Chapter Summary: MJN flies to a death metal festival. Douglas calls his ex-wife. Martin meets Dirk the groundsman, who reminds of him a certain famous singer. Dirk doesn't appreciate the comparison.

..

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Toronto

Arthur was thrilled to be working as a steward again. Helping other PDS sufferers like himself get together with their families again? Brilliant! It was like watching Homeward Bound, except with people instead of pets, and lots of crying and hugging. Well, not Arthur crying, obviously. But Alex's parents were really happy to have him back, and Mrs Dunstable's husband wouldn't let go of her hand and it was all really brilliant. Arthur did give Alex a hug, though his mum had sighed something about professionalism, Arthur and you're MJN's steward, please remember that.

Martin and Douglas greeted each guest as they filed onto G-ERTI, Douglas smiling and Martin parroting his welcomes. It was a bit funny, Arthur thought, how Martin's freckles stood out on his face like that. He was so pale, he almost looked liked Arthur before he put his mousse on in the mornings! Douglas looked more alive than Martin.

"You're not sick, are you, Skip?" Arthur asked, worried.

"No! No, I'm fine, I - what did you call me?"

"Skip, because you're MJN's captain, and a captain is the skipper. So you're Skip!" Arthur said. "It's a nickname, you know? Like when you have a different name for a person and you want to say it in a hurry?"

Martin looked as though he wanted to think of an objection and couldn't. Instead a small smile crossed his face. "Thank you, Arthur. Anyway, I'm not sick, I'm just…"

"Nervous?" Douglas supplied. "Jittery? Terrified?"

"I'm not!"

"Why?" Arthur said. "Is it because this is the most people we've flown since Mum restarted MJN? Don't worry, Skip! Just think of how happy everyone will be to get to their new homes! This flight is going to be brilliant!"

Martin didn't look as if he agreed it would be brilliant but it didn't dampen Arthur's enthusiasm. "Did you know that Alex had brain cancer? It's kind of a pity he never got to grow much of his hair back before he died, but he says he's just grateful he's getting another chance. He wants to go back to school and finish his degree. Isn't that great?"

Martin blinked at this, as if he'd never thought about it before. "I - I suppose so. Yes."

"Arthur, how did you get that out of him? You met him ten minutes ago," Douglas said.

"Asked him," Arthur said blithely. "It's nice meeting another Pee Dee Esser."

"Pee Dee Esser," Douglas said. "I'll go out on a limb and guess that's another nickname for people like you and me."

"Yep!"

"It's not bad," Douglas allowed.

Martin's mouth was hanging open slightly. "You… just asked? Isn't that a bit… insensitive?"

"Nah," Arthur said. "We PDSers talked about dying for yonks in the Centre. Not around staff, they didn't want us to, but when it was just us PDSers. It's great for starting conversations. Like a secret handshake! 'Hi, I'm Arthur, I was in a car crash and that's the last thing I remember, I died in hospital!'" His face sobered. "Uh. But maybe don't talk about that in front of Mum, please? She got this look on her face when I asked what happened."

Martin was shaking his head. "No, of course not, god. I'm… I'm so sorry, Arthur. I'd never… er."

"Oh, don't worry about it, I don't," Arthur said. "Like Alex says, I'm just really happy to be back! How about you, Douglas? How did you die?"

"Oh, the usual way," Douglas drawled. "Though I think the lack of respiration and heartbeat was what did me in." Martin looked at him, a line between his brows.

"That doesn't explain anything," Arthur complained. "Did you -?"

"Arthur, are you pestering the pilots?" Carolyn said, poking her head in the flight deck. "Go do the seatbelt checks. It's time I locked things down."

"Right-o!" Arthur waved at Martin and Douglas. Martin was looking pale again. Aw. Poor Skip. Maybe he was getting sick! Arthur was kind of glad he didn't get sick any more. He hated getting sniffles and tummy aches. He hoped Skip felt better soon.

..

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Fitton

Martin placed the last glass in the cupboard and closed it. There, that was the kitchen done. He looked around the room, cluttered with wadded paper and boxes. With a sigh he picked up the scissors. There were still several boxes to unpack in the living room of his small new flat. It had been with reluctance, regret and a shameful sense of release that he'd finally found a new place. It wasn't that he was abandoning his mother. He'd still be dropping by on days off. Caitlin had reassured her mother that yes, she still lived in Wokingham and there was no reason to miss Martin - didn't Mom remember she had a daughter too? Wendy had laughed at the good-natured raillery and Martin had silently blessed his sister for making his departure easier.

