Chapter Summary: Martin is getting worse. Arthur is worried and even Carolyn is concerned. Luckily, Douglas knows just what to do.

..

.

"Martin, could you pass me the knife with the black handle?" Martin draws the requested knife from the block and places it in his father's outstretched hand. "Ta. This other one's getting a bit dull, I think," Geoff says. He rearranges the piece of meat on the cutting board and slices into it. "Ah, much better."

Martin looks at the thin seepage of red juice from the beef, slightly queasy. He shrugs his shoulders, shaking off his disquietude. He turns back to his own tasks, setting the chopped carrots aside and working on the tomatoes. He struggles with these, the thin skin tearing and seeds and juice squirting.

"No, you're doing that wrong, son. You're using the wrong knife," his dad says, chuckling. "You need a serrated one." He reaches past Martin's elbow and plucks the knife from his hand, dropping it into the sink with a clatter. "Poor tomatoes. What did they ever do to you?"

"It's only for a stew, Dad. It's not going to matter how they look." But Martin's defense is weak and comprised mostly of amusement, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Besides, they started it." The tomatoes really do look a mess, a mangled red pile in the centre of his cutting board. Rather horrible, if he's honest with himself. He wrinkles his brow and looks at his father, who is piling cubes of meat into a pan and dusting them with salt. "Why are we making stew again? I can't remember. Is Mum off tonight with her coffee group?"

"I like a good bit of beef," Geoff replies. A small chunk spills from the overflowing pan onto the counter and he picks it up and pops it in his mouth. "Mm. Better without the salt, but you know how I like it rare."

"Dad," Martins says, that strange sense of unreality creeping over him again. "Dad, you can't eat."

"What are you talking about, Martin? Of course I can." His father turns to smile at him and black liquid trickles over grey lips. His eyes, oh god, they're white. The unease coalesces, solidifies into dread. Martin can't move, his feet won't lift from the floor. "I've always been able to eat. Just the diet's changed." He sways towards Martin and Martin is trapped against the counter. His father's cold hands settle on his shoulders, grip tight. "But it's been so long since I've had a decent meal, son. So very long." He bends his head as if about to give Martin an affectionate kiss and -

..

.

Martin flung back the bedcovers and bolted to the bathroom just in time to lose his dinner. When the last spasm was over, he reached with a trembling hand for a wad of toilet paper, wiping his streaming eyes and mouth. It was still dark outside, god knew what time it was. But he knew that the chance of sleeping through the night was next to nil. He rested his head on the cool plastic of the toilet seat and closed his eyes. No flying for him tomorrow. God. The one great joy in his life, and he wouldn't be able to lose himself and his problems in doing it. He wasn't fit to fly - and he knew it. A small noise of misery escaped his throat. He'd send a text message to Carolyn and let her know he was taking another sick day - just as soon as he was able to convince his legs to move.

..

.

May 2013, Fitton

"Here's the rest of the paperwork." Carolyn took the proffered forms from Alec Thompson and flicked through them as he stood before her. He cleared his throat. "So. This is the fourth time you've called me in -"

"Third," Douglas said, not looking up from his calculations.

Thompson ignored him, focussing on Carolyn. "Not that I mind being a pilot-at-large, but if your captain keeps having sick days, would you consider taking me on in a more permanent capacity?"

It was doubtless Carolyn's imagination that the tone of Thompson's voice held a hope that Martin would just disappear entirely, leaving a convenient gap for Thompson to step into. Caroline raised her voice to cover Douglas' grumble. "Yes, well. Thank you, Mr Thompson, for coming on board again, and on such short notice. I'll keep you in mind - one never knows." He nodded, smiled at her and left.

"One never knows, but you do, Carolyn," Douglas said from the table he and Martin shared as a desk. He leaned back and swung his feet up. Carolyn glared but decided it wasn't a battle worth fighting today. "Never mind that at least one of your pilots is quite reliable. You'll be calling him in again, then?"

"And why would you say that?" she asked.

"Mister Thompson. You are only ever polite to people whose money or services you need."

"And so often the two are combined in one." She lifted a brow. "Well spotted, Poirot. At least he's been available."

"More's the pity. When you compare this fellow to how Martin was when we first took him on, Martin was so much more warm and friendly. Why, he barely treated me at all like something unfortunate he'd found he'd stepped in," Douglas quipped. "But I think this Thompson is warming up to me. I could swear he almost thought of saying goodbye to me just now."

Carolyn laughed in spite of herself but then sighed. "I don't want to have to call him again, mind. What I need is for our usual pilot to be available at the snap of my fingers!"

"Yes, well," Douglas said but his face sobered and he dropped his feet from the table.

