Chapter Summary: Douglas is in a foul mood, Arthur explains his point of view, and Geoff Crieff builds an aeroplane model with Martin.

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December 20th, 2009

His growls are low and guttural as he grapples with the girl, pulling her against him and lifting her feet clear of the ground. Thin arms beat against him until he wraps one of his own around her smaller frame. He ignores the kicking legs and shrill screams, digging dirty nails into her winter coat until the nylon cloth is punctured with small popping noises. His free hand gropes at her neck, comes to rest on a rounded cheekbone. His muscles tighten. The head is wrenched sideways and the screaming stops. Satisfied, he lets the body drop. The brown eyes stare, doll-like, as rain patters on the upturned face and runs down like tears. He grunts and bends down, groping for a rock.

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March, 2013, Manchester

Douglas shivered back to awareness as the airport med tech was putting the injector away. The tech turned and eyed him, snapping his gum. "All right then?"

Douglas rubbed a hand over the injection point on the back of his neck and looked away from the man's stare. Arthur was still in his usual half-dazed state from his own injection, quiet and sleepy eyed. Lucky Arthur. God, some days Douglas longed for the oblivion of alcohol. "Just dandy," he replied and buttoned up his collar.

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"Skip? I've got your coffee for you." Arthur hovered expectantly in the door of the flight deck, Skip's mug in hand. Martin looked up at him from the instrument panel, blinking.

"What? Oh, thanks, Arthur. You have control, First Officer."

"I have control," Douglas replied without looking at Martin. Arthur handed Martin his mug and looked between them, worried. The flight out had been too quiet, with Skip pale and lost in his own thoughts and Douglas not even making any jokes. Well, one thing Arthur knew he was good for was talking!

"So, Skip," he began. "How did it go, the other day? With your dad?"

Martin took a too-large gulp of his coffee and gasped. "Fine. Fine! It went really well. Fine. He's… he looks good."

"Fine, in fact?" Douglas drawled.

"Really? That's great!" Arthur said. "So, I guess he's… fine? I mean, you look kind of worried or something."

"I'm not!" Martin said.

"He's fine," Douglas supplied. Martin scowled at him.

"Oh. Just... Are you coming down with a cold? Would you like tea with lemon instead?" Arthur asked.

"No, really, I'm -" Martin scotched his remark and changed tack. "I'm tired, is all. Didn't sleep well last night."

"If you're not sleeping, you shouldn't be flying," Douglas said pointedly. "Regulations state -"

"I know! Would you like me to quote them to you word for word, Mr Air England?" Martin sniffed at Douglas' groan. "Thought not. I had sufficient sleep to fly, thank you very much."

"Oh, that's good, Skip!" Arthur said. "I sleep like the dead myself. Oh, that's a bit funny, isn't it? Because -"

"Yes, we get it, Arthur," Douglas said.

"But can't you, ooh, I dunno - drink hot milk or something?"

Martin shook his head. "Won't help. I keep waking up."

"But why -" Arthur said before Douglas interrupted, impatience in his tone.

"He doubtless means he has nightmares."

"Douglas!" Martin snapped. He turned to Arthur. "Well, yes, since Douglas just had to bring it up, I… I do get bad dreams."

"Oh." Arthur considered. "I get those too! Are they the naked-in-school kind? Or… or falling? I hate those. Or are they the ones about the monster in the closet, and you have to be really careful the door is shut before you go to… bed?" The wince on Martin's face told Arthur he'd hit a nerve. "You dream about monsters, Skip?"

"Um. Not really. I, uh. It's usually about… about the Pale Wars." Martin confessed. "S - sorry. I know you didn't… weren't… Anyway." From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Douglas' hands clench on the yoke.

Oh. "Yeah. Wow. Did you… uh. You know?"

Martin shook his head and Arthur was immediately relieved. "No, I never… never killed anyone." Martin's laugh was brief and humourless. "But… I did have some bad experiences during the... that time."

"But... " Arthur understood. "Then… it's the other way round? With… with PDSers - rabids, I mean - chasing you?" Martin's grimace told Arthur he was right for once and he wished he weren't. He didn't want to think of his kind hurting Skip. "Wow, Skip," he said. "That sounds like a really scary dream."

