Chapter Text
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“Martin, breathe, you need to breathe.”
“I don’t think he can, Douglas – he’s going all blue and funny in the face,” Arthur whimpered, his breathing quick and shallow, but far better than the painful wheezes of his captain, “I’m so sorry Skip, I’m so sorry.”
“This isn’t your fault. Martin, just hold on– where’s that bloody ambulance?”
“Carl said they’re coming! They’re almost here, I know they are, don’t worry Skip, It’ll be okay, you’ll be okay, we’ll all be okay.”
“Martin?”
“He has to be, he just – he’s Skipper, he’ll pull through-“
“Martin!”
“Just as soon as the ambulance gets here-“
“C’mon-“
“And makes him better and… Douglas?”
“Please.”
The wheezing had stopped.
“Douglas what’s wrong? Skip, why isn’t he…”
“No.”
“Douglas? Douglas!”
“He’s gone, Arthur.”
“Gone? What do you mean- he’s not gone, he’s right – Skip? Skip! SKIP!”
“Arthur-“
“Do something!”
“I can’t-“
“No, you can! You have to-“
“Arthur.”
“No, no, he can’t be-”
“Arthur, come here. It’s alright…”
“But Skip’s, no, no, he just can’t. Not Skip, not the captain.”
Sirens.
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Martin is dead.
Oh god, what have I done.
Those two thoughts seemed to be all Douglas’ mind was capable of producing for the past fourteen hours, ever since they had zipped the bag close over that impossibly childish face. They served to numb him and had worked, Douglas had yet to cry. He just sat there on his bed, in the dark, still in his uniform, rubbing the spot on his thigh where he could feel Martin’s desperate fingers digging into him.
Douglas didn’t think they’d ever go away.
Arthur had shut down when he saw them take Martin, picking up the captain’s discarded cap and holding it tightly to his chest. The man had said little more than a pleading, “I’m sorry,” since.
When Carolyn heard, she had thought it was some cruel joke the boys were trying to play, but then she had seen her son and a wall went up. She chose to comfort Arthur rather than recognize her grief and Douglas had no doubt the woman would break when she was alone, much like Douglas knew he’d break - eventually.
Everything was mostly mechanical after that. Carolyn had taken Arthur home, canceled their job, and told Douglas she’d call the family. Douglas had agreed silently, got in his Lexus, drove to a liquor store, fought nearly a decade of sobriety, and ended up sitting on his bed sober, in the dark, alone with his thoughts.
Martin is gone.
It’s entirely my fault.
No, Douglas knew better. Everything had been a complete accident and although that absolved him and Arthur of guilt, it didn’t make anything better. If anything it made things worse, made Martin’s death pointless, stupidly pointless.
Douglas had picked Martin up that morning, the younger man having made a desperate phone call after his van wouldn’t start. As a result the two were both early and arriving together. While they crossed the airfield they had come across Carl impressing Arthur with his bench-pressing skills. The idea had sprung to the both of them simultaneously, and Douglas placed the bet that he could lift his own weight.
Martin did him better, saying he could probably lift Douglas' as well.
All the good cheeses and twenty quid later, and Martin lay down on the bench, his sleeves rolled up and jacket and cap given to Carl. Arthur was serving spotter and picked up the bar. It was then that a fuel truck back-fired and the bar slipped from Arthur’s grip.
Martin wasn’t ready.
The bar came down on his neck.
They got it off quick and Carl ran for help, but the damage was done and the paramedics were two minutes too late.
Douglas shouldn’t have made the bet, Martin shouldn’t have agreed, Arthur shouldn’t have been spotter, if the van had just started, if Douglas had slept in that morning…
Douglas knew grief, and he knew that no amount of what-ifs and could-haves would change anything.
Martin was gone, and when Douglas went to bed that night, when he woke up Martin would still be gone.
And anything and everything Douglas regretted about his friendship with the man would be left unresolved.
Taking a deep breath, Douglas finally set his hat on the nightstand and slowly removed his shoes. His jacket was already in the other room, and he didn’t think he had the energy to strip down.
Rolling onto his side, Douglas looked at the alarm clock: 21:19
Fourteen hours and sixteen minutes since Martin Crieff stopped existing.
Douglas wished for a drink.
He wished for the tears that would allow him to move on.
He wished he wasn’t getting a new hat at the end of the week.
More than anything he wished he could have done something so that come morning Martin wouldn’t be dead.
Douglas let himself fall into a dreamless sleep, and when the clock switched to 21:20, his wish was granted.
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