It had been two weeks since that disastrous Suffolk flight and after a grace period of two days leave, Martin had returned to work. Day by day, the shadows under his eyes grow more prominent until it seemed he was only operating on coffee and determination. Arthur was walking on eggshells and even Douglas' usual sarcasm had lost its bite.

Carolyn tapped her nails on the desk, uncharacteristically restless as she considered the problem of Martin. Douglas was right - Martin had improved much over his time with MJN and she'd grown - well, fond was such a soppy word, she preferred to say she'd grown accustomed to his quirks and was satisfied with his performance. And if the story a distraught Arthur had told her about Martin's dad had caused her hard heart to crack a little on his behalf, she would at least allow Martin the dignity of treating him as she always had, or nearly so. With the collusion of a willing Douglas and a worried Arthur, new protocols had been implemented to ensure Martin came into contact with treated PDSers as little as possible and with the untreated not at all.

But the best intentions of MJN's finest were to no avail - Martin was falling to pieces. Carolyn met Douglas' dark eyes. "He can't go on this way." Her meaning was clear. She'd have to let Martin go.

Douglas nodded. "Pragmatism suggests so. It's a hard choice. I… wouldn't like to see him go. Not when he's just started to fly like an actual pilot, due in no small part to my own magnificent self."

"Don't sprain your wrist patting yourself on the back too hard, Douglas," she said. "I know what you've done for him. And then there's finding another pilot who will tolerate your massive ego, amongst other the other things."

"I know." Douglas' smile was twisted. "I very nearly feel sorry for myself. But then I think of Martin." He shook his head. "My god."

"Yes. Then there's Martin. If the idiot boy would just get some help," she muttered. "It was bad enough for MJN's business dealing with investigation over the Suffolk incident. But Martin's heading head-first for a breakdown, and when that happens, then… " She tapped her nails on the desk once more before folding her hands together. "The CAA doesn't let unstable pilots keep their licenses."

"Well, we can't let that happen, can we? MJN needs her captain," Douglas said. "Tomorrow's free according to the schedule, is it not?"

"Indeed it is," Carolyn said.

Douglas picked up his seldom-worn pilot's hat and brushed imaginary lint from it. "Perhaps I'll drop by and see him. Bring a fruit basket or such, since he's not feeling well." They exchanged a speaking look and Carolyn smiled in satisfaction. If she could avoid speaking to Martin on an official level about his problems, all the better. She didn't want to panic the poor boy into fits.

"That's so kind. What an altruistic person you are, Douglas," Carolyn said sweetly. "I had no idea."

"Don't be ridiculous, Carolyn," Douglas said. He stood up and swept her a mocking bow, cap covering his heart. "It takes one to know one, after all." He placed the hat on his head with a purposeful tug. "Once more into the breach, then." He cast her one last smirk before striding from the portacabin.

"Ridiculous old flatterer," Carolyn huffed but turned back to her account books, pleased.

..

.

Douglas strolled to G-ERTI's parking area, looking for Arthur. He'd recently won Arthur's car in a bet, and was graciously allowing him to work off the debt with the occasional spot of chauffeuring. Well, Carolyn had suggested the forfeit when Arthur had confessed. Douglas had taken the hint. "Young Shappey?" he called. "All finished hoovering?"

Arthur poked his head out. "Yes, pretty much. You want to go home? Hang on, I'll get my keys."

As Arthur drove, Douglas hummed a snatch of opera and waited. The signs were obvious, since it was Arthur, after all - he had something he wanted to say but wasn't sure how to broach it. Arthur tapped the steering wheel, shifted in his seat like a child and shifted gears as though he were on Top Gear. Douglas checked the buckle of his seat belt once more. He didn't want to die twice over just yet. "No need to rush, Arthur, it's not as if I'd left the oven on or anything," he said mildly.

"Oh! Right. Sorry." Arthur reduced speed. He glanced at Douglas. "Uh. Can - can I ask you for a favour?"

"A favour?" Douglas tapped his chin in thought, pretending to consider. "Hm. Depends on what you want. All right, ask away."

"Well… well, I know Mum's not happy with Skip right now and Skip's not doing okay and I think Skip is great and I don't want him to go so I wondered if you could make it so Martin doesn't get fired?" Arthur got it all out in one breath and looked at Douglas expectantly.

"You think I can do that? Change your mother's mind if she's made it up?" Douglas asked.

Arthur's shoulders slumped. "Yeah. But - but she hasn't decided yet, has she? And anyway, if you can't change her, maybe you can fix Skip?"

"Goodness," Douglas said. "You do have confidence in me."