Martin blew a shaky breath. "It's… it's not so bad. It's not like I'm afraid of you or Douglas anymore." He froze, a look of consternation crossing his face.

"Not anymore?" Arthur felt a pang of hurt. "But… that means you were used to be." Now a lot of Skip's behaviour made sense to Arthur, the way he stuttered or stiffened up, or how he looked away when Arthur's contacts fell out. Martin's gaze dropped to his coffee mug. "It's okay, Skip. Because some of us - well, not me! But some PDSers did hurt people."

Douglas twitched at his words but Arthur concentrated on Martin. "And I think I'd be scared too, thinking that maybe a PDSer that I knew had killed people."

Martin's eyes were wide, hands clutching the mug hard. "Arthur." Douglas' voice was awful. "You're really not helping, you know."

"But Skip needs to know -" Arthur tried to say.

"Do you remember that speech your mother gave you about being too helpful?"

"Yes, but I only -"

"Must I call a Code Red?" Douglas said.

"No!" Arthur said. "Anyway, you can't, only Mum can call Code Reds and she's not here! I'm just trying to help Skip understand something, and I'm going to do it!" He restrained himself from sticking out his tongue, but only because he could tell that Douglas was truly upset.

"Okay," Martin said, drawing the word out. "Then - then you should keep trying."

"Thanks, Skip." Arthur blew a breath and tried to gather his thoughts again. "So, yeah. I can see how you'd be scared of us. I mean, I would be, too. I should be, for just the same reason, it doesn't even matter if I'm a PDSer! But I'm not, Skip. Do you know why?"

Martin shook his head, mute.

"Because it wasn't us, you see? Before they got treated, PDSers didn't know what they were doing! You don't really think me or Douglas wanted to hurt anyone when we were still alive, do you?"

Martin's second head shake was stronger. "No. I - I don't think that." Arthur was relieved.

"'Course not! So, Skip, please don't be afraid anymore. It's hard for PDSers, and I don't want you to be scared of us." Arthur blinked at Martin, willing him to believe. "It's like they tell us in the Centre. 'What we did in our untreated state isn't our fault.' You see?"

"It's not as easy as all that, Arthur," Douglas said, voice heavy. Arthur drooped.

"No, it's not," Martin agreed in a quiet voice. "But - you're right, Arthur. I - I'll try to remember that. When I… when I start to get nervous."

"Okay," Arthur said. He gave Martin a smile. "As long as you try, that'd be brilliant."

"After all, Martin," Douglas said in a lighter tone, "What's so scary about Arthur? I mean, use your head. It's Arthur."

"Douglas!" Martin said but his lips twitched.

"Yeah!" Arthur agreed. "I never even won any Halloween costume contests." He took the empty mug from Martin. "Well, except that once, when me and a mate were a pantomime horse with a little jockey doll on top."

Martin choked a laugh as Douglas immediately asked, "No, let me guess. You were the back end of the horse?"

"How did you know?" Wow, Douglas was clever sometimes, Arthur thought. And both of them were talking again! He grinned.

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Fitton

Douglas poked at his laptop computer, listlessly browsing random links in Wikipedia as Mozart's Don Giovanni played at a soft volume. He didn't have much interest in news sites these days, being that many of the articles concerned Partially Deceased issues. It was, on the whole, depressing. He sighed and stretched, shoulder joints popping.

Turning his head, his eye fell upon the white plastic sign that partially blocked the light coming through the single window of his living area. He grimaced. Really, this was going too far. The local council had decreed that all residences that housed PDS sufferers had to have a sign to identify the occupants. The landlord, shrugging, had given it to him yesterday.

Douglas loathed the thing, the bright green letters proclaiming his status to the world. All he wanted to do was go about his daily life without fuss or notice. Now it would be impossible. It was yet another thing being taken from him without his consent. If he weren't outright shunned as some sort of contagious leper, then at the very least he'd have to look forward to some unpleasantness. They might as well have painted a target in his back. Douglas thought of Stars of David daubed on the doors and windows of Jews in Nazi Germany, of crosses burning on lawns in America, and set his jaw. He turned back to the keyboard and tapped in a search: 'Legal Aid Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferers'. The results weren't promising - they seemed geared more to helping the living than the dead. Bugger.