He knelt and worked open another box labelled 'Fragile'. Within were several bubble-wrapped items. Working slowly, he freed the first airplane model from its windings. With care he teased a shred of plastic from a tiny propellor and blew on it, making it spin.

"...and the wings have to be curved. You see, the air hits the front of the wing and splits! Going over the curve on top makes it faster, so there's lower pressure. But the air going under is slower and has more pressure, so it's always pushing up, up, you see?" Geoff demonstrated by pushing up under the model's wings.

Six-year old Martin's brows furrowed in confusion. "But… then why can't I fly if I put my arms out and run real fast?"

Geoff chuckled. "Same reason planes need engines." He leaned forward and blew into Martin's face. Martin scrunched his face up, giggling. "You feel that? That's more air pressure! And since it's hitting the front of the plane, it slows it down all the time. And so you need an engine to help push the plane fast enough to get the lift." He blew on the model's props with a low whistle, lifting it.

Martin was thinking hard again. "So I need to run faster?"

Geoff laughed and shook his head. "Much, much faster. And have different shaped arms. I'm afraid it doesn't quite work that way."

"Oh." Martin considered. "Then… then I want to be a pilot. I'll get to have a plane. And then I don't have to run."

"Hard work, all that running," Geoff agreed with a gentle smile and smoothed a hand over Martin's errant red curls.

With a lump in his throat, Martin breathed again on the tiny prop. He stood and looked at his bookcase - yes, that space would be just right. He placed the Spitfire in its new home.

..

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Uppsala

"Why would anyone in their right names call their band 'Zombie Apocalypse'?" Martin's brow was furrowed. "It seems a bit… inappropriate."

"The kind of band that plays death metal? One that charters flights to Scandinavia's largest death metal festival with an airline that guarantees Partially Deceased service? For publicity and a certain kind of cachet, I suppose," Douglas said. "I find it rather amusing, myself."

"I don't," Martin said. "It's not like any of them are even... er."

"Partially dead?" Douglas supplied. "Not a one, though I couldn't tell from those groupies' make-up. I'm sorry, Martin, but you can't discriminate against clients for having the poor taste to be alive. Carolyn wouldn't like it."

"I wasn't -!" Martin's indignant protest was interrupted by the flight deck door unlocking. A flustered Arthur fell through, clutching a plastic wrapped case.

"Oh, sorry, chaps! I just, uh… Do you mind if I stay here with you for a bit?"

"Arthur, what on earth have you got on your face?" Douglas said.

Black smudges adorned Arthur's cheek and mouth. From his expression it was clear that if he could have blushed, he would have.

Martin suppressed a shudder at the dark-stained lips. It reminded him too much of other faces, wet black mouths.

"Um. Nothing! Nothing at all, why? Do I need to fix my mousse?" Arthur said, un-masterfully dissembling.

"Don't bother on my account," Douglas said.

"Yes, yes you should!" Martin said. "It… it's not maintaining MJN's image if you - if you don't look your best at all times!"

"Actually, Martin, Zombie Apocalypse had requested that Arthur and I go au naturel, but Carolyn refused. Said much the same thing as you, though I'm sure that's not why she said no." Douglas' cool gaze assessed Martin and he cringed slightly.

"Nevertheless," he said.

"Oh, right! Sorry, Skip." Arthur looked hunted. "It's just, er… The toilet's back there and… d'you fellows want some coffee? I can get that for you!"

"Not for me, for obvious reasons, Arthur," Douglas said.

"Right! Yeah. I forgot. You, Skip?"

"Not right now, thanks."

"Oh." Arthur looked crestfallen.

Douglas hmm-ed. "What has driven you into hiding, Arthur?"

Arthur shifted. "Well, the guys from Zombie Apocolypse seem quite nice? But their friends, Sharon and Lisa and Billy are really, really friendly. Really." He toed the carpet. "Lisa said I was a cutie for a Deadie. That was kind of nice to hear."

Martin choked. "What, you mean they, they…" He couldn't even finish the thought.

"Oh, come now, Captain. You're a man of the world," Douglas said in his most condescending voice. "It's not like fancies like this didn't exist before The Rising. It's just that much easier to indulge these days."

"Indulge what?" Arthur asked, and there was no chance in hell that Martin was going to explain necrophilia to him. Thankfully, Douglas didn't seem inclined to expand on his statement either.

