Four: Open All the Doors
Shirtless, Martin comes around the corner and into the spotless kitchen, where Marcus is chopping potatoes on the bench. The knife blade glints in the light overhead as it flies over the tubers, flashing in and out of the pile with a precision a professional chef would envy. Martin watches his boyfriend for a moment, marveling at the timing and rhythm: potato on the bench, one, two, three slices then move to the next one. Marcus' every movement is masterful as he finishes up the potatoes then tips the cutting board towards the pan. Martin wonders vaguely what Marcus looks like when he's welding, if he has this level of control; Martin wouldn't know, he's never been around the shop nor has Marcus ever acted interested in taking him there.
The pan sizzles and he stirs the spuds with a black, long-handled spatula. Surrounded by the gleaming appliances and fashionable trim, Marcus looks a bit kingly and Martin hopes that what he needs to get out can be said without too much repercussion.
Marcus looks relaxed enough that Martin thinks that maybe it will be okay to speak now, since they have been having this same discussion daily for months and he's hardly disagreed with his boyfriend on any point.
Clearing his throat softly, he says, "Marcus, I like the little outfit, but, uh, maybe it's not really my style."
Marcus looks up from the pan, his eyes trace over Martin from head to toe and he frowns. "Martina," he says, putting special emphasis on the last syllable, "Why aren't you dressed, honey? I'm in here making you a special meal for our special evening and you aren't even ready yet." Baby-blues flash with barely-concealed anger, incongruent with the syrupy tone of his voice.
Martin gulps and steps back into the doorway. He hates being called Martina and he hates this game and he hates tucking his bullocks and he tries very hard to keep his mouth shut because of the last time. He is unsure whether he has actually said all of these things out loud or only thought them until Marcus' lips part and a strangled gasp echoes off the kitchen walls.
Absently, Martin rubs his chest where the bruise is healing. He was lucky that Douglas had gone out for the evening after they arrived at the hotel last night because the bathroom had been so tiny he had to change into his night clothes in the sleeping space. Marcus must have seen something in his face because he narrows his eyes.
"Still hurts, eh babe?"
Martin nods without taking his attention from Marcus, who is getting closer by the second. He tilts his head up to meet the taller man's gaze then instantly understands how a hare feels when cornered by a bear.
Marcus' large hands come down on Martin's shoulders and he leans down as if to kiss him but bypasses his mouth completely and goes lower, latching his teeth onto one of Martin's bare nipples, hard. Martin gasps and his hands fly to Marcus' head as if to push him off but Marcus clamps his jaw harder and starts pushing Martin backward towards the sitting room until Marcus' larger stature causes him to fall into his chair. Just before he hits the cushion, Marcus lets go. Martin tries in vain to not see the spot of his blood on Marcus' bottom lip.
Marcus only grins when he wipes away the bit of moisture and presses his index finger against the graze on Martin's nipple. He pinches it until Martin cries out again.
"I'm only going to say this once, Martina, so you'd better listen. If you don't want to be strapped face-down on the bed your arse fucked tonight without lube, you'll get it into the bedroom and get dressed in the pretty outfit Daddy picked out for you. Am I clear?"
For the first time in his life, Martin finds the courage to stand up for himself; if he doesn't do it now, he might never. "Marcus, I don't want to play this game anymore. I can't…I'm not…I don't want to become a woman. That's not who I am. Please, Marcus, I don't want to do this anymore…"
SLAM!
Marcus' meaty fist makes contact with Martin's heaving chest. His head snaps against the back of the chair and he feels his teeth cut across his tongue. There's nothing for it, he can barely breathe. Martin grabs both arms of the chair and grips them tightly, trying to keep from passing out cold. Last time he did that…
No, I've got to stay focused; he thinks as the world around him dances chaotically. Marcus is screaming at him now, calling him a whore and a cockslut and then there's a gun and the smell of gunpowder and Jesus Christ the smell of all the goo inside a person's head and the side of his face is wet but these are tears it's not blood, it can't be blood because…no…
The next thing Martin remembers is holding his mobile in his hand and sobbing to the emergency dispatch operator about his boyfriend and a gun and then time speeds up and there are police and they are checking his hands for residue and there's none to be found and Martin wants to vomit when Marcus is picked up by the paramedics, which he sees despite the large copper standing in front of him and there's nothing left now but a stain and the smell...and the big copper is asking him if he is going to be okay and Martin gives him some type of an answer and then he is simply alone.
Single.
By himself.
Martin has no concept of how long he stayed in his chair that night after the police and paramedics leave the flat. He can still feel their eyes on him and the pain is his chest is making itself known again via a dull throb that he knows from experience will only get worse the more he lingers. His very next conscious action is standing up and going back to the bedroom to grab whatever clothing presents itself. Martin doesn't want to be alone. Those words become a mantra as he moves through the flat on auto-pilot. Somehow he gets his feet into trainers and then everything seems to slip away and he finds himself on Douglas Richardson's sofa, wrapped in the older man's arms and sobbing like a child who has lost his favorite stuffy. Somehow, though, it seems to be the right place after all of these wrongs.
ooo
In the kitchen, Douglas freezes, knife held aloft over the onion he is dicing in preparation of throwing it into the sauce pan. He is unsure whether Martin will like his sandwiches prepared this way, but he feels like he should at least give the other man the chance to say no. Just as he switches on the gas, there is a loud thud from the bathroom that shakes the floor. What the hell?
Douglas switches the burner right back off and heads towards the loo, calling Martin's name. He opens the door slowly to reveal a very wet and very naked captain huddled in the floor in front of the cupboard. Without thinking, Douglas steps into the room to grab one of the clean towels and wraps it around Martin's shoulders.
