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@ 2011-08-10 03:16 am UTC
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Current mood: chipper
Entry tags:prompting part ii

Please see the most recent MOD NOTE


(updated 6 June)

Welcome everybody. How you got here I have no idea but thank you for coming and welcome again, nonetheless . As you may have gathered this is a Fic Prompting Meme dedicated solely to the hilarious and oh-so-addictive BBC Radio 4 sitcom - Cabin Pressure. I'm aiming for this to be pretty anything goes - but in order for everything to run smoothly, there are a few guidelines. Don't worry - they're not too restrictive.


FILLING GUIDELINES



As you probably all know - our meme now has it's very own database created and maintained by the great Enigel. It both catalogues each and every prompt that we post and provides links to fills. You can find it here: Google Spreadsheet

We also have a Pinboard archive which has been put in place by the lovely [personal profile] oxfordtweed in the place of our late Delicious Archive. This Archive contains a list of all the prompts this meme has to offer - you can find it here: Pinboard Archive

This is a great step forward in making our meme just a little more organised (but not too organised of course. This is Cabin Pressure) which is always a good thing.

So in order to make things easier to archive - Please nest your fills.

This can be done by either posting each part as a reply to that part's immediate predecessor, OR by replying each time to Part I OR - well you get the idea :D

It makes it simpler for Enigel and myself to link fills in a clean and clear manner. Following these guildelines will be very much appreciated guys :D

REPROMPTING



Reprompting is allowed but please include the URL of the original prompt when you do so. It will make it infinitely more easy to Archive which would make both Enigel and I very happy :)

As for everything else



  1. Be respectful to one another. Disagreements are fine, but not everything disagreeable is trolling. If you suspect someone of trolling, just ignore it. If you cannot respond to a comment without attacking or trolling someone else, keep it to yourself.

  2. No bashing prompts. It might not be your cup of tea - but obviously someone wants it enough to go to the effort of requesting it. So just scroll past it.

  3. Prompt away as much as you like guys - seriously, go wild - but please try to fill as well.

    4. NEW - If your fill includes a major element that veers from the original prompt (crossovers, established universes, kinks, et cetera), please take a few moments to check with the OP that such additions are welcome. This has caused problems in the past and it only takes a few moments of your time.
  4. Please no RPF. I'm not trying to oppress you RPF writers and enthusiasts, I would just really like to avoid any legal problems.

  5. When you post a fill (or post a new part of a WIP) please go over to the Filled Prompts Post (if it is complete) or the WIP Post (if there are still more parts to come) and, following each post's guideline's, post a link to this fill or new part.


REALLY IMPORTANT ADDENDUM



According to numerous Child Safety laws it is illegal to provide pornographic material to minors. Seeing that the majority of the stuff we have here is rather adult in nature, this Meme is consequently an 18+ zone. Failing to comply to this rule could result in the Meme getting shut down. So if you're here and you're under 18 please back button now.

+ Please do not post anything regarding minors in a sexual situation. It really doesn't matter how tasteful or crass it is, there are laws that classify that sort of thing as child pornography and as such, I'm afraid we're going to have to go with the attitude that safe is better than sorry.

It really is VERY important that these rules are upheld as the consequences are severe.

Other than that - go crazy guys. Any problems please just message me and I'll try my best to work it out.



Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Prompt Index

Current Prompt Post | Current Chatter Post | WIP Post | Filled Prompts Post | Searching Post | Orphan Post | Page-a-Mod Post | FAQ | Beta/Concrit Post

[livejournal.com profile] cabin_pressure | Cabin Pressure @ AO3 | IRC Chat @ irc.ecnet.org #FittonATC

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Super Martin whump + Sherlock crossover


(Anonymous)
2012-01-23 04:40 am UTC (link)
Martin, with Lady Luck avoiding him as she does, finds himself as the hostage in a robbery-gone-bad. He gets shot and loses sight out of one eye, which means he can't get fly anymore.