"Why, their love of goth make-up, of course. What's that you've got there?"

Arthur grinned. "Oh, Darren, he's the drummer, he gave me this. It's their latest album! 'Four Horsemen.' Brilliant name, I love horses." He passed the CD to Martin. The cover photo showed Zombie Apocalypse in their stage make-up, with pale skin, blood streaks, white contact lenses and artfully shredded clothes. Martin swallowed hard and gave it to Douglas to peruse.

"Uh, death metal isn't really my thing."

"But whyever not?" Douglas prodded. "I mean, look at this track list! Rise up, Unredeemed, Rotten Apple, The Six Foot Climb… Arthur, tell them they've got a new fan, I need to buy this album. Perchance I can get an autographed copy. Do they use red pens?"

"Ah. Yes, about that," Arthur said. He touched fingers to his mouth and looked at the black that came away. "The girls were asking where the other Deadie… I mean, PDSer! Where you were. They want to see you again."

"No," Martin said. "Douglas, as captain, I forbid you to leave the flight deck."

"But what if I need to use the facilities?" Douglas said sweetly. "Sir."

"You don't need to go to the toilet!"

"I might. To adjust my contacts," Douglas said.

"You don't! Do you?" Martin said. "Arthur, please stop wiping at your mouth, it's not helping." It wasn't helping Martin, at any rate - Arthur had managed to get the black lipstick off but in doing so, his own grey-tinted lips were revealed. Douglas' eyes dropped to Martin's hand and he snatched it away from his taser holster. He hadn't even realised he was touching it for comfort.

"I was jesting, Sir," Douglas said. "As you so rightly point out, I have no need for a toilet. Though regulations state that you can't prevent me stretching my legs, undead or not."

Martin looked away, a flush climbing his neck. God, he was overreacting again! He had to do better. "Right. Yes. I apologise, first officer. If you wish to… to promote MJN and visit the passengers… for any reason... I'm sure Carolyn will be pleased." She was better pleased with her dead pilot anyway, it seemed. Martin clenched his jaw. He had to stop getting blindsided by his fears or he'd never make it at MJN. "Sorry."

"Changed my mind," Douglas said, though he sounded mollified. "Didn't fancy having my arse pinched again anyway."

"What, you can feel that?" Martin said, and smacked his forehead at the same time that Arthur exclaimed, "What, you too, Douglas?"

..

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Fitton

"Yes, it's good. No, actually…" Douglas paused. He sat at his desk, phone in hand, eyes idly tracking the shifting screensaver of photos on his laptop. At least Helena had collected and saved these remnants of his past, though his beloved collection of vinyl records was no more. "I'm the first officer. A bit embarrassing at my age, but that's how these things go."

"Oh, dear." Helena was sympathetic. "It's because of the… the PDS thing, isn't it?"

"Yes," Douglas said. "A bit of a bugger. My captain is a babe in arms. But I'm happy to be working as pilot in spite of everything. Imagine if I'd wound up sweeping the streets." Happy, for a relative value of happy. He knew only too well the prejudice against his kind. He could very easily have wound up doing menial labour, part of just another downtrodden minority. Not how he'd ever imagined his life or even his afterlife turning out. "Blue coverall, bucket in hand."

"I don't know, Douglas, blue always did suit you," Helena said and the forced cheeriness in her voice made him close his eyes. "But I'm so glad things are finally looking up for you."

"Thank you." Helena had always been kind. Their marriage had been happy, though strained in the end by the demands of his work. The drinking hadn't helped either. In the lovely home she'd made, he'd pretended not to notice how the rooms had rarely contained both of them together, Helena's slow withdrawal. And then he'd died. She'd found someone to comfort her in her grief. Then his grave had been found empty. The papers annulling their marriage had arrived while he was still in the Treatment Centre. Bigamy, even with a dead man, was still frowned upon.

It hurt, how little he had to come back to. Arthur may be grateful for second chances, but not Douglas. He couldn't blame Helena for leaving him. After all, he'd left two previous marriages. But Helena? Well, he had to be fair. He'd left her first when he'd made the choice not to change his lifestyle. And then the second, most final abandonment - his death.

"And how's David?" The shape of his replacement's name was bitter on his tongue, but Douglas knew the value of polite small talk. At least Helena kept in contact with him. The laptop screen shifted. Douglas grimaced at the wedding photo of himself, young and proud with his first wife, cutting the cake. God, what a cocksure idiot he'd been, full of youthful belief in immortality. Well, now he had it. It was horrible.