"Of course I do!" Arthur said. "I'd try, but Skip was so scared of me that day. I don't think I should do it. He talked to you. You helped him, Douglas. And…" His brow creased. "It's just, just the opposite-of-brilliant that Skip is scared again. I really don't like it."

"Yes." Douglas didn't like it much himself. "No surprise that Martin has issues. He does try, but let's face it - anyone who's been through what he has would be a tad nervy. Don't take it to heart. "

"I won't," Arthur said. "But I know he can get better! Skip is so clever! I mean, both of you are pilots and you've got to be pretty clever to do that. But did you know I played a game with him once where I named a section of the flight manual and he'd tell me what was in it?"

"Oh, the infamous Flight Manual Bingo? Yes, I know that one," Douglas said. He'd lost and Martin had gloated for days.

"Wow. I have trouble even remembering the words to Beatles songs!" Arthur was impressed.

Privately Douglas thought that in Martin's case, a perfect memory might be a curse, all things considered. He himself often wished he remembered less, but the Neurotriptyline was doing its job rebuilding neural pathways and returning more nightmarish memories to him. He had a certain fellow feeling for Martin's plight. "What," he said to Arthur to distract himself. "Are you saying I'm not as clever as Martin?"

"No, of course not!" Arthur protested. "You're both brilliant! But…" Arthur couldn't find a way to put it in a diplomatic manner.

Douglas chuckled. "Not to worry, Arthur. I'm aware my brilliance lies in other areas, but not in between the pages of the flight manual."

"Yeah," Arthur said, relieved. "But, Skip - Douglas, I don't want him to leave MJN. I don't want a different captain."

"I concur."

Arthur's mouth turned down in unhappiness. "I keep thinking about what Skip said, about his dad. It's awful."

"They're getting on well now," Douglas said. He hoped.

"Oh, that's good! I know Skip was always kind of nervous, but I never knew how bad it was." Arthur's fingers clenched on the steering wheel. "He must have been so scared, and he tried so hard! And it was pretty good for while, but now…" He turned his head to Douglas. "Douglas, you have to do something, please! I don't think he's doing well. I'll give you anything, just - can you?"

Not even Douglas Richardson was bastard enough to wrangle a deal from a situation like this, especially not when Arthur turned the power of his brown contacts like a forlorn puppy's upon him. "Yes, I think I can. No favour required this once: I'll do it pro bono. You have my promise I'll do my best to sort Martin out - possibly with the help of you and your mother."

"Oh, brilliant! Like, with group hugs?" Arthur beamed.

Douglas had to grin at the idea. "Something like that, though I can only imagine your mother's face."

"Thank you, Douglas!" Arthur exhaled a relieved breath. "I'm so glad." They drove in silence a few moments more before Arthur broke it again. "Skip's pretty brave, isn't he?"

"That he is," Douglas agreed.

..

.

Though he'd said it as a joke, Douglas did in fact purchase some fresh fruit and a box of ginger snaps. When Martin answered the door, rumpled and blinking exhaustion-shadowed eyes up at him in confusion, he thrust the carrier bag at him. "Here. Simultaneous housewarming and convalescent gift."

Martin looked at the bag and back up at Douglas, brows knitted. "Um. Thank you?" Douglas stood waiting until Martin came back himself. "Would you like to come inside?"

Exactly what he'd been hoping for, though if Martin hadn't invited him in, Douglas would have found some other devious way to inveigle himself across the threshold. "Thank you." He entered, placing his second bag by the door and shrugging out of his jacket.

Inside, Martin's flat was almost as small as his own, the furniture clearly secondhand, but it had many more personal touches. As Martin hung his jacket and unpacked the bag with pleased comments about the grapes and kiwis, Douglas found himself drifting to a bookcase. It was entirely Martin-ish - popular books ranging from fiction to biographies of famous pilots and several models of aeroplanes of varying pedigrees. He picked up a Spitfire, noting the less-than-perfect paintwork. "Rather nicely done," he lied.

"That? Oh, that's one of the first ones I did," Martin said, coming up to stand next to him. "Well, I say I did it - my dad helped with the glueing but I did the painting. As you can probably tell. I was only six." He shrugged diffidently.

"Only six? Good job," Douglas said and relinquished the model back to Martin. He watched as Martin blew a speck of dust from it and placed it with care back on the shelf, the plane's tiny prop revolving.

"I've always wanted to be a pilot," Martin said. His smile was tired. "The only thing I've ever wanted, in fact."

"I hate to point out the obvious, but you are one now," Douglas said.

