of their ear?" Douglas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "That's it. It's done."
Torn between relief and disappointment on Douglas' behalf, Martin continued to look around. "What are we going to do?"
"We're going to buy some food, then stroll out of here with the utmost nonchalance, chatting and laughing, and we're going back to the car. Come on." Douglas pushed himself up from the table and walked to the counter, not waiting for Martin to follow. He ordered two Big Macs, French fries, and two more coffees.
Martin pulled out his wallet. "Here," he said, extracting some cash. "I still have a few quid."
"Not necessary, M – Mike."
Martin glanced about quickly. God, there weren't police in the restaurant, were there? "No, really. I know you hate the stuff. It's on me." Besides, I think he might be even more skint than I am.
Douglas hesitated, then accepted the cash. "Thanks," he said softly. He paid for the food, collected the already grease-stained bags, and turned on his heel. "You see Bradley last night?" he said loudly, talking over his shoulder. "Yobbo was sliding all over the pitch like a madman, crashing into everyone like he was the bloody Titanic, and when he got a second yellow for the foul, he blamed it on the mud. Fair play, they caught him sliding before it happened, but he can't kick a ball if it's laid down in front of him. Arsehole." He held the door for Martin and began walking quickly but not conspicuously so down the street.
Martin blinked in confusion. "Erm. Yeah. That was brutal." He took the burger Douglas fished out of the paper bag and unwrapped it halfway, then took a big bite. Delicious. "I really liked the…way he passes, though." He didn't dare look round, afraid that the police were following them. "O-of course otherwise they should probably sack him." He paused. "We are talking about football, right?"
Douglas gave him a sideways look of mingled amusement and exasperation. "Trying."
"Sorry, I've never been much good at that. I've never really been sporty or anything."
"It's all right. I think we're okay. Just keep walking and chatting. How's your Big Mac?"
"Really good," Martin said, taking another huge bite. "Haven't had one in ages."
"Ugh."
"Well, you got one for yourself. Why didn't you get a chicken sandwich?"
Douglas snorted. "I doubt the chicken is any more reliable than the beef."
"Have a French fry, then."
"Oh, God. Even worse. How is it possible to so thoroughly mangle a simple chip?"
"Well, I'll eat your share," Martin said, and took a sip of coffee. He smiled at Douglas, but Douglas wasn't looking at him; instead he was staring ahead intently, and walking so fast Martin had to trot to keep up. Something told Martin that their moment of friendly banter was over.
They reached the viciously expensive center-city car park and got in the car. Douglas paid the fare and drove off, and they travelled for fifteen minutes without speaking. Martin watched Douglas' face out of the corner of his eye, noting the tense set to his mouth, his furrowed brow. Douglas' foot rested lightly on the accelerator, but he gave the impression of wanting to slam it down to the floor.
"Douglas," Martin said at last, "I'm really sorry."
Douglas nodded. "I'm going to take you home, Martin. If you don't mind, we'll wait until it gets dark, and I'll drop you at a bus stop near your house. Not too near, though, just in case there are any police about. I hope that's acceptable."
"Of course – whatever you need to do. I don't mind." Martin put the crumpled Big Mac wrapper in the bag. His appetite was gone. He folded and re-folded the top of the bag, and looked unhappily out the window. "I'm sorry," he said again.
Douglas patted his thigh, a gesture that should have been warm and friendly but instead seemed perfunctory and cheerless. "It's all right."
But it wasn't.
*
"You're sure it's every half hour?" Douglas inquired.
"It was a few weeks ago," Martin said. "I didn't double-check because my phone battery finally died."
Douglas reached for his own mobile. "I can check –"
"No, it's all right. I don't mind waiting a bit. You probably…you probably shouldn't linger, though. I don't want anyone to see us together. Erm, thanks for the books." He patted the stack of flight books Douglas had given him.
"My pleasure. Right." Douglas let out a long breath. "Well. What are you going to do when you get home?"
