FIC: A Million By Tuesday [13/?]

[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 kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.


Can also be read on AO3





*


The clock in the hall struck half nine as Douglas walked in the door, and it seemed to him that the chime was unusually loud and oddly atonal. He made a mental note to have it inspected, and a second mental note that repairing a clock chime was one of the heretofore necessary and now completely frivolous domestic details he could no longer afford, not until he got another job, at any rate. Scratch that, then.

He clicked off the hall light and moved into the kitchen. The remnants of the last meal he and Martin had eaten were spread over the table and worktops: a salad of melon and cucumber and feta, cold chicken, and grilled asparagus. Martin, despite a rather long face, had eaten hugely of everything and offered to help clean up, but Douglas had demurred. Seemed wrong, somehow, to have Martin help tidy on his last day.

Mechanically, Douglas began to clear the table, scraping detritus into the bin and stacking the plates in the dishwasher. He turned the radio on and hummed along to some syrupy Chopin as he worked, sorting, neatening, wiping down. In half an hour he was through, standing in the middle of his spotless kitchen, twisting a tea towel in his hands. Time to head upstairs; he had a spy novel going, a bit naff but fun, and it would be nice to steam through a few dozen pages before settling down for the night.

As it happened, though, he wasn't tired at all. He gave a hesitant glance toward the basement and then grasped the doorknob and descended the stairs.

The basement was dim and damp and despite its profusion of furniture and boxes, terribly empty. Douglas gave a little sigh and began to strip the neatly made bed. He threw the bedding in the washer-dryer, gathered up the upsetting bits of frayed rope and tape and cotton that had constituted Martin's imprisonment, and pushed the furniture back to the edges of the room where it had sat for years and would probably sit for at least a few more, provided he kept the house. As he moved the bed his foot struck something that fell over with a noisy clatter. Douglas rolled the bed toward the wall and turned back to see the object.

It was a pottery mug, a battered old thing from the RAF museum, a gift from some seminar he'd attended years ago, and the only mug he owned with a flight motif. Stood to reason that Martin had chosen to drink out of it, flight-mad as he was. Douglas had never met anyone as enthused. It was endearing, in its way. Usually neat to a fault, Martin had no doubt failed to recall he'd left it on the floor. He'd tease Martin about it a bit later.

Sudden searing pain struck Douglas like a blow, so intense he had to grope for a chair and sit. For a moment he thought he was having some sort of coronary event; the pain was in his midsection, spreading up to his chest, and he couldn't quite get air. With shaking fingers, he sought out the artery of his inner wrist and took his pulse. A little rapid, but not alarmingly so. Frightened, he leant down with his head between his knees and waited for the sensation to pass. As he waited, he thought about Martin.

There would be no opportunity to tease him later; he was gone for good. Back to Gordon, at least temporarily – and Douglas wondered about that. As far as he'd been able to tell, Martin was so firmly entrenched in that relationship it was doubtful that he'd be capable of struggling out, especially once Gordon started in on him again. Gordon was a bastard, to be sure, but he was persuasive; he'd even managed to cajole Douglas into accepting a few lucrative-but-foolish commissions against his better judgment. Martin, God bless him, had been browbeaten for so long and so often that ceding to Gordon's demands was more instinct than exception.

The pain wasn't diminishing, and though Douglas tried to localise it, he couldn't. It pervaded his entire body and left him scared and oddly undone. He had his mobile in his pocket; he could dial 999 if he had to. He'd wait a bit more. If Martin had been with him, he probably would have fussed and hovered and asked a million questions. Bad chicken, perhaps? Stroke symptoms? Pulmonary emboli?

Douglas groaned as the pain spiked again, hammering into his midsection, and then the truth struck him with astonishing force: it was Martin. Or rather, the loss of Martin. Douglas Richardson was in physical pain because he'd driven Martin Crieff, erstwhile kidnap victim, back home and out of his life.

A hollow, desolate chuckle forced its way up from his chest, hitching out of his throat and sounding nothing like an ordinary laugh. It was daft. It was beyond daft. While Douglas admitted, if only to himself, that he had a romantic streak, it beggared belief to concede that he was so desperately in love that he actually felt ill. And desperately in love with Martin Crieff, oh God of course he was.