"Yes, well, I think you've twitted me few times about how many times it took me to get my licence, so you know it wasn't easy," Martin said. "Still." He gestured Douglas to make himself comfortable on the sofa. Douglas sat with care on the ancient thing, praying that an errant spring wouldn't jump up and puncture his bottom, but it only wheezed gently under his weight. Martin perched himself on the coffee table and clasped his hands. "As touched as I am by your personal visit, Douglas… no really, I actually appreciate it, I don't have that many people dropping by - anyway." His grey eyes scanned Douglas' face. "Why are you here, really?"

And here it was - the point of his visit. Douglas made a wry face. "Well. A friendly visit, as you say. We are friends of a sort, aren't we?" At Martin's look of surprise, he went on. "Yes, I know, ridiculous, a great sky-god lowering himself to befriend a mere mortal stripling such as yourself. We did start off on the wrong foot, I know. But we've progressed since then, and whatever you are, Martin, you're not just an acquaintance. To me, at least. As surprising as it is to me, I do actually consider you… a friend." He shrugged. "Not like I have that many dropping by my own place, you know."

"Oh. Right, yes." Martin's smile was tentative and sweet. "I'm glad. I… yes, Me too. Friends, I mean." The smile quirked into a smirk. "And again, I appreciate it. It's not like you to make such a declaration. I find myself overwhelmed, Mr Richardson."

Douglas' laugh was sudden. "Don't let it go to your head."

Martin grinned back. "I won't." Their smiles faded. Douglas cleared his throat.

"Well, your surmise is correct - I didn't drop by just to declare us as something more than colleagues. It is pertaining to work, to be honest. Your performance recently, to be exact."

Martin stiffened. He drummed his fingers once on the table. "God. I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I know I've been… It's just a personal thing, I don't mean to be so, so… unprofessional."

Douglas cocked his head. "When you say unprofessional, what do you mean? You do your paperwork, you fly G-ERTI with all due skill required for the task. What else is there?"

"You know! I - I… ever since the, the attack…" Martin gulped. "It's been hard to, to focus."

"Distractions. Yes." Douglas nodded. "I did notice. When you stopped responding for fifteen full minutes the last flight, I couldn't help but notice. As did Carolyn and Arthur. What happened, if I may ask?"

Martin jiggled a leg. "It's stupid. It was… It was evening, it was dark out. And, and out of the corner of my eye, you -" He looked at the carpet. "Your reflection. The window was black and your reflection was white. You looked… dead. I know it sounds stupid. It is stupid. And unprofessional."

"And dangerous," Douglas said. Martin jerked his head up, mouth opening but Douglas leaned forward, elbows on his knees, holding Martin's gaze. "You know it is, Martin. And you know that's not the only problem."

"I'll take care of it, I did it before!" Martin protested. "You know I wouldn't do anything to endanger passengers or crew!"

Douglas searched Martin's face. Martin looked unhappy and… yes, there was the press of lips. Stubborn. He sighed inwardly. He hadn't wanted to do this, but if Martin was going to be resistant… He summoned his most sincere face and lied. "Carolyn wants you to go in for a psychiatric evaluation."

"No! No, she can't, I won't!" Martin leapt up as if shocked. "I know I haven't been doing well lately, but that's not fair! I… I know I should have done better when, when that… when things started getting out of control, I should have tased her right away, but - but -"

"But you froze up," Douglas supplied. "Arthur did tell us. I don't blame you, Martin, not with… well, knowing what I do about your history." He didn't offer any sympathy or express the pity and understanding he felt on Martin's behalf - now was not the time.

Martin was pacing with frantic energy. "That shouldn't matter! I knew what to do, I just…" He stopped, hands wavering in an aborted gesture. "Douglas, please, don't let her force me to take an evaluation. I'll fail, I'm sure I'll fail, and then…"

Douglas leaned back. "You wouldn't be able to fly." He looked around the room at the models and books and all its mementos, reflecting back upon just one thing. Flying meant everything to Martin, it seemed.

"Yes," Martin whispered.

"For what it's worth, I doubt you would fail a psychiatric evaluation," Douglas offered. "A certain obsessiveness with flying and your eternal flight ops aside, you're fairly normal. The doctors would no doubt take your circumstances into consideration. It's perfectly natural for you to exhibit excessive cautionary behaviour when working with PDSers. Lapses like the other day -"

"Could mean that I might fail in my duty as a captain," Martin interrupted, miserable.

Douglas considered him. Just a touch more pressure needed to be applied, and then the really difficult part would be upon him. "Then - if flying means that much to you, something needs to be done. No," he said, holding up a hand. "Not by having you submit to a formal evaluation. But you need to take steps yourself, and I don't mean by just sweeping your problems under a rug and hoping they goes away. I think it's evident that tactic isn't going to be as much help you pretend to think, Martin."

"Well, what then?" Martin sat back on the coffee table.