Lestrade, having had his name disgraced by the whole Sherlock incident, ends up moving there. He meets Martin while he looks down at a river from a bridge, suspiciously like he's thinking of killing himself.

Lestrade is conflicted by his paternal feelings towards a recently deceased Sherlock versus his romantic feelings towards this walking pit of bad luck.

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Re: Super Martin whump + Sherlock crossover


(Anonymous)
2012-01-23 07:51 am UTC (link)
Seconding!

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Re: Super Martin whump + Sherlock crossover


(Anonymous)
2012-01-23 12:51 pm UTC (link)
OOOHHHH MARTIN/LESTRADE HELLO NEW CROSSOVER PAIRING OF JOY!!!

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Re: Super Martin whump + Sherlock crossover


(Anonymous)
2012-01-24 12:42 am UTC (link)
I actually have been wanting to prompt Martin/Lestrade for a long time now! I don't know, they just seem like they'll fit :)

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Re: Super Martin whump + Sherlock crossover


(Anonymous)
2012-01-23 02:22 pm UTC (link)
Someone please please please fill this? PLEASE? I never knew I wanted this pairing before now.

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Re: Super Martin whump + Sherlock crossover


(Anonymous)
2012-01-23 03:34 pm UTC (link)
Quite possibly the best prompt ever. Someone please write this.

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sostrangechild: Icon by moi! (altaïr)

Re: Super Martin whump + Sherlock crossover


[personal profile] sostrangechild
2012-01-23 05:54 pm UTC (link)
Hey chief, I might be wrong, but I want to fill this. However, I'm also writing at least six other multi-chapter stories at the moment, so I really shouldn't start another story. This makes me feel annoyed at myself. If this is still unfilled by the end of the week, prod me and I might just start on something. :)

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sostrangechild: Icon by moi! (altaïr)

Artfill: Eye (warning - graphic depiction of semi-healed scars)


[personal profile] sostrangechild
2012-01-25 06:41 am UTC (link)
Because I'm a horrible bitch, that's why.

Photobucket Pictures, Images and Photos

Also, it appears to me that I'm writing something as well. God damnit.

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Re: Artfill: Eye (warning - graphic depiction of semi-healed scars)


(Anonymous)
2012-01-25 01:19 pm UTC (link)
At least if worst came to worst he'd have a promising career as a pirate ahead of him. He could have an even MORE ridiculous hat then... with feathers in!

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sostrangechild: BBC!verse Lestrade with pink heart (BBC!Lestrade Smile - heart)

Re: Artfill: Eye (warning - graphic depiction of semi-healed scars)


[personal profile] sostrangechild
2012-02-03 02:37 pm UTC (link)
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum! He'd still be a captain too! Thank you, Nonnie.

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Re: Artfill: Eye (warning - graphic depiction of semi-healed scars)


(Anonymous)
2012-01-25 09:25 pm UTC (link)
OP dropping by just to this is amazing! I can't believe you're going to write fic as well!
Thanks so much :D

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sostrangechild: animation of a man dancing, with the text "allow me to explain through interpretive dance" (Allow me to explain)

Re: Artfill: Eye (warning - graphic depiction of semi-healed scars)


[personal profile] sostrangechild
2012-02-03 02:40 pm UTC (link)
Hello OP! Just dropping in to say that I'm still working on this fill - I'm determined to write ALL of it before I post (for once). I hope you can hold out a little longer. :) I'm glad that my scribble was pleasing to you! ^_^

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Re: Artfill: Eye (warning - graphic depiction of semi-healed scars)


(Anonymous)
2012-02-04 06:39 pm UTC (link)
Not OP, but I have to say that I'm ridiculously excited that it is YOU who is taking on this brilliant prompt!!!

Lestrade/Martin - I think this is my new OTP! *sighs in delight*

Now, where is my camping gear, I need to stalk this...

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sostrangechild: Icon by moi! (altaïr)

Fill: Five Past Midnight 1A/2 (Please Read Warnings)


[personal profile] sostrangechild
2012-02-11 03:01 pm UTC (link)
Warnings for depression, suicidal thoughts, hinting at a past abusive relationship, and a semi-graphic description of injuries. Spoilers for Sherlock S2.

