Some Other Beginning's End

Chapter 1: Who I Want to Take Me Home

Bang.

Bang.

BANG!

His heart thudding and in a blind panic, Douglas Richardson stumbles from his bedroom towards the noise coming from the direction of his front door, a sound no rational person ever wants to hear. He is only half awake and trying to tie the sash on his dressing gown whilst at the same time attempting to figure out who would be pounding on the door at three o'clock on a Sunday morning. His house is full of those black-on-grey shadows that only the wee hours bring; they throw his furniture into a weird bas relief and he carefully avoids impacting anything as he lurches forward.

Wearily rubbing his eyes with one hand and fearing the absolute worst, he fumbles to unlock and turn the knob with the other. The door swings open and Captain Martin Crieff crashes through it with a grunt of pain.

As is his way, Douglas takes this in stride and gingerly lowers himself to his knees, ignoring their popping with the strain. He takes a bleary look at the red-headed man now sprawled on the floor and shakes his head in an effort to chase away the remnants of sleep still plaguing him.

"Captain?" He asks as he grips Martin's solid biceps in order to help him at least sit up, if not to his feet yet. Douglas notes with some trepidation the dried tear stains on Martin's face and what appears to be a slight spattering of paint droplets on one side of his jaw. Though there are light freckles across the bridge of his nose, these droplets are too red for that, practically rust-colored, like blood.

"Martin, are you alright?"Douglas has never felt so much concern for the captain as long as they've known each other; considering that includes a time when he landed dear old GERTI on a single engine, that's really saying something. Against the tight hold Douglas has on Martin's arms, Martin is trembling but not speaking. Without another word, Douglas braces himself and hauls the rather-heavier-than-he-looks captain towards the sitting room and the sofa. It takes some effort, but he manages to get the almost catatonic man situated on the couch and decides that the best thing Martin needs right now would be tea.

Douglas returns in five minutes with two brewing cups, thanking his lucky stars that he had the sense enough to fill the electric kettle for morning when he switched it on. He's pretty sure he would have been unable to actually get the water into the thing at this hour; Douglas' hands are trembling slightly from the exertion and suddenness of the wake-up call.

Martin is curled up on the sofa with his hands on his knees, fingers holding tight to the thin material of the loose cotton trousers he's wearing. He is staring straight ahead at the television that is not playing. Douglas steps directly into his line of non-sight and holds out his cuppa then counts to thirty before Martin reaches for it then moves his head from side to side a little, forcing Martin's attention up to his face as he lets go.

"Martin, you're here because you obviously need help with something big. It's not like you to pound on someone's front door at three in the morning—knowing you, you'd wait outside all night even if you had pneumonia because you wouldn't want to be thought of as rude." Martin dips his chin slightly. Well, that's at least a reaction.

"So, please, could you tell me what's happening?" He pleads as he pulls his chair around so that he is facing the captain. He sits down carefully but his tea cup wobbles slightly, splashing a few drops on his dressing gown. Douglas ignores them.

Martin takes a deep draught of his tea, causing Douglas to wince in sympathy as he is still feeling a slight burn on his leg. Seeming to strengthen his resolve, Martin sets his cup on the side table beneath a shiny brass lamp.

"Douglas, do you remember Marcus?" Martin asks quietly, as if fearing his very words will break something and seems to fold further into himself. He's still trembling slightly as he folds his hands together in his lap, eyes focused now on them instead of his friend.

Douglas considers Marcus Kelly, Martin's boyfriend. They had recently moved into a decent flat in Fitton together. Six months ago, if memory serves; he nods. How could he forget?

"Good." Martin takes a deep breath and steels himself.

Douglas' heart pounds in his chest. Martin doesn't appear to be hurt physically, though he does have what the first officer is fairly certain is blood on his face. Whatever he is going to say, it's going to be bad, without a doubt; Douglas is prepared to listen.

"Did you two have some sort of argument, Martin?" Douglas asks and Martin shakes his head.

"No. We just…" Martin trails off. "Things haven't been…" He runs a hand through his ginger curls, forcing them into a wilder mess than they already are then that same hand comes down and presses against his mouth as if trying to stop the words from coming out. He closes his green eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, then slowly unzips the hoodie he's wearing; when it comes open Douglas hisses through his teeth because now he cannot unsee what he's just been privy to.

Right in the center of Martin's pale-skinned, freckly and toned chest is two very large bruises that could only have been made by some sort of oddly rectangular tool or a big, meaty fist. Marcus is six foot three and a commercial welder. Everything in Douglas' world instantly turns scarlet as the puzzle pieces drop into place. He stands up out of his chair fast enough to turn his cup over but is completely oblivious to it hitting the floor and spilling the tannic dregs of his tea all over the cream-colored carpet. He's on his knees in front of the sofa, just looking. What tiny bit of medical education he still remembers serves him well; one of Martin's bruises is already on its way to healing, as it has turned a sickly yellowish-green around the edges. The other bruise is much fresher, bright purple with red streaks clearly outlining where each thick finger was positioned when the blow landed.

This makes Douglas incredibly angry. Without a doubt, Martin is well-muscled beneath this shapeless hoodie more so than Douglas expected; he knows that type of hit—directly to the chest, so very close to the heart—could kill a man and may very well have done had Martin been any weaker. Douglas makes a fist and reaches towards Martin's chest. Martin flinches for a moment, then relaxes when he sees what Douglas is about to do. He lays his fist gently on top of the newest bruise and shakes his head; he stands up and repeats the action then takes a deep breath.