"He's fine. His daughter Lucy is coming to stay with us during her school holiday. We're planning several day excursions…"

Douglas made appropriate noises and comments while she chatted. The old photo of his wedding dissolved into a shot of him out with some friends, the remnants of dinner and wine glasses littering the table. Ah, food. What he wouldn't give for even the humblest of edibles. Steaks and bacon butties were a thing of the past now.

When the conversation began to wind down, he made his excuses. "I'll let you go now. I mustn't tie up the phone too long. Charter business, I could get a call any time. Plus, my flat's a tip. May as well get to it while I have the time."

"Oh! Well, then," Helena said. "It's always good to hear from you, Douglas. And even better when you have such good news."

He chuckled. "Yes. Thank you for letting me bend your ear now and then, Helena. Take care."

"You too. Bye."

He waited for her to hang up first before placing the phone next to the computer. It wasn't that the depressing flat he now occupied needed cleaning. The lack of eating or drinking did cut down on dish washing and crumbs. His fridge contained nothing but vials of Neurotriptyline. And the toilet only got use as a resting place for books or the towels he used to remove make-up.

As much as Douglas needed the contact with people he'd known, he couldn't stand the gap between his life then and now, the distance in acquaintance's faces when they met him again. So he withdrew first. Ironic that he, who used to be the most gregarious of men, was in danger of becoming a hermit.

He sighed and got his dose of Neurotriptyline from the fridge. A wraith with pale eyes looked at him from the bathroom mirror, even the grey-touched rich brown of his hair washed out by the fluorescent light to a mouse shade. The ghost of Douglas Past. Or would it be Future? He tilted the side mirror, pushed his jumper down and felt for the injection point between his first and second vertebrae. The injector hissed as the drug entered him. He gripped the sink with one hand, lips compressed as images flashed before his eyes. God, how he hated this part, his sins in vivid colour flashing in his mind's eye. Hated it so very much. He waited until the slideshow of horror finished, unclenched his fingers and dropped the injector back into its case.

"Finish the job, Richardson," he told his reflection. "Don't forget to be grateful to be… well, it's not alive, now, is it? Affirmations. You are a Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer, and it's not your fault." He bared his teeth and his reflection snarled back. Roughly he pushed up his jumper sleeves and began his daily visual surveillance of his extremities. With all sensations lost but that of pressure, it was too easy for a PDS sufferer to incur small injuries and cuts without noticing. Until a living person started screaming, that is. The habit had been impressed upon them in the Treatment Centre.

Just another daily task, they said. You need to set a routine to help acclimatise to being back with the living. Most of the self-help the Centre spouted was bollocks, but he had to admit, routine was… helpful. His job was of more use, though. It gave him a reason to get out of bed when all he wanted was to stay there and forget his un-life.

Habit. Routine. Schedules. So Douglas pulled up his trouser legs, checked his white calves and feet. He did retain enough fastidiousness to want to avoid leaking black everywhere if he did have a cut.

Douglas had loved being alive. In retrospect, he'd certainly lived. He almost regretted it since the disparity of before and after was so great. God, he missed food. Sex, yes, lots of that. Warmth. Being warm. Being able to feel warm. He was doing all right as things went; he was a master of self-deception, after all. Three failed marriages, an abandoned medical degree and his previous life as a functioning alcoholic had illustrated that. But some days?

He brushed off his trousers. He drew himself up and looked at the dead man in the mirror once more. "You're a fine ex-figure of a man," he said and winked in a grotesque parody of his former suave self. It was almost funny in the same way he was almost deceased. He flicked the light off.

Settling in a battered armchair with the laptop on a side table, he plugged earbuds in the jack. Even if his neighbours were oblivious to how loud their telly was in this thin-walled building, that didn't mean that he was going to return the favour with opera at all hours. Perhaps later, if 3C's brat didn't stop scribbling slurs on his door. He'd need to buy some speakers first.

The screensaver shifted. A little girl, hand held by a woman whose upper body was out of frame. Dark hair in a plait, cheeks red in winter air, the expression caught just before the smile. Douglas swiped the touchpad and she disappeared, mischievous brown eyes replaced by the computer's desktop.

He opened the music player, put the buds in his ears and rested his head against the back of the chair as the baritone Don Quixote sang. Mais, mon pauvret, c'est la chose fatale! Tu n'es qu'un homme enfin, tu veux vivre... et je meurs!