Looking down at the gushing water made Martin feel slightly dizzy, and altogether nauseous. His good eye tried to focus as best it could, but his depth of field had been horribly off ever since the Accident. Screwing it shut seemed like the best option. Maybe then people wouldn't stare, maybe they wouldn't notice that instead of a healthy eye there was a horribly mutilated pit, stitch marks dotting either side of a scar that sliced through his eyebrow and down his cheek. A few horizontal scars, small enough to look like puckered, grown over sutures cut across the lower half of the scar. His useless eye twitched under the skin, partially replaced by glass.

But they didn't matter. Not now. For now, nothing mattered, not even flying. What Martin felt was emptiness, consuming him whole. There was to be no redemption, no reward for his suffering, his fragile life being dashed to the ground in a fit by Lady Luck herself.

As he opened his eye to climb onto the stone wall that separated traffic from plunging into the river below, Martin heard a voice. He ignored it, one leg now over the wall and the other soon to follow. Probably calling to someone else anyway.

But then large, gentle hands took Martin by the shoulders. They pulled him away from the edge and Martin swore loudly. Wasn't he even allowed to die in peace? Were the fates so bored that they wanted to see him live, to continue on in misery?

"I said get down from there," snapped the voice.

Martin shoved the man from him, glaring over his shoulder as he started to run away. Silver hair reflected in the moonlight, the man's face shadowed by the lapels of his coat. He seemed stunned - most people were nowadays - but he did something that Martin hadn't seen before.

The man chased after him.

"Sherlock! Stop!"

Who the hell was Sherlock?

Martin picked up speed, throwing himself into trees and scraggly undergrowth that grew next to the road. A branch hit him in the abdomen, and he fell with a heavy thud. Ignoring the pain (there really was no comparison to the Accident - if only one good thing came out of it, it was that Martin now had an unusually high pain tolerance) he picked himself up and continued for a good mile or so.

Panting, Martin rested against the trunk of an oak, trying to bring his heart down to a restful rate, ears straining for any noise that would indicate the other man was still in pursuit. Creatures clicked and howled and hooted, leaves whistled gently in the breeze, but there was nothing else out there. Martin sighed. It appeared that the man had given up.

****

Every day when Lestrade woke up, he had to remind himself that he was not going to New Scotland Yard, and he certainly wasn't going near any crime scenes. It hurt, every day the humiliation of dishonourable discharge weighing down on him as heavily as it had the day before. He worked in a crappy little cafe-come-restaurant, waking up at sparrow fart and coming home at midnight. Of course, he didn't need to work - Mycroft fucking Holmes had solved the issue of money for him - but he needed something to focus on, something to force him to think about anything other than the ruin his life had become.

Gregory Lestrade was a very social person by nature, living in content by being with the people and for the people. So while his boss at the cafe was an idiot (and Lestrade couldn't help his smile when his mind prompted "everyone is an idiot"), his life was just that little bit brighter with human interaction. He picked up the skills to operate the coffee machine within a few weeks, and replaced their sullen, twenty-something barista in two more. For whatever reason, Lestrade was good with machines, and this extended to their old coffee-maker. It would hiss and screech at the boss, spit milky froth at the casuals, and scorch the beans, but as soon as Greg touched it, the hysterics stopped and it became as well mannered as the elderly ladies (gas explosion, hostage, neuf personnes sont mortes, onze blessés) that had their crochet group in on Wednesdays. The only exception to this rule were mobile phones and anything with a touchscreen. He loathed not being able to physically touch buttons and levers and screws. The coffee was still revolting - there's only so much one can do with cheap beans to begin with - but it satisfied Lestrade to know that he made them a little better.

Every night he would walk home, eyes filled with wonder at the natural beauty of the stars. Back in London the pollution was thick enough to obscure even the brightest constellation. On his walk, he'd go over Fitton's only bridge, then hop off the path to walk along the banks of the river to his cottage. It was always deserted at that time of night - Fitton closed early and rose late (at least that's what it felt like to Lestrade).