Douglas smiled. "I have a bargain for you."

"If it's anything like your bets, I probably shouldn't take it," Martin said with a trace of dry humour.

"Oh, it's an offer you can't refuse, if you care about flying at all. It's this - you are going to get help - actual, professional help so Carolyn won't need to send you to any licence-stealing shrinks."

Martin shook his head. "Well, that's nice. Since I'm backed into a corner anyway -"

"I said it would be a bargain," Douglas said. "And it also involves a gift, from me to you. I'm going to help you."

"Why, Douglas?" Martin glared. "Is this some kind of, of twisted pity for your poor, messed-up captain? Because if it is, I don't want it."

Douglas returned the glare. "It's not pity. If I thought you needed help when we first met, it was because I thought you were a terrified bigot due for a trip to the emergency room to have the stick removed from your arse."

Martin's mouth fell open. "You - you…"

"I still think you're still too stiff for your own good. But bit by bit, you've been able to change. You proved me wrong."

Martin's mouth closed with a snap. "Oh. Uh. Thanks for that. I think." He turned his face away. "You weren't wrong. I was… unfair to you. And PDSers."

"And scared of us." Douglas waited for Martin to look up again. "You still are."

"I'm not! I work with you, don't I?" The bravado was as immediate as it was false. Douglas nodded in understanding.

"I'm not saying you haven't come a long way." Douglas hesitated. "And… now I know how far, I'm amazed. You're a brave man, Martin."

Martin pushed the admiration away with a gesture. "I'm not. You didn't see me that day in Suffolk. I panicked. It was… " He drew in a shaky breath. "It was like a nightmare, having it happen all over again. It wasn't her, it was my… him. And I froze. I couldn't do anything. Couldn't follow the regulations. Me." He punctuated the confession with a bitter snort.

"Well, bugger the regulations, then," Douglas said, dropping his voice. "Because they're only guidelines and they aren't going to cover every contingency. Besides, I'd like the contest your denial of bravery. Tell me, Martin, when that rabid had Arthur by the throat, what was going through your mind?"

"I don't know. I just reacted! She was trying to kill him, I couldn't just stand there!"

"So you leapt in, putting your own life in danger to pull him away. And it never occurred to you he wasn't in any real danger?" Douglas asked. "Being dead already?"

"No. No, of course not. I just did it. Stupid, maybe. But… it was Arthur."

"And Arthur is a Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer. But you tried to save his life."

Martin's spread his hands. "I wasn't thinking about that at the time! And Arthur… Arthur and you - you're friends."

"And we're not alive. And in unguarded moments, you're afraid of us." Douglas lifted a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. "You are. You've done well, all things considered. But you cover it up the way I spackle on cover-up everyday to hide what's beneath. When that rabid attacked you, you had a severe flashback. You wouldn't even let Arthur near because he looked like, well - what he is. What I am."

Martin's head drooped. Douglas felt a twist of guilt for having to push him but it had to be done. That it was also self-serving only helped a little. "In short, my captain, you have post-traumatic stress disorder and a case of the fear. But Martin - you're not the only one with problems." His voice became self-deprecating and Martin's head came up. "So you need help. As do I - god knows I've been avoiding my own problems. It dents my massive manly pride. But this is the bargain. If you can be that brave, face your fears and get the help you so desperately need, than so can I."

Martin turned his face away. "I wish you'd stop saying I'm brave."

"Oh, Martin." Douglas sighed. "Listen. Do you remember once you asked why I don't see my daughter anymore?"

Surprised at the change in topic, Martin nodded. A look of apprehension spread over his face. "She's…. she didn't die, did she?" he whispered. "During the Pale Wars?"

Douglas shook his head. "She's fine, as far as I know. Thank goodness. But I haven't been in touch since I've come back. Why do you think that is?"

Martin's brow furrowed. "Your ex-wife? She's blocking you from using your custody rights because you're… what you are?"

Douglas barked a laugh. "Penelope and I don't get on, but oddly that's one thing she wouldn't do, PDS or no. She's always been more than fair with me concerning Olivia."

"Then - she does know you've Risen, your daughter?"

Douglas dropped his chin in a nod. "Yes. When I was due to be released, the Centre asked me which of my emergency contacts would be part of my support network, help sort out new living arrangements, et cetera. I told them my third wife would help me, which, bless Helena's kind soul, she did. All of my former spouses were informed of my condition, to my annoyance. Privacy and confidentiality are tossed out the window when it comes to dead people, it seems."

"Then… then why, Douglas?" Martin was flushing with annoyance. "That's… I still don't think that's right, you should see her! I'm sorry but she's your only daughter! She needs to know her dad, no, no matter what you are!"