A plink! noise caught his attention and he turned again to the window in puzzlement. A bird? A sharper crack on the glass had him on his feet and looking out the window. Below, he saw two children, a boy and girl, their football abandoned in the street. The boy's arm was drawn back for another throw but he dropped the stone when he saw the curtains move. He pointed and said something to the girl - his sister? She looked up and saw Douglas, his uncovered face and contact-less eyes. Her eyes widened, mouth falling open before she turned and ran. The boy shouted something and made a rude gesture up at Douglas before grabbing the ball to follow her.

Douglas jerked the curtain closed. This was what it came to - life as the neighbourhood bogeyman. Perfect. He'd been wonderful with children, in another lifetime. Wearily he returned to his desk chair and considered just packing it in and going to bed. Never mind that it was only five o'clock. No, he decided. Not a good idea, Richardson. Ever since he'd returned and understood what it meant to be one of 'the Risen', sleep was a constant lure for him, a relief from awareness of his depressing condition. It tugged at him, a trap that he couldn't abandon himself to, if only because it would be doubly hard to get up again. There were mornings he both cursed and blessed MJN and the necessity of facing the world. It was so much easier to find oblivion in sleep, all other paths being barred. Or… were they?

A niggle of curiosity had him opening a new tab. 'How - PDS sufferer - intoxication'. His finger hovered over the Enter key. With a disgusted noise, he shook his head and closed the laptop. Better to sleep, perchance not to dream, if he was lucky. He picked up his mobile, checked that it was off silent-mode and went to bed.

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April, 2013, Wokingham

Martin thought Arthur would have been chuffed that his words about PDSers still being the people they had been in life were slowly working through Martin's brain. That, and the knowledge that he had to do better. His mother wouldn't understand if he didn't visit, and his father might think that there was some uglier reason for his avoidance. His dad had been a good man, Martin told himself over and over. He still was a good man. There was no reason for Martin to be afraid. After all, Martin had been able to work for months with Arthur and Douglas. Acclimatisation, that's all it took. Focus on the nice memories of his dad. He could do it. He had to do it.

With this self-resolve in place, he'd made his mother very happy when he called on his day off to ask if he could come over for dinner. His father had greeted him at the door with the broad smile Martin remembered from when he was a child. Conversation had gone smoothly enough over dinner, with his dad asking questions about his new job. And if Martin had babbled a little too much about G-ERTI's specs and the minutiae of flying such an old jet, well, it was better than letting his mind wander into dangerous areas.

They'd finished the evening with a DVD of Sherlock Holmes. Geoff had declared that he was serious about catching up and was working his way through the top television shows and movies of the past three years. Martin joked that watching a movie about a Victorian detective was hardly going to get him current on pop culture, but his mother only hushed him with a smile.

It had been… fine, as was the next visit. Geoff had looked Martin over and declared that he was getting too weedy from his cushy job. He'd then set him to work, getting pots of dirt ready for his mother's spring flowers.

It was as if time had reversed and Martin was a sulky teen again with his dad loading him up with chores to get him out of the house. Martin stared at his father, his mouth open. "But it's freezing outside," he said feebly. "And raining."

"So? The garden shed is still standing," Geoff said. "You can work in there. It'll be a great help for your mother. You know how proud she is of her gardens."

Martin snorted but gave in. "What will you be doing?"

"Oh, exercising my parental prerogative by supervising," Geoff said, eyes creasing with humour. "But I thought I might take a look under the hood of the old van. Thought that she was a bit slow to turn over the last time you left. Looks like she's been through the wars, hasn't she?"

Martin stiffened and his dad's smile disappeared, his eyes clouding over. No, do better, you have to do better, it was an innocent comment, Martin told himself sternly. He shrugged. "Yeah, a bit. But - but she's a faithful old girl. I never got the chance to thank you for leaving the van to me, Dad. I - I appreciate it."

His dad's chuckle was pleased. "Well, I'm glad to hear it, Martin."

"I think there's something wrong with the battery," Martin offered. "If you could look at that?"