But one night there was someone at the bridge. They were gazing down, in what Lestrade thought to be a sad manner. It wasn't an ordinary sadness, he realised, quietly approaching the bridge, it was a life changing, crippling depression. And Lestrade completely understood what the other person was going through.

As he came within shouting distance the clouds hiding the moonlight slipped away, shining brilliantly. Dark splotches of shadow appeared on the person (male, curly hair, can't tell how tall with that slouch) as they gave the sky one last look. He raised his leg to climb onto the security barrier.

"Get down!" shouted Lestrade, terror flooding his veins.

No. No, no, no, he would not let this happen again! Even the silhouette was similar and Lestrade sprinted for the bridge edge, shaking away John's recount of that fateful morning.

Afterwards, Lestrade would berate himself for being so bloody stupid as to shout such an ignorant command at his suicide attempter. All those years of police training and that was what he came up with? It was fortunate that Lestrade was close enough to physically pull the man off. He didn't seem altogether that pleased about it (and Lestrade can imagine he wouldn't be too pleased either if his suicide attempt had been foiled by an overenthusiastic member of the public). Yet he repeated the stupid words and earned himself a runner for his trouble.

But the most startling thing of all was the man's face and body. When he turned to shout back at Lestrade, his harsh cheekbones fell into the light and Lestrade froze. How could Sherlock possibly be here? The man was dead - he'd attended the funeral. And if he wasn't...

Lestrade sucked in a deep breath of cold, country air, world spinning as his head tried to insist that Sherlock was six foot under. It didn't quite work, so he settled for calling after Sherlock and giving chase. Unsurprisingly he lost Sherlock within minutes. Well fine. If the man didn't want to be found, then so be it. If he dared to show his face again, if he dared show up on his doorstep, if he dared to ask for help, Lestrade would close nay slam the door in his pointy face.

This brief moment of bitterness faded as Lestrade walked back home. Sherlock was an arrogant sod, completely insufferable, but there was something about him that made Lestrade feel the strange mixture of exasperation and love for the man. Not love in any romantic or sexual nature, but love in that if Sherlock did show up, then Lestrade would drag him inside and berate him for being a stupid git while offering up his own bed and making a pot of tea. The same thing a concerned father might do for his child (his petit enfant). And if Lestrade was truly honest with himself (which he tried to be, no matter how hard the truth might be), then Sherlock was his son. Not biologically, of course, but emotionally. The most fascinating part of this was that Sherlock knew this, and not only accepted it, but embraced it (for better or for worse, both parties concerned being guilty of using this relationship to manipulate the other into co-operating.)

Too wired from the evenings' events, Lestrade barely slept at all that night. Instead he stared at the ceiling and counted the nails in the exposed wood beams. It was possibly the most dreary, restless night of his life and he itched to get up and go back to work.

****

Despite having only one good eye, Martin was still legally allowed to drive. Which meant he could still earn his keep with Icarus Removals. And now that he was grounded (with his history in exams, Martin wasn't going to be able to pass again), there wasn't any reason for Martin not to be at jobs on time. In fact he was doing surprisingly well - there wasn't as much of a struggle to pay the rent on time and feed himself adequately.

He supposed it was because he was still the cheapest man with a van in Fitton, and people took pity on him after the Accident. It wasn't easy though - a few doors had been slammed in his face and many more people had made polite excuses and cancelled their job. Those were the hardest - cancellations because of his face always were. He felt like shouting at them for being so petty and ignorant, but would always put on a nice smile and walk back to his clapped out Transit van.

Later, he would cry quietly in his room.

Today was different. Today Martin had the day off and was heading to the library to return some books. However, on the way back, he'd feel like walking past the shops, maybe to check the specials at the supermarket or maybe just for something to do, but whatever deity pushed Martin's life around gave him a good shove towards Gregory Lestrade that day.