It couldn't have been more inappropriate. And why, why hadn't he taken Martin up on his offer of sex, clumsy as it was? Sex with Martin Crieff would likely have been pleasurable, the way most sex was, but also unduly labourious, with far too much effort spent on Douglas' part. In that way, though, he might have got Martin out of his system, and he'd have been able to move on. It had been months and months since he'd split up with Veronica; he wasn't so deeply lonely that he needed some sort of domestic replacement, some spouse substitute. What he thought of as love could have merely been physical passion.

Bollocks.

The pain began to diminish. Douglas touched his midsection wonderingly. Of all the peculiar romantic clichés to experience.

Dragging himself out of the chair, Douglas went to the stairs, cradling the mug gently and toting a Tesco bag filled with assorted non-sexy bondage rubbish. As he ascended, he looked back at the now-clean basement. It was as if Martin had never been there at all.

Parting wasn't sweet sorrow. It was bloody awful.


*


The next morning – Saturday, a full week since he'd put the snatch on Martin – Douglas sat at his kitchen table, drinking coffee and eating toast while he read the paper. He hadn't an appetite for a larger breakfast. It seemed vaguely like one of the signs of impending elderly bachelorhood, but he hoped not. There was still lots of time before he became an old-age pensioner. Sans pension, of course.

Drearily, he scanned the job adverts, not seeing anything remotely intriguing, and realising that what he'd told Martin was most likely true – if Gordon had his way, Douglas would never fly for a firm in the greater London area again. Vindictive bastard.

Maybe I should have tried for the ransom after all.

The doorbell gave a long shrill. Douglas frowned up at the kitchen clock. Eight-thirty on a Saturday morning – who on earth? If it was a salesperson or canvasser, Douglas would give them a piece of his mind. Grumbling, he got up, tightened the belt of his dressing gown, thumped down the hall to the door, and threw it wide.

"Douglas Richardson?"

Douglas' heart gave a distinctly unpleasant lurch in his chest at the sight of a uniformed police officer and a woman who, though she wore plain clothes, was clearly some sort of police functionary as well, but he managed a pleasant smile. "That's right. Can I help you?"

"Yes, sir. I'm Detective Inspector Roy, and this is Sergeant Ackland. Could we have a word with you?"

"Certainly. Won't you come in?" Douglas stepped aside and held the door open, giving no sign that his heart was trip-hammering nastily. Should have left days ago while you had the chance. Idiot. He gestured toward the rarely-used sitting room. "Come in here, please." He was about to offer them coffee and then stopped himself, reckoning that an ordinary, innocent individual would want to know what their visit was all about at once. He waved a hand toward the sofa and opened the drapes, letting summer sunshine into the room. Casually, he sat, but didn't sprawl in his chair. "What can I do for you?"

Inspector Roy crossed her hands in her lap. "We're investigating the recent abduction of Martin Crieff."

"Oh, yes." Douglas nodded sombrely. "I know him slightly. I used to be employed by Gordon Shappey."

"Yes." Sergeant Ackland consulted a notepad. "You recently left his employ."

Douglas lifted an eyebrow. "Dismissed, actually."

"Is that right?" Inspector Roy asked. She had a nice smile.

"Yes."

"Can you tell me a bit about that, Mr. Richardson?"

"Why, yes. In the words of Mr. Shappey's solicitor, Hollis Barton, the global financial crisis forced Gordon to tighten his belt and let me go." Douglas' face felt warm. He hoped he wasn't flushed, or sweating.

"That must have been difficult to hear," DI Roy said sympathetically.

"Very difficult," Douglas replied with complete candour.

"I expect the news upset you very much."

Detective Inspector Roy was about as subtle as a skip filled with anvils bouncing down a steep hill. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Still, you're an experienced pilot. There must be great demand for your services."

"Not as great as you'd think," Douglas said, letting some genuine disillusionment slip into his voice. "In fact, I was just examining the job adverts. I might have to relocate, unfortunately."

"Oh, that's a shame," DI Roy murmured.

"You said you were investigating the abduction."

"Yes, that's right. Mr. Richardson, can you recall what you were doing last Saturday?"

Douglas paused for exactly five seconds, allowing his brow to furrow. Any intelligent person would realise that they were under suspicion, and he hoped he was conveying that epiphany adequately. "Yes, I think so. I did some gardening in the morning, then I read a book in the afternoon, and then I went to pick up some laundry and supper, then watched some television in the evening. Fairly typical Saturday since I've been unemployed."