Douglas' laugh was dry. "I'm glad your own reunion with your father has turned out so well that you can expound that point of view. It's not that easy, as you know." His hand was trembling and he gripped his thigh to stop it.

"Why? Do you think she's going to be afraid of you?" Martin bit his lip at his slip.

"I really have no idea. For all I know, she feels just the same as you do."

"I'm not - I don't mean to -"

Douglas gave him a tired smile. "Please don't deny it, captain. You've done wonders coping with it. I know exposure to my inestimable self helps. And who in their right mind would ever be afraid of Arthur, either living or dead?"

Martin chewed his lip. "Common sense says there's no reason to be."

"Common sense has nothing to do with this," Douglas pointed out.

"But you - you guys have been great; I really like working with you now! You especially, I can't believe now how tolerant you've been - I'm sure you must have wanted to pitch me off the plane a few times at first."

"Who says I still don't? You can be an officious twit on occasion."

Martin wrinkled his nose at that. "My point is, you take your doses everyday, just like you're supposed to. I know you're not going to… to go rabid and attack me."

"There's the thing," Douglas said. "Common sense says I won't. Your hindbrain, though… it says I might. And I have attacked people."

Martin gulped but lifted his chin. "'What you did in your untreated state -'"

Douglas cut him off with a chopping motion. "Fuck that." Martin gaped at his unwonted vulgarity. "I know. You do know about Neurotriptyline, don't you? How the miracle drug triggers flashbacks to things done in our 'untreated state'? I know what I did. Not everything - I expect I'll be getting more uncomfortable memories for some time to come. But what comes back to me, over and over, is the worst one. The first one."

"My dad told me about the memories." Martin's face was taut. He licked his lips and spoke, very hesitant. "What… what happened, Douglas?"

Douglas shook his head once. "No. You don't need any more nightmares."

"But - but maybe you need fewer," Martin said with startling perception.. "It's okay. You're right - I, I'm… sometimes, I'm afraid of you. But I don't think your story is going to make it any worse, really."

Douglas shook his head again, surprised again at Martin's depth of strength, his willingness to take on and endure even Douglas' tale of woe. Moreover, if Martin was ever going to be convinced to get help, Douglas had to show him he wasn't alone.

"There… there was a girl." At Martin's horrified look he went on quickly. "No, it wasn't my daughter - if it had been, you wouldn't be talking to this ex-sky god right now, I couldn't have lived with that." He clasped his hands, looked down at them. "God knows what she was doing out alone. Walking home from a friend's house or something. I'd love to get my hands on whoever let her out unaccompanied, though I imagine they're suffering enough already. I…"

He remembered the coat, vivid in the dark, the girl's dark plait swaying against red nylon. The blood hadn't shown on the plait, though it had beaded and trickled over the nylon afterwards. He felt the imaginary roughness of a stone in his hand and swallowed, throat clicking.

"I killed her, Martin. A little girl. A child. Someone's daughter, could very well have been my own, and I'd never have known until the sodding drug returned my memory." He looked up and Martin shrank from his sudden fierceness. "And it's not right. Right now, today, if I went out and killed someone in my so-called 'treated' state, I'd be sent down as a murderer. But I have this syndrome, and suddenly I'm supposed to pretend it's all right?"

Martin shook his head, but he tried to help, bless him. "That - that's not who you are. You're not a murderer."

Douglas' laugh was mirthless. "All the platitudes in the world aren't going to make me feel less of one, Martin. And maybe some PDSers are happy and grateful to have second lease on life - but not me. I'm here, and Olivia's still alive and that little girl… isn't. She's not going to have any second chances, Martin, and I did that."

Martin's face was pinched with concern. "You're - are you afraid you'd hurt Olivia somehow? You'd never. Is that it, you don't trust yourself around her?"

Douglas abruptly felt all of his fifty-odd living and dead years weighing him down. "I know I wouldn't. It's not that simple." Olivia's life, compared to his own condition, was such a fragile thing and he was so grateful that she existed. And he was a bastard to be happy his daughter lived when he'd killed someone else's. But he'd been a selfish bastard all his life, he saw with the clarity of hindsight. He'd ruined so much before he died with arrogance and selfishness and lies. Lying to himself, most of all. Three marriages, an abandoned medical career, the drink, and his own ridiculous sabotage of his career with smuggling, and for what? It was stupid to regret the loss of such a life, and yet that's what he'd been doing. Add that to his crippling guilt and it was a wonder he got out of bed at all. But there was one last thing he had to say.