Douglas closed his eyes, shutting out the world and let the music sweep over him.

God, he missed drinking.

..

.

Fitton Airfield

"Douglas, are you in here? Carolyn wants the fuel consumption calculations done before she gets back, you can't just leave me all the - oh." Martin drew up short inside the hangar. Douglas was doing his best to lounge in a worn folding lawn chair while a large man in coveralls tinkered with the innards of a riding mower. Douglas flapped the needed papers at him.

"Done and done, Captain. I was just telling Dirk about the glory days at Air England. Used to run an off-licence pub in one of the sheds. Ah, those were the days."

Martin gaped at him. "An off-licence pub? Douglas!" He winced. He sounded like a shocked aunty.

"Drinks down the pub ain't the same these days, that's for sure," the man rumbled in a bass voice and straightened up. "No drinking ain't the least of it." He turned his body towards Martin. "This the uptight pipsqueak everyone's been talking about?"

"Dirk, my captain, Martin Crieff," Douglas said, neither confirming nor denying. "Dirk's the groundsman for Fitton Airfield."

Martin stiffened and took a step back. The man was huge, with hands like meathooks covered with fingerless gloves. Tattoos peeked from the neck of the coveralls and a dark moustache curved down both sides of his mouth. A halo head brace meant Dirk had to tilt his entire body to look Martin up and down pointedly. But that wasn't what had sweat abruptly prickling on Martin's back - it was the white eyes, the dead flesh torn and dry on the right side of Dirk's face. Dirk… Dirk wasn't wearing anything to conceal his deceased state.

The corner of Dirk's mouth kicked up at his reaction. "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure."

Martin nodded, mouth dry. He was staring, a rabbit caught in headlights. He tore his gaze away and looked over Dirk's shoulder.

"What, cat got your tongue?" Dirk stepped closer, purposefully trying to intimidate him. "You ain't got nothing to say? A friendly hello, maybe?"

Martin's legs were rooted to the ground. "No! No, er. What I meant was, er, yes! It's… You -" His eyes flicked to Dirk's chest, to his face with the halo brace screwed into white flesh like some kind of Frankenstein's monster, and to his chest again.

"I what?" Dirk said. "Not scared of me, are you?"

"Dirk," Douglas said, chiding. "I've just started breaking him in as a proper pilot, don't drive him off."

Dirk ignored this and loomed. "Well?"

"You're, you're… really big," Martin said and wished he could disappear, social panic, actual panic and embarrassment churning inside.

Douglas choked a laugh. Dirk grinned. "That's what she said." He paused. "That all?"

Martin opened his mouth and what popped out was, "How did you die?" Oh, god. He'd turned into Arthur Shappey's idiot babbling brother. Well, may as well go with it, his brain might hit nadir and come up rational. "Was - was it an accident?" Oh god, it was obvious - why had he said that? He looked into Dirk's eyes and prayed the man couldn't see the shiver that ran through him. He focussed on the moustache instead. It was quite the moustache. Very... interesting, that moustache. Bushy.

Again Dirk seemed taken aback. "This?" He touched his brace and chuckled, a low rumble in the huge chest. "Nah. Appendix did me in. This lot happened after, wouldja believe. Trashed my motorbike." He scowled at the thought, seemingly more upset at the loss of his bike than the horrific injuries he'd incurred. "Fuck's sake, wish the Centre would hurry up with the spine fusing operation. Can't stand this rig."

"Backbone of steel," Douglas said. "But then there's the surgery."

Dirk swung toward him. "Not like another scar's gonna bother me. Bloody road rash."

Martin released a breath now that Dirk had moved away. "Is… is that why you don't… " Dirk turned back to him. Martin gestured weakly at his own face. "Cover up?"

Dirk snorted. "One reason. Can't stand seeing all that muck on my face. Too orange, makes me look like, like…" He screwed up his eyes in thought.

"Freddie Mercury," Martin said and slapped a hand over his mouth. Douglas roared with laughter. "Sorry, didn't mean to say that," Martin moaned behind his hand. "It - it's the moustache."

"It's a proper biker moustache," Dirk groused. "This some kind of joke about me lookin' like a queen?"

"I guarantee Martin isn't that original on purpose," Douglas said. Martin wanted to protest but at least Douglas was deflecting Dirk. "Freddie Mercury wouldn't be caught dead in that facial hair," Douglas continued. "Or maybe he would? Alas, he left us too soon and now we'll never know."