"And where did you pick up laundry and supper?" Sergeant Ackland asked, his pen poised over his notebook.

"Ecce Camicia, on Grantham Street." Douglas breathed a secret sigh of relief. Ecce Camicia was his laundry, and it was just up the street from the wine merchant that Martin frequented. And he had picked his laundry up on Saturday, though it had been in the early afternoon. He hoped the receipts didn't have time stamps.

"That's a bit far for laundry," Sergeant Ackland observed. A regular Hercule Poirot, was Sergeant Ackland.

"They do a beautiful job on my shirts," Douglas said. "Crisp as new paper, really superior." He looked at DI Roy. "Am I under suspicion, Detective Inspector?" His armpits felt damp.

"Mr. Richardson, we obtained a positive match of tyre prints that confirms that you were in the area, though we can only estimate the day on which it happened. There were glass shards in the tyres as well. The shards match the glass of the wine bottles that Mr. Crieff customarily buys, that he did in fact purchase last Saturday evening, according to the salesman at the off-licence." DI Roy consulted her own notebook. "Um…."

"Doonan's," Douglas supplied helpfully.

"Yes, thanks. Doonan's." DI Roy scrutinised Douglas carefully. "Of course there's no way to determine if the particular bottle Mr. Crieff purchased broke in a struggle or pursuit – the kidnappers very well might have taken the wine themselves – but it's a coincidence that we must pursue. What time did you pick up your laundry, Mr. Richardson?"

Douglas' heart pounded so rapidly and heavily he was surprised the police officers couldn't hear it. "About half four, I believe. I haven't got my laundry receipt, but I suppose they've got a copy somewhere and can verify it."

"I notice you've got a basement," Sergeant Ackland said.

It was difficult to prevent a cynical little smile, but Douglas managed, just. Evidently they'd been creeping about the property before ringing the bell. "Yes…?"

"I wonder if you'd mind if we took a quick look."

Now this was illegal unless Douglas was mistaken, but he had to tread carefully. He frowned. "Have you got a warrant?"

"No, we haven't, Mr. Richardson," DI Roy replied with a small smile. "If you chose to show us your basement, you'd be doing so of your own volition."

Weakness born of relief suffused Douglas' limbs, and he nodded, feigning deep thought, to give himself a bit of time. Thank God he'd cleaned last night. Thank God. The Richardson luck had returned, if only temporarily. "I suppose there's no harm in it," he said, getting to his feet. "Come along."

He led them through the hall and into the kitchen, past the table with its spread-open newspaper and now-cold coffee. He opened the basement door, clicked on the light, and nodded. "Here we are."

"Go ahead, Mr. Richardson," DI Roy said with a smile.

Douglas returned the smile and descended. I wonder if she thought I was planning to push them down the stairs. He waited for them to join him and clasped his sweating hands behind his back. "I suppose you'll want to look about."

"Just a bit. If you don't mind."

I suppose I can mention this in the court case someday. Douglas nodded pleasantly. "Not at all." His gaze swept the room quickly, seeking out some remnant of Martin's visit, something he'd carelessly missed, but everything seemed to be in order. He stepped aside and let the police look about, their torches playing over the old furniture, the cartons, the stacks of Sophie's childhood books she'd begged Douglas not to bin until she got her own flat.

DI Roy and Sergeant Ackland poked and prodded, but took care not to displace anything. At length, as if by some unspoken agreement, they clicked off their torches and turned to Douglas. "Thank you, Mr. Richardson," Roy said. "I think that's everything."

"I take it you haven't found him," Douglas said. It was odd, but perhaps a wise decision to refrain from announcing Martin's return until the kidnappers had been caught. Surely they were acting upon their own counsel; Martin wouldn't have betrayed him, and if he had done, he'd have told them outright that Douglas was the kidnapper, not hinted around it. Actually, thinking about it, it made no sense at all. But he couldn't drop his guard.

"No, not yet. And they seem to be a desperate lot. But make no mistake – we have an excellent retrieval record. We will find them," Roy said with assurance, though a deep furrow appeared between her dark brows. "And Mr. Crieff."

Interesting. Either Detective Inspector Roy was a superlative actor, or she was genuinely aggrieved and frustrated. Douglas put his money on aggrieved and frustrated. "I do hope so. He's a very nice chap."