"Probably corrosion. I'll ask if your mother can spare some baking soda and an old toothbrush," Geoff said and clapped his hands. "Now, off to the workhouse with you, young man. I believe there are still gardening gloves in the shed."

"Not Mom's pink ones," Martin groaned and felt all the better for making his father laugh.

Each visit became easier than the last as Martin's nerves abated under the long-forgotten familiarity of his and his father's relationship. Today they were working on a model aeroplane kit that Martin had bought but never got 'round to putting together. The scent of paint and glue hung heavy in the kitchen. Wendy breezed in, nose wrinkling. "I'll turn on the window fan, shall I? You'll get a headache, Martin!" She switched it on and placed a glass of orange juice in front of Martin. "Here. I'm just going to pop out to meet with my coffee group now, but remember there's the makings for ham sandwiches in the fridge if you get hungry, love."

Martin looked up as she pressed a kiss to his cheek and then to her husband's. She touched Geoff's shoulder and he smiled up at her, lifting a hand to squeeze hers in reassurance. Wendy's gaze flitted to Martin for a moment, an odd expression of uncertainty and sadness crossing her face before she smiled brightly. "Have a nice time, boys!"

After she'd left, Martin looked at his father. "Coffee group?"

His father shrugged and picked up a piece of sandpaper, smoothing a rough edge of plastic with careful strokes. "What they call it, since some of those that go don't want word getting around. It's a support group for women with PDS suffering relations. It's not been all wine and roses with your mother since I came back, Martin, even if she puts a brave face on it." He grimaced. "One day I was there and the next..." He expelled a heavy breath. "You plan ahead, pay your life insurance and make your will but no one ever expects it to happen, right? She's angry with me, for one thing."

"Oh." Martin blinked at his father. She'd been doing a good job keeping that to herself. He'd only seen her happiness that her husband had returned. "I… I had no idea."

"That's your mother all over, isn't it? 'The children mustn't find out!' and all that."

"Should I…?"

Geoff shook his head. "Let her bring it up in her own time, if she ever does."

"All right." Martin reached for a bottle of paint and shook it.

"Even so, I wanted to thank you for staying with her after I'd gone. It meant the world to her, having you around. It means a lot to me," Geoff said. "It… can't have been easy."

His father had the gift of understatement. Martin shoved away the swell of memories of years of loss and fear. "I wanted to," he said. "Anyway… anyway, it was nice not having to cook for myself all the time."

His father chuckled. "There's that." They worked in companionable silence a few minutes before his father ventured, "What about you? Did you ever go to help groups yourself? Seems like a useful thing."

Martin shook his head. "Probably should have, but…" No. He could have done it in secret, possibly, but he'd been reluctant. If his mother had found out - No. He hadn't wanted to rake up the ugly reasons he needed therapy, some of them having to do with his mother's disbelief about his attack. He swallowed, dipped his brush too deep into the paint and had to scrape the excess off on the lip of the bottle. "Anyway, I'm kind of working through things on my own, aren't I?"

"Ah. Exposure. Yes, you do work with those fellows. Douglas and Arthur, was it?" Geoff asked.

Martin smiled. "Yeah. They're good guys. At least, when Douglas isn't ragging me about my inexperience or trying to win the cheese tray off me. Arthur wants to play Charades all the time and juggles apples because it's relaxing."

Geoff laughed. "Good lord."

"You've no idea," Martin said. "It's like working in a circus sometimes."

"Heh. And because of them, that's how you know so much about their - our syndrome, then?" Geoff peered at him.

"Mm-hm." Martin finished tracing a thin line of black around the model plane's cargo door. "Partly. I did read up a lot after I'd got the job. Crash course in the Domiciled Care Initiative and Neurotriptyline and… everything, really."

"So you know why we have to take our doses every day?" Geoff asked.

Martin straightened up, brush held mid-air. "S-sure. It… it -" He fell back on quoting Halperin and Weston's website. "'Neurotriptyline promotes the neurogenesis of fresh glial cells in your head, making new connections, and re-activating different parts of the once dormant brain.' And it does… well, other stuff."

"Yes, well. I just like to think of it as the old brain rebooting itself," Geoff said wryly.

