The next morning finds the kitchen in silence as Douglas eats his extremely greasy breakfast alone at the table, pointedly ignoring anything that might have happened the night before.
He looks up when Martin enters, chewing in silence and nodding to indicate that Martin can speak.
"Can I get you more orange juice, er..."
Douglas smiles slightly, taken in by Martin's ever-present nervousness. "I told you to keep calling me Douglas, sir."
Martin nods. "Can I get you more orange juice, Douglas?"
"Why yes indeed, sir." He lifts his glass, holding it out for Martin to fill.
Martin takes a seat at the table, pouring himself a glass as well. He looks as if he's about to say something but decides against it. A few more minutes of this same action leaves Douglas on edge. He considers suggesting a movie for the both of them to watch but stops himself, recalling the words of Helena the night before.
Douglas stands abruptly. "I'm going to make some use of the office today. I'd...rather not be disturbed," he says, leaving the room before Martin has a chance to respond.
The next few days pass in the same uneasy climate punctuated only by the occasional date with Helena. Douglas will smile at the smallest of what he's dubbed Martin-isms but, upon realizing it, will catch himself and retreat inward, generally into solitude.
He hasn't concerned himself up to this point with the fact that his amount of care for Martin may be considered unusual. In fact, he wouldn't have thought anything of it, really, had Helena not mentioned something.
Once he'd been made aware, though, he sees that he hadn't realized how many of his thoughts Martin occupies, hadn't realized how many of the boy's mannerisms he'd found charming, hadn't realized how completely smi-no. If nothing else, Douglas Richardson is not falling for a slave, not falling for Martin of all people. Exluding all else, the boy - yes, the boy - is young enough to be his son.
Douglas cares for him out of...of pity, and a sense of duty instilled in his family for generations - nothing more. At least, that's what he tells himself every time he's out with Helena, every time he smiles at Martin's nervousness, every time he finds himself unable to look away from the slave's stupid grin.
It's what he tries relentlessly to make himself believe even when Helena calls him out to the pub they met at, telling him ominously that "they need to talk".
It's near six when he walks into the pub feeling much like he did the day his second wife asked him out for coffee, only to reveal that she'd finally filed for divorce: apprehensive yet resigned.
He takes a seat across from her, watching absently as she orders a round for the two of them.
She looks at him very seriously, steepling her hands. "Something's wrong with you," she says. She poses it as a statement, but seems to expect an answer.
Douglas coolly raises an eyebrow. "Not that I'm aware."
Her lips flatten - the first agitated expression he's seen from her yet. "I thought we had promise, I really did. Our first date was fun, didn't you think so?"
Douglas crosses his legs and stares at her, waiting for the usual platitudes. 'It's not you, it's me'. 'This wasn't meant to be.' Et cetera, et cetera.
"It's Martin, isn't it?"
Her question startles him. His eyes widen minutely as he takes in her disapproving look.
She laughs, throwing her head back and and shaking her head as she looks at the ceiling. "I should've known, the way you're always going on about him, about it. I had figured, I had said to myself 'oh no, he's far too proud to fall for some pathetic slave'." She meets his eyes. "Especially one as pitiable as that ginger thing."
Douglas slams his hand on the table, alarming the waitress who's just returned with their drinks.
"Martin is far from pathetic. I won't hear that kind of talk about him again."
Helena shakes her head and scoffs. She raises both her hands in defeat. "And there it is. I wasn't completely sure, but now I know."
"You don't know anything."
"You keep telling yourself that. I've seen it these past few weeks - you realized it yourself and now you're scared. You've been pushing me away. The poor creature, stuck with a master like you who can't even keep his own thoughts under control. I take it that it's only been raised for domestic chores, then?"
Douglas freezes, waiting for her to elaborate.
"Oh please," she barks out a laugh. "It's a slave, Douglas. If you want to, you can fuck it. You hardly need consent."
Douglas places his drink on the table, his shaking hand nearly spilling its contents all over the floor.
She looks at him, narrowing her eyes. Then she backs up quickly, seemingly not wanting to be anywhere near Douglas all of the sudden. "My god. You're in love with it. That's horrendous." Her look of disgust twists her features into something hideous.
Unable to move, Douglas stares at his drink. He should've known her calm, kind demeanor was too good to be true. He'd known, as the weeks progressed, that he was being unfair to her. He'd planned on saying something, perhaps taking a break. He's glad he'd waited for her to make the first move - at least now he knows her true personality.
"I suggest you leave," Douglas murmurs very quietly. If she happened to miss it, she'd be sure to see the danger present in his shaking shoulders. "Now."
She huffs and stands. "Well. Best of luck, then," she says, sarcasm practically dripping from her lips. She places her half of the tab on the table. "Good riddance," she spits as she strides out of the pub and out of Douglas's life.
"Funny," he says. "I was just about to say the same thing." Then he stands and hucks his glass against the opposite wall.