"We won't take any more of your time, Mr. Richardson. Thank you for your assistance."

"Not at all. Anything I can do to help," he said, and led them back up the stairs and escorted them to the door. "I assume you're pursuing all leads. Besides me, that is."

"I'm not really at liberty to discuss anything in detail, Mr. Richardson, but we're doing all we can. I'd like to ask you not to leave the country immediately, please. I can't force you, obviously," Roy said, with a wry smile, "but until Mr. Crieff is located and rescued, we'd like to stay in contact with anyone even remotely connected with the case."

"Can I ask you if Mr. Shappey intimated that I was more than remotely connected?" Douglas couldn't keep a twist of irony out of his voice.

"No, Mr. Richardson. We're simply, as you say, pursuing all possible leads."

Not a superlative actor.

Roy and Ackland bade him a good morning and departed. Douglas closed the door quietly, then went back to the kitchen and sank into his chair, dragging his fingers through his hair.

Gordon hadn't reported Martin's return to the police. Why, for God's sake?

Surely nothing had happened between the bus stop and Gordon's house. Martin seemed to be phenomenally unlucky, but surely he wouldn't have been kidnapped again – even for Martin, that would have been too much of a coincidence. Car accident? Perhaps Martin hadn't been conscious to give his name? Douglas rifled through the newspaper, looking for some report of a man struck by a car in Fitton, some mishap, some evidence of Martin's re-emergence into the world. Nothing.

Douglas longed to get in the car and drive past Gordon's house, just to see if there was any sign of activity. He couldn't, though; he was still under suspicion, DI Roy's smiles and assurances notwithstanding, and there was absolutely no way he was going to attract the wrong sort of attention to himself if he could help it.

He had to do something, though.

The hall clock, loud and atonal, struck nine. Over twelve hours since Martin had returned home.

Something was wrong.


*


Douglas pulled the Lexus smoothly into the slot and cut the engine. He held his keys tightly in the palm of his hand and absently caressed the wheel. He'd managed to stave off a polite-but-pointed letter from the Lexus dealership by hand-delivering a cheque, though that had just about wiped his bank account clean. He'd have to put the house on the market, he supposed. At least it had been paid off five years ago; still, he hated to give it up, if only because it held so many lovely memories from Sophie's childhood.

Poor Sophie. She'd be upset, but once she found out about Douglas' insolvency she'd be nothing but supportive, lovely, generous, good-hearted girl that she was. At least he didn't have to leave her under unpleasant circumstances. Not to say that the mess mightn't come back and bite him in the bum.

He exited the car, pocketed his keys, and strolled toward the Portakabin without glancing over his shoulder. He was reasonably certain that he'd been tailed, probably a smart thing to do under the circumstances.

The Portakabin held only two occupants: Herc Shipwright and Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. A decidedly unconventional pair of lovebirds, but who needed convention? "Herc. Carolyn."

"Douglas!" Herc, far too smooth and handsome for his own good, extended a hand and shook Douglas' warmly. "Don't tell me you've come to switch dates again."

"To cancel, actually," Douglas replied, sitting down. He hadn't wanted to risk a discussion of a flight abroad on the telephone. "And to see how the place is holding up without me."

"Oh, why am I not surprised? Still, no harm done. You know Carolyn, of course."

"Naturally," Douglas said. "How are you? It's been a long time. Lucerne, wasn't it?"

"Christmas. Three years ago," Carolyn said with a brisk nod, and turned to Herc. "I had the temerity to tag along on a flight – Arthur too. Gordon couldn't say no because it wasn't any skin off his nose nor money from his pocketbook, but we managed to throw a spanner into his works all the same. He threw me death glares the entire flight, and so did the paid companion he'd towed along."

"How very naughty of you," Herc said with an appealing crinkle of the eyes.

"That was his first Christmas with Martin, not that Martin actually spent Christmas Day with him. I expect you've heard, Douglas."

Douglas' heart leapt. "Heard? Has he been rescued?"

"Oh, no, I meant heard that he'd been kidnapped. Poor Martin – such a nervous, fussy thing. I can't imagine him keeping a cool head in a situation like that."

True as that was, Douglas felt the need to defend him. "I think he's got some inner resources of strength. I'm sure he'll be okay. So…you haven't heard anything new?"