It was quiet at work, the dead time between lunch and the school kids coming in for snacks, where all the odd jobs and chores could be done. Today the specials board needed to be repainted, after some drunks had dumped it in the garden of some poor old biddy's house. Lestrade picked up his paints - hideous lime green and special chalkboard paint - and dragged the cumbersome A-frame to a table out front.

He grimaced at the damage and at the blinding choice of colour. Paintbrush in hand, he set to work, hoping that maybe this new batch of paint wouldn't be quite so luminescent. Luminescent like Bluebell, une lapin blanc de Baskerville - and here Lestrade halted that stream of thought, breaking off his father's native tongue, the language that he only used for his family and crime cases. It had been popping up with alarming regularity for the past few months. French was as natural to him as an albatross was to long-distance travel, his childhood in a small town, home-schooled by his father until he was seven, never uttering a word of English until he was five.

Sherlock spoke French.

His table rocked, an elbow catching his tin of paint and knocking it over the edge, rousing Lestrade from his darker memories. The lid popped as it hit the ground, some of the paint splashing out. Lestrade quickly righted it, smashing the lid back onto the tin.

"I am so sorry!" yelped a man, panicked and upset.

"It's fi-"

They stared at each other for a moment. Lestrade gritted his teeth, biting back the urge to punch the man.

"Oh," breathed Sherlock.

Grabbing a fistful of lapel in one hand, Lestrade threw Sherlock up against the wall, pinning him, paint forgotten.

"You fucking bastard," snarled Lestrade.

"Excuse me?" squeaked Sherlock, looking absolutely terrified.

"Christ, what did you do to your eye? You stupid boy, Sherlock," Lestrade continued, months of pain and accusations flowing forth like a burst dam. "John is heartbroken. You've ruined him. Ruined me. Do you have any idea of what you've done?"

"I'm not Sherlock," said the man, green-grey eye wide, pleading for the crazy man to please go away.

Oh.

Oh shit.

"My name is Ca - Martin. Martin Crieff."

Immediately, Lestrade released him. Complete humiliation was written across his face as he averted his eyes. He'd just thrown an innocent man against a wall - there was definitely something wrong with him.

"I thought - no. Sorry. I am so sorry, I completely mistook you for a man that I knew," said Lestrade, stumbling over his words.

"It's-it's happened a few times, actually," stammered Martin.

The young man had his hand raised as a shield over his wounded eye, hiding it. Everything about Martin was on the defensive, from his body curling away to minute trembling and the ever-so-slight lisp that was becoming stronger the more nervous Martin got. There was a bit of green paint on Martin's worn-through Converses.

"I'm Greg," said Lestrade, extending his hand to Martin.

"The DI that was stood down," Martin blurted out. "From the London Met."

Lestrade drew his hand back, unshaken, slightly bitter. Well, it wouldn't be the first time someone recognised him. 

"And you're the man on the bridge," he replied. "Now that I've got you closer, you're not quite tall enough to be Sherlock."

Martin's head reached Lestrade's chin. He couldn't have been much taller than John, although his almost nonexistent arms and legs (mere saplings of limbs) did give the impression of extra height. His weight, Lestrade noticed, was the type of "I regularly don't eat because I don't earn enough" compared to Sherlock's "I have no desire to eat but John forces me to anyway." And his eye - his horribly mutilated eye, the nerves still working as it twitched in sync with Martin's other eye. The poor man.

"I didn't mean it like that," said Martin, a pink flush creeping up the back of his neck.

Lestrade sighed. Not bright enough to be Sherlock, either. But he was nicer. Still, Lestrade was irritated - irritated that Sherlock could still interfere from his cosy nook in the afterlife.

"Of course you didn't."

They stood awkwardly for a moment before Martin coughed and moved past Lestrade.

"No goodbyes?" asked Lestrade.

"Goodbye," said Martin gruffly. "I probably won't see you around."

"Don't do anything stupid!" called Lestrade. "I mean it!"