Martin forced a chuckle. "Probably does a better job rebooting than you ever did with our PC, Dad."

"I resent that," Geoff said. "Wasn't my fault the memory got wiped that one time."

"Simon was furious," Martin said. "All his games were lost."

"I re-installed them!"

"No, you found the discs and got me to do it before he could find out," Martin said. "He figured it out anyway, like I warned you, since all his saved games were gone. I rest my case." His father grinned and Martin was relieved they were moving away from the topic of PDSers. No such luck.

"That's the funny thing, Martin. That time… when I came back, it was like brain fog. More than that - it was like that crashed computer. I didn't know anything, not about myself, where I was, anything."

The brush in Martin's hand trembled and he blindly dunked the brush in a glass of liquid, swishing it about vigorously. "But you're better, now, right? You remember who you are. You're fine again. I - I'm just glad you're back. I mean, no one else wants to build models with me." His father looked at the glass, a crease between his brows and Martin realised his mistake. Black smears showed dark against the orange juice - he'd used the wrong glass. "Oh."

Geoff only took the brush from him and wiped it on a tissue before rinsing it in thinner. "One good thing - I'm not going to get dizzy from the fumes of model glue anymore. But this is a bit sharp. Fan's not helping much. Crack the window open, would you?"

Martin moved to obey. When he turned back, he found his father was scrutinising him. He returned to the table, walking as naturally as he could manage, but his leg betrayed him, his calf spasming. Clenching his jaw, he made a play of pulling out his chair, hoping his father wouldn't comment.

"How did you get that limp, son?"

"What limp?" Martin attempted ignorance. Geoff gave him a look.

"The one that comes and goes depending on whether people are watching. Don't play stupid, Martin."

Oh god. He couldn't tell his dad. It would destroy him. Martin gripped the back of his chair. "Oh, it's nothing, Dad. I was sitting a bit too long." Geoff's brows came together at this excuse and Martin gave up his feeble attempt at subterfuge. "I - I thought you knew? I overheard Caitlin telling you. There - there was an attack."

"Yes, she did mention that. And your mother told me more." His dad's expression was compassionate. "But I'd rather hear about it from you, Martin."

Martin loosened his grip on the chair, attempting casual. "It was pretty bad, my leg. Had to get surgery. And - and there are things I'd rather not remember. Or talk about right now, Dad." Please. Please don't make me talk about it.

Geoff heaved a sigh. He began to nudge the chaos of brushes and tubes on the newspaper into some kind of order. "Your workmates ever tell you what it's like, getting the daily dose? Random memories pop up from before. That's the drug working, they say. Fixing connections." His smile was brief and pained. "Rebooting. And sometimes, the memories… Well, you can imagine. They're not pleasant, Martin."

Martin's voice was stuck somewhere in his throat. He was frozen, his eyes fixed on the side of his dad's downcast face.

"I had to tell your mother," Geoff said after a stretch of silence.

Martin unlocked his tongue. "Tell her what?" he said, voice hoarse.

His father didn't seem to hear the question. He pushed a plastic piece back and forth with a finger. "We were out about a week back, picking up groceries. Left in the afternoon and you know how your mother shops, has to stop and look at every single blessed thing. So it was bit late when we were driving back, some time in the evening. We passed a spot - didn't look like much, just a bit of road with lots of hedgerows all overgrown. And… and it was dark out."

"What happened?" Martin whispered.

"I… oh, god. I remembered. I remembered." Geoff's voice broke.

"Dad…" Martin didn't even know what he wanted to say. "Dad," he repeated, helpless. "You don't have to -"

Geoff lifted his head at last and Martin swallowed his words at his father's agonised expression. "Don't have to say it? Say that - that I'm the one that did it, that sent you to hospital? It was you out there that night, and I didn't know it, didn't remember! I attacked you. And… and… My own boy, and I tried to kill you." His face twisted as if he were crying, though no tears fell. No tears would ever fall.

Oh, god. Martin never wanted to see that look on his father's face again, it was like a knife twisting in his heart. His limbs were trembling again but he clutched the chair like a lifeline and did his best. "Dad… I - I don't b-blame you. 'What you did in y-your untreated state…' It wasn't your fault, Dad. It - it wasn't you."