"Say hello," Martin said. "Then start packing. Gordon won't mind. He'll probably won't even notice I'm leaving, he'll be so overjoyed that he saved all that dosh. Oh – sorry." He felt his face burning. God, he was so tactless. Douglas would likely be delighted to get rid of him. "Sorry. That was – oh, God, Douglas. I'm an idiot."
"You're not an idiot, Martin, but you are quite something." He smiled, and his eyes twinkled. "You know, in spite of the fact that I'm no more financially well-off than I was when I began this ridiculous little caper, I'm not sorry it happened. That is, I'm sorry that I frightened you, but otherwise, it's been rather nice getting to know you. I am sorry we won't see each other again."
"Maybe we will. At least you won't have to leave." They'd agreed that Martin would tell Gordon he'd been blindfolded or left in a dark room for the duration of his kidnap and hadn't seen his abductors' faces and didn't know where he'd been held, but that there were three perpetrators and they seemed to be Welsh.
"Yes, I'm grateful for that, at least. Though I might have to leave in any case if I can't find a job. Gordon, in all likelihood, still has his axe out for me all over town. So I probably won't see you again. It's too bad."
"It is. I'm glad we got to know each other, too. Kidnap notwithstanding." Martin gave Douglas a shaky smile. The looming embarrassment of his clumsy amorous assault still hovered between them, and yet he wanted to kiss Douglas so very badly. He stuck his hand out. "Good luck, Douglas."
Douglas took his hand and squeezed it gently. "Good luck to you, Martin. There's a lot of vim and vigour in there. You're going to be just fine. And you'll get that CPL someday. I'm certain of it." He hesitated, as if he were about to say something else, then he pulled Martin into his arms and gave him a fierce hug.
Martin's eyes burned as he wound his arms round Douglas' solidity, and he buried his nose in Douglas' neck, a sort of sneaky thing to do, but oh God, he couldn't help himself. Ferociously, he pressed his lips against Douglas' pulse and inhaled his now-familiar scent. I love him. I love him. I don't care if it's a cliché, if it's Stockholm Syndrome, or whatever. I just love him, and that's all.
After a moment, Douglas detached himself. His eyes were unusually bright in the dim illumination of the dashboard lights. "I think that's the bus coming up behind us. Off you go."
"All right." Martin's voice was hoarse. He gave Douglas a last beseeching look. Please. Please.
"Goodbye, Martin," Douglas said quietly.
Martin's heart sank. It was over.
He opened the car door and got out. "Goodbye, Douglas." He shut the door. "I love you."
The bus pulled up to the kerb, and Martin got on, paid the fare, and found a seat. He slumped down and watched Douglas pull smoothly away and drive off. His throat was aching and his eyes still burned. He swiped at them angrily and rested his head against the window.
Not a soul gave him a second glance. He wasn't famous, wasn't more than a bland, forgettable face with tabloid headlines splashed across it, obscuring his features. Even if his story was ongoing, it was the story that mattered, not Martin Crieff. Nobody gave a damn about Martin Crieff.
Martin breathed on the window, making a cloud of condensation. On an impulse – a stupid, childish impulse – he traced Douglas' initials onto the glass.
Back in the world, free again.
It felt bloody awful.
He sat staring out at the growing darkness until the bus arrived at his stop. He rose, feeling more weary than he'd ever felt in his life, and shuffled up the aisle. He thanked the driver and got off, then trudged toward his street. Gordon's street, Gordon's house.
Martin expected to see a phalanx of police cars round the house, but only Gordon's Land Rover sat in the drive. The front gate light was on, and a light burned in the front room, but otherwise the house was dark. Martin set his books in a little niche at the foot of the gatepost; he'd collect them when he left. He rummaged his keys from his pocket, unlocked the gate, and went up the drive to the house, struggling against an overwhelmingly oppressive tide of surging apprehension. He paused at the front door, then steeled himself, unlocked it, and went in.
