Heads up for the violence in this chapter.
Douglas arrives home sporting a black eye, a cut cheek, and a paper bag full of booze. Martin is out doing the shopping, as he'd said he would be before Douglas left. Despite Douglas's best efforts, Martin still does the shopping at night, alone, while walking. He claims that it calms him - that he actually likes to do it.
Douglas doesn't care right now. He's confused, he's angry, and already slightly drunk. The 'slightly' part of that sentence he chooses to remedy almost as soon as he walks through the door. He downs the first bottle as he makes his way to his room, opening the safety deposit box. In there he finds his divorce papers, a few other official documents, the papers formally declaring Martin as his and, finally, the remote to Martin's collar.
He palms the device, turning it over and over in his hands. It's truly funny how such a small thing can bring someone's freedom, or their death.
The front door opens and Douglas goes out to greet him.
Martin shuffles in, walking directly to the kitchen with the heavy load of shopping without noticing Douglas. He hums a tune that Douglas vaguely recognizes as Arthur's current favorite song as he unloads the shopping.
"Martin," Douglas slurs, scaring the boy with his volume.
Martin whips around, a concerned look immediately crossing his face. "Douglas. Are you alright?"
A surge of affection swarms in Douglas's chest, followed immediately by panic and, finally, anger.
"No, Martin, I'm not bloody alright," he says testily.
Martin's eyes search his face, lingering on the injuries there and he moves cautiously around Douglas to the hallway where he climbs the stairs.
"Let me get you some paracetamol or something. It'll help the pain."
When Douglas doesn't respond, Martin turns, gazing searchingly at him. He stops. "On second thought, coffee might be better." He makes to go around Douglas again so as to get down the stairs, but Douglas's arm bars his progress. That's when Martin notices the remote to his collar still in his hand. "Er...Douglas?"
Douglas snaps. His drunkenness coupled with his affection, his confusion at that emotion, his anger at all of it - at the knowing glances, at Helena's words, at his own combobulated feelings - all of it culminates into a single moment. His hand removes itself from the wall and grabs Martin harshly by the hair, the movement a complete antithesis to his usual actions.
He slams the boy heavily against the wall, ignoring the sharp gasp of pain as his head connects.
"What gives you the right," Douglas spits, shaking Martin back and forth to punctuate each word. "Who the hell gave you the right?"
Martin's eyes fill with involuntary tears and he shakes his head. "Douglas, please stop."
"Stop calling me that," he roars, throwing him hard against the opposite wall. He grabs Martin's wrist and throat to hold him in place, not realizing, even as Martin gasps for breath, just how hard he's squeezing.
"Do you know how long it's been since I got you?"
Martin chokes.
"DO YOU?"
Martin shakes his head, unable to speak.
"Seven months, now. A full seven months. I was supposed to sell you!" He ignores the look of devastation that crosses the slave's features as he continues. "Two months was all I needed. Then I could buy a proper slave, one that wasn't so...so abused and small and worthless!" He releases Martin's wrist to hold up the remote.
"Jason told me to kill you. By god I should've. Then this wouldn't be happening. I could do it now, even; finally treat you like a proper slave. Right now I could take your life. I'm supposed to have the power to do so." Martin's eyes are full of terror, and he lets out a shaky breath when Douglas throws the device down the stairs.
"But I can't. Goddamn it!" He pulls Martin from the wall and tosses him aside. He vaguely registers his own slow-building terror underneath his overwhelming drunken haze as he watches in slow motion as Martin scrambles to stay up, tripping in the process. His arms pinwheel and he falls hard, right down the stairs.
Douglas hears a dull thud, followed by a sharp yell of pain, but his mind is cloudy, unable to comprehend what's just happened as he slowly calms down. He can't bloody think - can't do anything. He squeezes his eyes shut, holding his head. He opts to ignore these recent events as he sits there breathing heavily before he walks to the bathroom to throw up and eventually fall asleep.