He struggled to put it into words, praying that Martin wouldn't flee, knowing that he should. Douglas wouldn't blame him. "The worst part - no, unbelievably, murdering little girls wasn't the worst part, Martin. The worst part, Martin, is that I remember how it felt. The hunger. Annoyance when she fought me, the brave little hopeless thing. And the satiation, afterwards. The primitive pleasure I had. God." He pressed a hand to his brow, covering his eyes. "You think having Partially Deceased Syndrome is the worst thing that can happen to you? It's not. It's living with what you did. It's guilt. It's depression. And if I could cut that memory out of my head without lobotomising myself, I'd do it."

He heard Martin's intake of breath and chanced looking at him. Martin's eyes were huge, his hands gripping his knees with white knuckles but he wasn't running away. Douglas gave him the ghost of a smile for it. "So, I understand you, Martin. More than you ever guessed. You get nightmares. I live them them every dose."

"I'm so sorry, Douglas," Martin said. "I never knew it was that bad. I'm sorry."

"How could you know? It's not something I'd share with just anyone." Douglas blew out a breath. "And that's about it, really. Olivia's better off without me in her life."

"She's not better off," Martin objected. "You said she knows you're alive. She must be really hurt, wondering why you won't contact her. Don't you want to see her?"

"I'm a sorry reminder of what her dad used to be. Who needs a sad old zombie in their life anyway?"

"She does! You're…" Martin made a frustrated noise. "You told me once that you didn't see her enough after your divorce. And, and I get that you feel guilty and I know how hard it is when you're depressed, I was depressed ages after my dad… well, my mom didn't want to believe me, so you can imagine how horrible that was. But you've got another chance! You can be her dad again, Douglas, you have to!"

Douglas looked away from Martin's clear gaze.

"You're afraid." Martin's voice was wondering. "You don't want her to see you like this."

Douglas snorted. "Not even I want to see myself like this, most days, Martin, and that's the problem. It's not just a matter of vanity. I… don't like myself very much. And I definitely don't want to ever look at my daughter and remember even a ghost of the pleasure I felt killing that child cross my mind."

"Oh."

"But… my bargain for you." Douglas' smile felt stiff. "I'll do it. I'll take my second chance and contact her, if you get help for yourself."

"Oh," Martin repeated, then, "Oh! No. No, that's not going to work."

"Pardon?" Part of Douglas was irritated at the stubborn set of Martin's mouth. The other part merely wanted to laugh. "What now?"

"Just, just - if you actually want it to be a real second chance with your daughter, then, then - you get help too. And that way, you won't be a sad old zombie when you meet her. So." Martin crossed his arms over his chest. "I get therapy, you do too."

"Martin," Douglas said. "This isn't like wagering for a cheese tray."

"I don't care! Anyway, it's much more important!"

"More important than cheese?" Douglas lifted a brow but was inwardly relieved by Martin's demand. He had no more excuses, no more self-deception to hide behind. Martin knew the worst, and Martin was too damned stubborn to let Douglas get away with avoiding his own issues any longer. He'd known when he started this conversation that it would lead to this. It was... it was a relief.

And it was also annoying that Arthur's brand of self-help worked - Douglas did feel better for having told his story. Heaving a mock sigh of resignation, he threw up his hands. "And I suppose Arthur will want therapy too, when he hears about this. And we'll have a happy little group."

"And my dad could come!"

"And Carolyn will terrify everyone past trauma into mental well-being."

They both laughed at the thought, though it was as much a release of tension as it was humour.

Martin's mirth faded into a lopsided grin. He cocked his head. "So, what was the other thing? You said you had a gift for me?"

"Ah." Douglas got up and fetched a small black case from the bag he'd left at the door. He held it out to Martin. "This is it. Here."

Martin took it, running fingers over the plastic latches and casting a curious glance up at Douglas. He opened and it and stilled. "What? It's… it's your injector. Douglas, no."

Douglas perched on the arm of the sofa. "And why not? You see, I have a theory about you - well, several, to be honest. And I think having this will do you a world of good."

Martin was shaking his head. "No, I don't think so. It's yours. How are you going to take your doses?"

Douglas snorted. "I already picked up a second one. Try another excuse, Martin."

"Why?" Martin's mouth was parted, brows furrowed in confusion.

"Hm. There's the thing, or one of them, at least." Douglas crossed his arms and regarded Martin with tilted head. "Remember how you used to tighten up enough to dent the yoke with your grip whenever Carolyn locked the flight deck door? The way you would surreptitiously finger your taser - no, don't worry, I'm not offended by it anymore. Much. My point is that you settled down when you focussed on your flying - when you were in control. But - I'm the one element in that flight deck that's not within your control. So I'm giving you this, because I can." He couldn't help the wry smile. "Control. You have it, captain."

"I can't." Martin lifted hands as if he could physically push Douglas' reasoning away. "Douglas, it's not fair to you!"