The front hall was dark. Quietly, he closed the door behind him and went into the front room where the light had burned. It was empty, but a stack of computer equipment, lights blinking and wires snarled everywhere, stood in one corner, incongruous against the pale furniture and soft lighting.
Probably in the library. Martin went back into the hall and moved toward the library. Wouldn't it be funny if Gordon were entertaining someone? Maybe the someone (or someones) he'd taken to Monte Carlo? He was surprised to discover that he really didn't care.
The door was shut, so he knocked before entering – force of habit.
"I'm not through, Jaye. Come back in half an hour."
Martin opened the door. Gordon, wearing the same suit he'd worn to the city that morning, sat at his desk surrounded by paperwork. A plate of Hungarian goulash sat cooling beside him, and a half-empty bottle of wine reposed atop a thick stack of papers. The knot of Gordon's tie was pushed down, his laptop open and glowing, his hair awry. Once the sight had filled Martin with affection. Now he felt only weariness and a wish to be gone.
"Jaye, I said --"
"Hello, Gordon."
Gordon's head gave a violent jerk upwards. He stared at Martin in utter shock. All the colour drained from his face. "Jesus."
Martin stepped over the threshold. "Hi."
"Martin. What the fuck?"
"I'm home."
"I can see that." Gordon blinked. "How?"
"They let me go."
"I was at Warren Street Station this morning. Nobody showed."
Martin's mouth twisted a bit. "I think they changed their minds. They were afraid of security, of being caught by the police."
"Too fucking right. There were coppers every ten feet. They'd have blown that bastard's head clean off."
Martin leant against the door as weakness suffused his nervous system. Thank God. Thank God they'd left. "Well. I'm home."
"So you are." Gordon got to his feet and moved toward Martin. "You need a shave."
"I know."
Gordon stopped a metre or so away and scrutinised Martin carefully. "How did you get here?"
"They drove me. I was in a van, and they put a pillow case over my head. Then they took it off, pushed me out, and drove away. I tried to get a look at the number plate, but it was too late, they were too far away. It was a black van, though. I think. It might have been blue or green. I only saw it in the dark." Oh God. Don't embellish.
Gordon's eyes narrowed. He bit his lip in thought. "Did anyone see you? Did you talk to anyone, police, reporters, anything?"
Martin shook his head. "No. I came here straight away."
"Good." Gordon let out an audible sigh. "Good." He deflated a bit, then gave Martin a huge smile and held his arms out. "Pet. Come here."
Stiff and reluctant, Martin took a step forward, and Gordon pulled him into his arms. He tried not to cringe as Gordon's arms wrapped round his body, and as a voice spoke in his ear.
"I'm so glad you're home."
*
Quimby Kelvin, whose title was Intelligence Researcher but whose duties spread far beyond his stated purview sat bored at his laptop, desultorily playing Assassin's Creed IV while waiting for the forensics lab results to come back. A good set of tyre prints had been lifted, and now there was nothing to do but wait, and play Assassins' Creed IV.
It was going pretty well. Edward's story was getting flipping dull, though. He was about ready to shut the game off and read a magazine or something. He sipped at his mochaccino, ready to pillage another port.
The phone rang; he caught it up before the second ring. "Kelvin."
"Quim, it's Joe."
He gritted his teeth. He hated when people called him Quim. It was why he insisted on Kelvin.
"Got a match, Joe?"
"I don't sm – oh, ha ha, that's funny! Yeah, we got a match, and you'll never guess what."
"No, I never will. Tell me."
There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone. "Oh. Yeah. Anyhow, yeah, we got a match. It's someone who knows Shappey. Big fucking coincidence."
"A lot of people know him, and apparently he's got lots of friends, though I don't know why. All that money, I guess. What a prick."
"Yeah, well, anyway, whoever this is was lucky for a while, but not no more."
"Right. Send me what you've got ASAP." Kelvin hung up the phone and looked at his screen: Edward Kenway, sword in hand, about to board another ship. He unfroze the game and swung.
"Got you."
*
TBC....