His father shook his head at Martin's shaky reassurance. "No. There's no excuse. And I wanted to say - Martin. I understand now. And… if you didn't come 'round again, I'd understand that too. I'm sorry." His grey eyes were disconsolate. "I'm so sorry, Martin."

"It's okay, Dad," Martin said.

"It's not." Geoff took a breath. "I see how you act around me, and I love you for trying, Martin. But how can you even bear to be near me?"

"No." Martin shook his head hard. "O - okay. Okay, I'm not all right. But I'm getting better, really, I am. Just - just…" He had to fix this. He'd never turn his back on his own father. "Can you - would you stand up?"

His father pushed back his chair and rose slowly. "Martin, you don't have to -"

"Ssh. Just - stand still a minute? Please?" Martin drew a quivering breath. His dad would be cool to the touch, he knew that, he was ready for that.

Geoff stood perfectly still as Martin put his arms around him in a loose embrace. It - it was all right. God, what could he say? Please take care of yourself, take your doses, please. But no, that wasn't right. He rested his face against his father's shirt and inhaled. The faint aroma of aftershave tickled his nose and he shut prickling eyes. Geoff had always worn Brut, even though Caitlin had chafed him about it being old-fashioned. The scent was laden with Martin's memories of happier times and the right words finally came to him.

"It's okay, Dad, it'll be okay, I swear. You're… you're my dad, and I love you. I'll always love you, no matter what." His arms tightened, fingers clutching at fabric. His father's arms came up to rest on his back.

"I'll make it up to you somehow," Geoff said, voice rough.

"You don't have to. I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you."

"Can't get rid of me that easy," Geoff said and they both laughed, Martin's coming out wet.

Martin drew away and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "God. I - I'm sorry I've been so… well, you know. I wish you'd never had to deal with… with any of this."

Geoff sighed. "Better out than in. It wasn't fair to let you handle this on your own. You've shouldered this alone for too long, Martin. After my little flashback in the car, I had to tell Wendy. She - well, it's just another thing to talk over with her group. Hard enough for her having me coming back, much less this news. It's just one more thing to get over. But she's a trooper, your mother."

"I know," Martin said, thinking of that terrible first year - Geoff's premature death, the Rising, her son attacked, the empty grave. He'd been so full of suppressed resentment for so long because of her willful blindness about his attack. But now he found that it was possible to let it go. "It was rough."

"She's sorry she didn't believe you, she really is. Well. As you say - rough times." Geoff met Martin's eyes, forehead wrinkled with uncertainty. "You sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine," Martin said and meant it. "Good."

"Not fine," Geoff said with a father's insight. "But better, yeah?"

"Better," Martin agreed. They both turned as the back door banged open. Caitlin entered with carrier bags and slung them on the counter.

"Hi, Dad, Martin!" She wrinkled her nose at the mess on the table. "God, couldn't you have done that upstairs? It smells."

"Caitlin, love! You're early," Geoff said. "Your mother's not back yet."

Caitlin shrugged and began unloading food. "Figured I may as well come now, since I didn't need to swing by Dorking to pick up Simon. He called - little Janey has stomachache. He's not going to make it." She rolled her eyes.

"Ah. Too bad," Geoff said. Martin clenched his teeth together to keep from saying anything about Simon's defection. He'd guessed from how his mother avoided the topic that Simon hadn't been by even once since his father had come home.

"Dad, you're such a stoic," Caitlin teased. "We'll have fun without him and his boring council talk. Just think! You get to watch me and Martin duel over the last of the pudding."

"Me, stoic?" Geoff countered. "I'll have you know I'm a modern man! A great soppy romantic. Don't you remember me crying at the end of The Notebook?"

"That was you? I thought it was Martin snivelling and snotting all over," Caitlin said.

"Ah, right." Geoff nodded. "Now I recall - it was Martin."

"Hey!" Martin protested but exchanged a smile with his dad before they both began to clear the table in tandem.

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Story Notes: A tiny piece of Douglas back-story as well as the difficulty of his new life. Arthur features as today's wise fool, and Martin makes baby steps in dealing with his past. Geoff Crieff is a lovely man.