"If there was anything new to tell, I'd be the last to hear. My communication with Gordon is chiefly limited to mutual insults these days, though that may change at some point in the not-too-distant future." Carolyn's eyes gleamed. "I might as well tell you, since you're a recent victim of Gordon's machinations – my solicitor's been doing a bit of digging, and I do believe my maintenance agreement is due for refurbishment."

"That's –" Momentarily distracted, Douglas frowned. "Did he tell you he'd sacked me?"

"Certainly not. I simply know the man, though goodness knows I'd prefer not to. He'd been grumbling about your salary for a few years, Douglas. I'm rather surprised you didn't see it coming."

"You might have warned me," Douglas returned tartly.

"I generally prefer to pay people the compliment of letting them fight their own battles. That said, I'm sorry it happened, but who knows – I may be hiring you for a job now and then if this turns out the way I think it might."

Douglas gave Carolyn a wry smile. "You don't want Captain Handsome here to fly you to exotic locales?"

"Heavens, no. What a very odd idea." Without bothering to explain exactly why it was odd, she launched into her next idea. "I must say things don't look very good for Gordon."

"You don't suppose he actually engineered his own husband's abduction?" Herc asked.

"Gordon would sell his own mother if she were still alive, and I wouldn't put it past him to peddle her bones if he thought they would turn some sort of profit. You didn't hear this from me – actually, I don't care if he knows. His finances are most decidedly not in order, and if Martin dies –" Carolyn shook her head. "Arthur saw the paperwork. Never mind the kidnap insurance – the papers and television made too much fuss about that. Martin's life insurance policy is in the tens of millions. That would pull Gordon out of his slump without any appreciable loss."

"Good God," Douglas said, his blood chilling. "Can he claim that much?"

"He's Gordon's husband. Net worth and all that. I don't mind telling you I fear for the boy."

"Glad you're not married to him anymore," Herc commented dryly.

Douglas wet his parched lips. "You don't think he's capable of murder, though, or of hiring someone to do Martin in. Surely not."

Carolyn shrugged eloquently. "He's incapable of love. Not in an abstract, hearts-and-flowers interpretation that's shorthand for some sort of stoic personality. I mean he's incapable of actual human tenderness, and his treatment of Martin tells. Don't tell me you haven't noticed, Douglas."

A hot flush rose to Douglas' face. "I did. I didn't…that is, I hadn't put two and two together until now, though."

"The kidnapping's submerged the financial scandal, but I expect it'll all resurface soon enough," Carolyn said. "Were it not for Arthur, the state of Gordon's finances would still be uninvestigated."

Douglas sat back in his chair. "Are you telling me that Arthur - Arthur - was the press leak, Carolyn?"

A rather smug smile crossed Carolyn's face. "Yes. He's not entirely foolish, as it turns out. And he's quite frightened on Martin's behalf as well."

"Well, God bless him," Douglas murmured. He wished with all his heart he could tell Carolyn the truth. "That means Martin's in real danger, then."

"Well, naturally he's in real danger, Douglas!" Carolyn snapped. "Good Lord."

"No, I mean –" Douglas winced. "There hasn't been any news from Gordon's end of things."

"I suppose they're monitoring things, but so much of that stuff is possible with remote relays," Herc said, picking up the newspaper. "Still, no news today."

Anxiety tightened cold bands of steel round Douglas' heart. "They've got to do something - be more aggressive." He couldn't shake the feeling that Martin was in real trouble, and Carolyn's news made matters even more ominous. Something else occurred to him. "I don't suppose your solicitor could make some sort of emergency move against him. If…if something happens, and he's arrested, his assets might be frozen."

"Yes," Carolyn said flatly. "She mentioned that. Certainly time is of the essence. Perhaps I should pay him a visit and persuade him to make some adjustments in exchange for Martin's life and my silence."

Herc scowled. "Not on your own, you're not."

"Aren't you gallant," Carolyn remarked. "You could always come with me. You're not leaving until tomorrow morning."

"I reckon I could," Herc said thoughtfully.

Douglas got to his feet. "I've got to be going. Sorry about the flight nonsense, Herc." He shook Herc's hand.

"Not at all. Look here, I'd be happy to give you some sort of reference, if you like."