Martin paid him no heed, turning at the next corner, thin jacket pulled tight against his body. He looked cold - the brisk chill of autumn had begun to set in, frosting the grass in the morning and turning the leaves to fiery golds. Sherlock's Belstaff would have fitted Martin well. Anything long and warm, really.

And Lestrade found himself wondering about Martin, the man that had been determined to end his life on a little bridge. He supposed it was because Martin reminded him of Sherlock. That had to be it - there wasn't anything more to their acquaintance.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Lestrade ran after Martin. Because really, he couldn't just leave him, now could he? It would be irresponsible of Lestrade to allow Martin to go off by himself, to presumably attempt suicide again. So he chased the redhead down and invited him over for dinner. He reasoned that he was only doing it because he had a good slab of meat that would roast nicely and it was too much to eat by himself. And Martin was very thin, wasn't he? Some red meat would do him good - heck, any substantial meal would do him good.

Lestrade scolded the part of his brain that suggested he wasn't interested in Martin's wellbeing in the same fatherly way he did with Sherlock's.

****

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sostrangechild: BBC!verse Lestrade with pink heart (BBC!Lestrade Smile - heart)

Fill: Five Past Midnight 1B/2 (Please Read Warnings at beginning of 1A))


[personal profile] sostrangechild
2012-02-11 03:05 pm UTC (link)
It had been a long time since anyone had invited him to dinner, even at their own home, and Martin was at a loss with his wardrobe. He had a few dress shirts and a pair of nice trousers from his time at MJN, but his smart casual and formal attire was discouragingly limited. Tenderly, he picked out the black slacks, putting it with a worn button-up that wasn't that horrible mauve Carolyn liked. If he put his navy-blue Christmas jumper from Mrs Crieff on, then the knit would hide the worst of the stains that came from years of clumsiness.

Fretting terribly about his clothes like a schoolgirl - what an idiot. With a heavy sigh of irritation Martin threw the shirt back into his closet. It wasn't good enough - he'd have to wear the mauve. He absently picked at the embroidered stitching of the MJN logo on the breast pocket. It would have to do, logo or not. Of course, he'd wear his blue tie with it, knotted in a full Windsor.

"Well," said Martin, examining himself in the mirror, "I look respectable."

****
Lestrade, on his part, was also stumped and confused. This was one of those times that he wished his ex-wife was still with him. But if his ex-wife was still with him then he wouldn't be inviting a stranger he pulled off a bridge over for dinner. She didn't like people like that (couldn't understand how one could get to that point, could only think of them as weak and attention-seeking). Like Martin. Like him. She threw a lamp at him once, shattered it right next to his head, when he came home late one night, tired, depressed, angry, and lonely, unable to comprehend the horrors of the five little children, heads dashed against the ground, the work of a demented serial killer. Lestrade forgave her, even though she woke their daughter, even though it had been a beautiful art deco lamp that he'd bought for her fortieth birthday.

He wondered if she still had it. The tiny shards of rainbow coloured glass carefully hand replaced by an old glassblower with steady, wizened hands and a rattling cough. In all likelihood she'd put it in a box, unable to bring herself to sell it but unable to look at it either.

A light blue shirt caught his eye. Lestrade pulled it out, turning the fabric over in his hands. It was nice - nice enough for dinner - and a little bit warmer than the others, which was good since the cottage had terrible heating. He picked a tie and then put it back. It might make Martin uncomfortable if he wore it.

Headlights beamed through his bedroom window, reflecting off the mirror and illuminating the ceiling briefly. Hurriedly Lestrade finished dressing and almost slipped down the stairs from his loft bedroom. It wasn't Martin, but it had saved the vegetables from burning.

What if Martin didn't show?

The feeling was gutwrenching and angry. Guilty too, although Lestrade didn't know whom it was for. But finally (exactly on time according to the kitchen clock and who the hell can do that? Had he been waiting in the dark with a watch?) he heard the crunching footsteps on his white pebble driveway and the hesitant knock on his front door.

"Evening! Come inside, you must be freezing," Lestrade said, altogether too quickly and loudly.