"What happened?" He asks calmly.
"I…" Martin tries. His throat is so dry that the words are stuck. He shakes his head weakly then lets it drop into his hands. Everything is so overwhelming right now that the fluffy white towel draped over him could just as well be a thick old quilt.
Douglas has a pretty good idea what happened, because he remembers having a similar experience of his own back when he first gave up the hooch but not before his entire life crashed around his ankles. Martin will talk to him when he's ready, and not before.
"Never mind that now, come on, let's get you up." Douglas holds out his hand. As Martin takes it, the towel over his shoulders slips off and then he is facing the first officer in all of his bare-naked glory.
Neither man moves. Douglas' eyes are drawn from Martin's injured torso to that thatch of auburn hair between his legs. He recovers quickly though, internally berating himself then feeling guilty for secretly enjoying the view. Martin blushes and the two of them reach down at the same time for the towel, which just brings Douglas' face closer to Martin's crotch than he intended. Douglas catches a whiff of clean skin and male musk. In one motion, he turns around and takes one step away, even going so far as to fake-cough into his hand to cover up his instant discomfort. Yes, that's what it was, he tells himself.
For his part, Martin gets busy wrapping the towel snuggly around his hips. "You can look now," he says to Douglas.
Douglas swears he hears a little bit of amusement in Martin's tone. "Uh."
Martin lets out a tiny, broken laugh. Douglas looks over his shoulder and offers the captain a tight smile.
"Well," he says in a voice gone gruff, "That happened. I'll go find you a change of clothes, alright?" He doesn't stick around to hear Martin's answer, though, much as he is trying to behave around his grieving friend. It's only been what? two days? Get it together, Douglas, or you are going to have to send him to stay with Carolyn.
The very thought of their boss, however, serves to focus his attention on digging through his bureau drawers and wardrobe for something that might fit Martin. Eventually, he comes up with a pair of khaki shorts and a smaller T-shirt. The shirt is a royal blue that should look okay with Martin's hair…Douglas frowns at his own slightly flushed face in the mirror on the back of the door. Stop it, his expression says clearly.
Martin is waiting in the kitchen and Douglas passes over the clothes. "No clean pants, though, I can get yours whenever you are ready for me to go and get the…" Martin pulls the blue shirt over his head and until right then, Douglas didn't realize how small it was. The soft cotton clings to Martin's chest and arms and he gives quite the show when he turns to walk into the bathroom to pull the shorts on. The towel has loosened up around his hips and the tight tee highlights all the muscles in his back and across his shoulders. How would anyone ever seek to hide that?
Douglas restrains himself from either barking or whistling or drooling—somehow—by going back to the lunch preparations. From down the hallway, Martin is speaking.
"Douglas, would you think it's really stupid of me if I decide I don't want anything from the flat?"
"None of it? Surely you have a stack of flight manuals…" Douglas says, carefully stirring the caramelizing onions.
"No." Martin answers.
"Your books? What about all those plane models you built?"
"Nope."
"Your clothes, then?"
"No, Douglas."
"Why not?" Douglas asks as he slides a sheet with bread slices into the oven and finds that he is not put off at all by the slightly irritated tone in Martin's voice.
"The clothes? Because Marcus bought them all for me, except my uniform, and Carolyn says she wants to replace it anyway." Martin stands next to the sink. "Anything I can do?"
Douglas starts to say no, and then thinks otherwise. "Sure, you can grab dishes and silverware," he says, pointing to where those things can be found.
Martin gets out what they need and Douglas puts together two hearty sandwiches. Martin grabs two cans of soda from the refrigerator and they sit down at either end of the table. Douglas can't help but watch every move Martin makes and he is glad to see that it appears the captain is enjoying his lunch. When they are about halfway done, Douglas reopens the subject.
"Where is your van?" He asks simply.
Martin chews thoughtfully then takes a drink of Coke. "I think I drove it here. I remembered thinking I had to get out of there and leaving, then having to turn around and go back to get my keys."
Douglas gets up from the table and goes to the front door. He opens it, sees Martin's van in the driveway next to his Lexus and settles back in his seat.
"Yes, it's here."
"That's good then. Since Carolyn started paying me, I was able to get most of the minor repairs done that it needed." He takes another bite, clearly ravenous now.
"I'm glad to hear it." Douglas isn't as hungry as he thought he was, he's too busy watching Martin's expression of pure joy. "Enjoying that?"
Another faint staining of pink crosses Martin's cheeks. He covers his mouth with one hand and nods. "Thank you."
"You know you are more than welcome, Martin. What else are friends for?" Douglas answers, ignoring the strange twinge in his mind at the word friends.
In between them stretches the memory of a very naked Martin. Douglas speaks quickly in order to hide it, though they both silently acknowledge its existence. "What about your things, then?"
"Honestly, Douglas," Martin wipes his face with a napkin from the basket in the center of the table that at some point in its life had been filled with fruit. "Nothing in that flat is mine, per se. All of my stuff went into storage."
"Alright." Douglas says.
Martin hears the question in the statement. "Marcus…"
Douglas feels that all too familiar flash of anger again. "Let me guess, none of your stuff matched his décor? I thought it was your flat, too?"
"It was, Douglas. It was. It's just that he paid the majority of the rent…" Martin stops as if he is finally hearing his own words for the first time.
"Oh," he breathes, sounding quite pitiful. All of it crashes over him like a tidal wave and he slides his plate out of the way before dropping his head into his hands.
Douglas regards him for two heartbeats then moves behind him and pulling him out of his chair to wrap him up in his arms. "Go on," he croons gently, "let it out, Martin. Let it out."