Normally it would have galled Douglas to accept favours from Herc, but just lately his mental and emotional, not to mention his financial resources needed a leg up. "Thanks, I'd appreciate that. So long." He strolled out as nonchalantly as he could and forced himself to maintain a leisurely pace to the car, and a sedate speed merging back onto the motorway.

When he got home, though, he saw he'd gripped the wheel hard enough to bruise his hands.


*


The day had darkened with agonising slowness, and Douglas couldn't keep still. He paced his house, and when the house couldn't contain him, he paced the back garden, unwilling to risk going for a walk and eliciting possible police attention.

He pounded back into the kitchen and opened the fridge, thinking he might eat something to calm himself a bit, but nothing appealed. Shutting the door with a bang, he went into the lounge and flipped through the channels, searching for some scrap of new information. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

God damn it all, Martin.

There was no-one he could call, nobody to offer a word of comfort. Except Martin, and he couldn't risk dialling Martin's number.

Could he?

"Hell with it," he muttered, and pulled his mobile out of his pocket.

No rings – the call went straight to Martin's voice mail. "Hi…erm, this is Martin Crieff. Leave a message, please. Thank you. I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you. Bye."

Douglas cancelled the call and stood in the middle of the lounge, paralysed by frustration. He thought for a bit, closing his eyes. A shiver went up his spine.

A moment later, he'd grabbed his keys and left the house.


*


Gordon's house was dark except for a light on the second floor. Douglas slowed as he approached. What on earth would he tell the police if they stopped him? Oh, hello, Constable. Yes, just playing a little bit of Sherlock Holmes, investigating the disappearance of my former employer's husband. What's that? Why? Good question. Funny story behind that, actually.

Christ.

He got out of the car, fighting an increasing sense of self-destruction, and walked up to the gate. It was locked, and the house was utterly silent. Shaking his head – what was he doing, for God's sake? – he walked the length of the gate, and then back, and stopped. Frowning, he switched on his little portable torch and shone it at the gatepost.

Tucked in a niche were the books he'd given Martin. He pulled one out and examined the cover.

The Air Pilot's Manual: Flying Training v. 1: Flying Training Vol 1 (Air Pilots Manual 01).

He ran his fingertips over the cover, and then froze at a muted crash of noise from the house.

What in God's name –

There was another noise – a short, sharp cry.

Martin's voice. Had to be. Oh, dear God. What was going on in there?

Douglas rushed to the gate and tugged on the lock. It held firmly, its silvery solidity gleaming in smug, triumphant security. Wretched thing.

He pulled again as he heard another crashing noise, and looked around. If there was any time to need the police, it was now, but the street was silent, dark, and thoroughly empty. Damn it all!

Desperate, he craned his neck upwards. The gate was perhaps two metres high. Difficult, if not impossible.

Hold on, Martin. Hold on.


*


TBC....

Comments

[221b-hound.livejournal.com]

I.

Can't.

Breathe.

[splix.livejournal.com]

Eek! Hang in there! :D

[margi-lynn.livejournal.com]

OH NO. What a cliffhanger! *resists the urge to shake the internet for more*

Fantastic update.

[splix.livejournal.com]

Oh, thank you very, very much! More to come soon, I hope. :D

[drinkingcocoa.livejournal.com]

OMG OMG OMG.

What a gripping chapter. I bet you enjoyed writing this one. It had me in suspense and I forgot that I was reading, forgot that these people are characters, forgot that this is a fiction of a fiction. It's so intricate. Douglas's inner voice assessing the state of his luck and accurately characterizing Martin's luck. The "erm" in Martin's own voice message. The five seconds he counted when the police were there and the convincing way he acted dawning awareness. Arthur. <3 Herc. <3 <3 <3 I grinned inside when Douglas made himself accept a favor from Herc. The foolish feeling when Carolyn said she was surprised Douglas hadn't seen his termination coming. The very wonderful way you had Carolyn dismiss the idea of Herc flying her as "odd" without explaining a thing. The graphic depiction of how startled Douglas was to feel lovesick for Martin. Wonderfully done.

[splix.livejournal.com]

I really did enjoy writing it, as it happens. :D For whatever reason, it flowed really easily, and that doesn't always happen. Thank you so, so, so much for pointing out the things you enjoyed - it's so nice to see what resonates. :D I'm so glad you're reading, and I really appreciate the thoughtful comments!