"Right," Dirk grunted. He turned unearthly eyes back on Martin. "Anyway. The other reason being, I don't see why I should hide what I am. PDS sufferer, my arse. I ain't suffering. There's this group I heard about, this Undead Liberation people? They say we're the Redeemed and we should just show ourselves as we are."

"Undead and proud?" Douglas asked. "Dead fists in the air?" He snorted. "Redeemed. Sounds like a fringe religious group. Can't say I feel especially redeemed."

Dirk rounded on him with a scowl. "And why would ya? All yer make-up, the contacts… you're just hiding! I'm telling you, Douglas, you need to check their website, listen to a few home truths. They're fightin' for justice, for equal treatment. You can't say we don't need that. You could help, your little airline is helpin' already." His fists clenched. "But maybe you don't care to risk the cushy job."

Martin swallowed and took another step away from Dirk's anger. Douglas only looked noncommittal, posture still relaxed and easy in his chair. "I'm handling things in my own way, for the time being. Apologies if that doesn't seem like a great deal - I've grown rather risk-averse these days. Well." He stood and brushed off his trousers. "It's been grand talking. Time to get back to my little airline. Martin, take the calculations?"

Dirk growled and turned back to the mower. "Yeah, you just toddle along pretendin' you're like them." Douglas glared at the broad back.

Martin edged around him to take the proffered papers. "It.. it was nice to meet you, Dirk," he said.

Dirk answered without turning. "You're alright, even if you're piss-scared o' me, Martin." He grunted something like a laugh. "Huh. Freddie flamin' Mercury."

There was warning creak as Douglas struggled with the lawn chair. He yanked on the aged plastic arms. "Blasted things never want to fold." With a snap, a splinter of plastic clattered on the floor as an armrest broke. The chair finally yielded and Douglas propped it against a tool chest. "Shall we?"

Martin hurried after Douglas' longer stride to MJN's portacabin office. Douglas flung the door open with more force than necessary and Martin caught it before it hit him. He stared. There was a black smear on the knob. He entered more slowly, holding the door by its edge. "Douglas?" he said. "Did - did you get some grease on your hands?"

"What?" Douglas said sharply. He saw the dark patch against the metal, looked at his hand and grimaced. "That damned chair! Must have caught myself on it."

"Oh. Oh, god. Are you all right?" Martin's heart began to beat faster. "Does it hurt?"

"Of course it doesn't bloody hurt!" Douglas snapped. He didn't notice Martin's minute flinch as he poked at his palm. "Blast it all. It's going to need stitches. Get the first aid kit."

"I…" Martin gulped. "We have sutures in the kit?" He didn't think he could handle that, pulling thread through cool flesh, seeing pale muscle twitch… He shook his head to dispel the buzzing and brought the first aid box to the desk.

"No, I'll go to a clinic for that," Douglas said. "That bottle, open it for me? And some of those dressings. Not that I need to worry about infection, but I need to wash it, see if it's a clean slice." He poured disinfectant in a thin stream, patted his palm with cotton and peered. "Ah." He picked out a tiny piece of white plastic and flicked it away. "Help me bind this up, if you don't mind?"

"Of course! Yes." Martin picked up a roll of gauze and a pad of cotton in trembling fingers. "Could you…" The cut wasn't long, perhaps an inch and a half but it looked deep. Black welled up, filling the lines in Douglas' white palm. "I'll - "I'll just…" He gave the pad to Douglas. "J-just hold it there while, while I…" He fumbled with the gauze, unrolling too much.

Douglas looked from the wildly swaying swathe of gauze to Martin's shaking hands and into his face. He swore under his breath. "Sit down. Right now, Martin. Yes, that's it. Get your head down between your knees."

Martin blinked at the weave in the carpet, gulping for air until it stopped swirling. "I… I can do it," he croaked. "It… it's just a cut."

"Never mind, I've got it. It wouldn't be the first time I've bandaged myself."

"I can try."

"No, you can't," Douglas said with such heavy finality that Martin closed his eyes.

"I am trying," he said to the carpet.

Douglas sighed. "I can tell."

..

..

.

Notes: Douglas' opera - "Mais, mon pauvret, c'est la chose fatale! Tu n'es qu'un homme enfin, tu veux vivre... et je meurs!"

[Ah, my poor friend, fate will brook no denial! Thou art only a man, thou wouldst live, I must die.] Don Quixote, by Massenet, Act V]