Douglas chuckled. "Good man, but predictable. You do understand I could never have gifted you with my injector unless I'd known how much you'd protest? Nothing about this is fair, Martin. Allow me to demonstrate."

He lifted both hands and shot them out as if he were a magician about to perform a trick. "Nothing up my sleeve. Or is there?" He flicked open a cuff button and began to roll back his sleeve, exposing white skin with traceries of dark veins scrolling beneath. Martin's breath quickened but he said nothing. Douglas shot a glance at him - no, Martin was holding fast, though his hands were gripping the case too tight. He proceeding to roll up the other sleeve, taking his time and doing it neatly. He blinked at Martin, wincing dramatically. "Damned contacts. They bother me when I leave them in too long, you know." He hated doing this without a mirror. He pinched the lens, sliding it from one eye. When he reached for the second Martin reacted at last, grabbing his wrist, the case clattering to the floor.

"Don't!" The pressure of his fingers was dimpling Douglas' skin. Martin looked at where he gripped Douglas and paled, letting him go as if he'd been scorched. "S-sorry. Sorry. But… please don't."

"As the captain wishes." Douglas looked at Martin steadily. "This is what I am. It hasn't slipped my notice that all your adverse reactions are linked to when PDS sufferers are in their natural state - Arthur losing his contacts, Dirk's injuries, white skin."

Martin's head was bowed. "Yes. I know. Yes, you're right. I'm sorry, it's just…"

"Bad memories relating to the most terrifying night of your life? I know." Douglas' voice gentle. He made a come-along gesture with his fingers within Martin's field of vision, indicating he should look up. "Right. Look me in the eyes, Martin Crieff. Tell me you wouldn't feel better if you knew you were the one that had administered the injection - the thing that makes me a PDS sufferer and keeps me from being a rabid. It's not fair, what happened to either of us. But if that's what it takes to make you more comfortable, I'm willing." And he meant it. Truth be told, to his own surprise he knew he'd rather have the shots from Martin than any underqualified med tech.

It took a few tries, Martin's eyes flicking away several times before he took a deep breath and held Douglas' odd-eyed gaze. He exhaled shakily and clutched trembling hands on the table's edge. "Oh god. God, that's weird. I know it's you, but - it's…" He lowered his eyes. "You're right. Okay. I - I'll do it. Thank you."

"I don't expect you to do it forever, mind," Douglas chided. He held open his lids and popped the lens back in. "Ugh, these things are such a pain." He blinked once or twice and refocused on Martin, who was peeking back up into his face. "Just as long as you need to."

"And as long as you want me to," Martin said with another flash of the insight he sometimes displayed. Douglas grinned.

"Deal." Martin held out his hand and after a brief pause Douglas took it. They shook. Martin didn't release his hand immediately. Instead, he turned it over, loosening his grip, looking at Douglas' palm. Douglas never bothered with cover-up there - it never clung and got on everything he touched. The skin was ghostly. Douglas kept his hand relaxed as Martin turned his hand over again, fingers trembling.

"Your nails…"

"Old wounds under the nail bed. Splinters," Douglas said.

"Oh god." Martin rubbed a thumb across the makeup, smearing it. "God, this stuff is thick."

"It has to be," Douglas agreed. "If I could feel it, I'd hate it more. I looked like Dame Edna putting on slap with a hangover the first few times."

Martin's giggle was slightly hysterical but genuine. He released Douglas' hand. Douglas missed that simple human touch, even if he didn't have the ability to feel it anymore. Whimsically he imagined something like the sensation of warmth beyond the pressure of Martin's fingers. Martin gave him a crooked smile.

"That… that was all right."

"Brave lad," Douglas approved.

"I'm not, really. But I'll try."

"That makes two of us, then," Douglas said. He clapped his hands. "But first things first! Pick up that case. I'm going to teach you how to administer Neurotriptyline properly, understand? I have medical school training and I am certain I'm more qualified than the dolts that do it now at the airports. When I've finished with you, you're going to be able to show them how it's done, understood?"

Martin passed him the case. "Aye aye, first officer. How long ago was that training of yours, by the way?"

"Oh," Douglas lamented. "How swiftly the worm turns." But he found himself grinning at the return of Martin's cheek. "For today, we'll just do a run-through on how it works, since I've already taken my dose this morning." He pulled out the injector and passed it to Martin. Martin took it, fascinated eyes running over the gleaming metal, not even noticing that Douglas hadn't rolled his sleeves back over his bare arms. Distraction first and then, with time, acclimatisation, slow and steady, Douglas thought. "So, first you check that the cartridge here still has gas in it…"

Together they bent over the case.