"Martin, were you sitting down when…" he can barely stand to finish that sentence.

In response, Martin gnaws his bottom lip and looks everywhere but Douglas' face. Two large tears form in the corners of his eyes and fall unimpeded. He is trembling again, but Douglas is afraid to touch. Finally, Martin breaks under the weight of his confession. He leans forward and Douglas bends enough to catch him; they end up on the couch, Martin's face pressed against the side of Douglas' neck as his body is wracked with deep sobs.

Douglas does the best he can despite the circumstances to be comforting. Martin had been so happy when Marcus asked him to cohabitate, almost as happy as he is in the sky. Douglas remembers the slightest tinge of jealousy, though he valiantly tried to be glad for his captain. The very idea that big ape did something like attack Martin when Martin was defenseless is enough to make Douglas desire to call in three or four hundred favors and have the man beaten to a pulp. To say that Marcus and Douglas hit it off the first time they met would be overstating things, they would never be the best of friends; he did not particularly like the man then and most certainly does not like him now.

Right now, though, before Douglas makes any calls, he needs to find out what has happened to Martin, who sobs are slowly sounding less desperate and more like he is trying to control them. Not to mention that the side of his neck is positively soaked. Douglas ignores it like spilt tea and wraps his arms around his captain. Martin does not flinch this time.

First thing's first. "Martin, did you call the police?"

"Yes." It's almost a whimper. Douglas thinks he must be getting close to the whole story now.

"You don't have to move, but could you please fill me in?"

Martin nods against him and Douglas tightens his hold on the younger man where he can feel the heaving of his chest beneath the material of the open hoodie.

"Douglas, after he hit me…he…" Martin tries.

"Its fine, Martin. We have all night." There's no way either of them are going to be in any shape to fly tomorrow, but at least it's just cargo. Favor number one is most certainly going to be to Hercules.

"He had a gun, Douglas. I had no idea it was even in the flat. I can't even tell you where it came from, but he had it. He was…he was shouting at me, calling me a little…um." Martin sighs pitifully, finds his strength when Douglas unconsciously tightens his arms again.

"Whore." Martin bites out. Douglas almost misses the word.

"That son of a bitch!" Douglas growls.

"Douglas, I can't…let me tell you, I don't think I'll be able to get through the whole thing a third time." Martin pleads.

"Alright, alright. But you do know I'm going to kill him with my bare hands for threatening you with a weapon, Martin." Douglas says coldly.

"You won't have to." Martin answers.

"What do you mean?" Ice in his veins, Douglas waits on tenterhooks for the answer. Surely Martin couldn't…

"I stayed in my chair, Douglas. I swear. He kept shouting at me, calling me all sorts of horrid names. I've never cheated on him, Douglas, not once in all the time we were together!" Martin raises his voice and pulls away from his chest to look the first officer directly in the eyes.

"I believe you." Douglas tells him, knowing full well that Martin may be a pompous little prick at times, but one of his finest qualities is that the man is fiercely loyal.

"So…he kept shouting at me and then he got quiet, really quiet. When I opened my eyes he was standing there in front of the window, just to that side of my chair…" Martin points in the direction to illustrate when only he can see in his mind. "…and…and…" here he hesitates again. Douglas has a feeling he knows what's coming, knows that Martin needs to say it.

"Marcus had the gun in his mouth, Douglas. I'll never forget the way the shiny silver barrel looked pressed between his teeth. He said to me," Martin gasps, fighting tears again, "he said to me that I was nothing but a nasty cockslut and that I would pay for what I had done to him. Then he…" Wheeze. "…he pulled the trigger."

"My God." Douglas whispers as he draws Martin back into him. He has no idea what to do so he does the only thing he knows, he holds his captain and finds himself rocking slightly on the spot, no longer concerned that the front of his dressing gown is completely soaked through. As he rocks Martin, he mumbles and mutters between deep, heart-wrenching sobs.

"After everything I did for him…after everything I let him do to me…I can't…I never did enjoy the ropes…sometimes he was rough, but I thought it would be okay…the first time, you see…the first time was my fault."

"Stop right there." Douglas commands. In his arms, Martin stills.

Martin is no dummy, he knows full well what he just let slip and he knows exactly what Douglas is thinking. Two people do not spend so much time flying, keeping their attention half on the plane and half on each other in order to learn one another's reactions should the need ever arise that they would have to react before speaking not to have some of those cues carry over into their friendship as well.

"Do not say that, Martin. I don't know what happened between the two of you the first time he raised a hand to you, and you don't have to tell me tonight. But! I wish you would have said something sooner, perhaps things wouldn't have ended this way." He tries for a bit of compassion in his stern tone.

Martin nods against again, words failing. Douglas wraps him back up in his arms and holds him long after the captain falls asleep. In some small way, Douglas understands picking up the pieces after an emotional shattering; even if the situation is different, the need for comfort and feeling safe does not change. He does his best to relax against the arm of the sofa and slowly brings his legs up in order to stretch them out in front of him. Douglas adjusts Martin's sleeping form so that his head remains pillowed on Douglas' chest and he is cradled between Douglas' legs, then grabs the soft old afghan off the back of the couch and spreads it over Martin. Even with Douglas' natural body heat, he is sure the added comfort might be appreciated in the long run.