"Good evening," said Martin in the stiff manner of one absolutely terrified.

However, things progressed nicely from there. Martin huddled through the door and undid his shoelaces, following Lestrade into the kitchen. The warm scents softened his pale, drawn face as he inhaled.

"You can cook?"

"I can roast. You?"

"I am very good at cheap pasta," replied Martin.

They grinned at each other, Lestrade's bordering on crazy and Martin's with a similar crooked twist. Lestrade held up a bottle of wine.

"Red? It's from a wonderful little vineyard called Le Chien de la Lune in Southern France."

"Sounds expensive," said Martin. "A small luxury then, please."

"My father sends a bottle of it up for my birthday each year. He's good friends with the owners," replied Lestrade.

He popped the cork with the screw and poured out two generous glasses of the red liquid.

"You're French?" asked Martin.

"Je pense que...oui, je suis français. Mon père est aussi français. He moved back seven years ago."

A faint blush stained Martin's cheekbones and he sipped his wine, letting the woody tones roll over his taste buds. It was a nice wine - Martin hadn't drunk anything of quality for years, and so the tones were enhanced twofold. With a swirl he cradled the glass in his hand and gathered the dregs of his French.

"Je parle un petit français," mumbled Martin.

He took another sample of wine, eyes averted.

"You've a very strong accent," commented Lestrade. "Very rich, and as English as the Queen's."

"I know. I made it that way."

"What do you mean?" asked Lestrade.

"You're not born with an accent. You make it as you go. I'm from Wokingham."

Oh. West Country and Cockney in a cocktail tumbler. Terrible for trying to sound formal and professional over a PA system (Lestrade knew from experience). No wonder Martin's pronunciation was clipped and proper like one of those fancy newsreaders. Lestrade could imagine Martin listening and watching the news avidly, taking note of their voices and carefully crafting his own anew.

"It's not so strange that we change ourselves for the benefit of others," said Martin. "I don't want to be sad or metaphorical or world-weary tonight, Gregory."

Gregory.

"I feel like your father when you say it like that. Greg, please, just Greg."

Before Martin could say anything else a loud grumble made itself known from his stomach.

"When did you last eat?"

The words hung between the them, fluttering like a finch looking for a branch, or a scrap of red silk in the wind. Concern, but not pity. Because pity was only charity, and charity was the thing Martin loathed. It was like they thought he was completely useless, unable to provide for himself.

"Breakfast," he said, beginning to babble nervously, "I got caught up in a book at the library and then I ran into you and it all happened so quickly that I thought there was no point in eating lunch if I was going to dinner."

"Fair enough," Lestrade conceded.

Martin was shown to his chair, and Lestrade ducked back around to fetch the vegetables and meat. He was on Martin's blind side when he glanced subtly at the extensive injury. Somehow Martin sensed him looking (despite him being in motion the entire time) and turned his head so he could see Lestrade properly.

"You can ask what happened, you know," he said.

Lestrade set down the dishes with a ceramic clink. A box of matches sat next to the unlit, new candles. He hadn't set them up properly - a candle-lit dinner? It was a recipe for disaster. Martin would have surely spooked.

And he spooked so easily too. But Martin's slender fingers wrapped over the matchbox and with a hissing flame, the candlestick became illuminated with the flickering light of the candles.

"How presumptuous of me," stammered Martin, realising what he'd done.

He picked up the silver snuffer, intending to put out the candles and right (what he thought was) a mistake.

"No," said Lestrade firmly, plucking the snuffer from Martin. "No, it's fine. Really. It's nicer like this."

Martin gave him a shy yet utterly beautiful and adorable smile, the glow of it filling his whole body, shoulders just that fraction straighter, a little of his teeth showing. By God, Lestrade now understood why all those soppy romance films had candlelit dinners in them. It felt right. Felt right enough for Martin to have sensed it and acted upon it, igniting a fragile courtship with a tiny stick of fire.

"So, how did..." Lestrade began but trailed off, instead gesturing with his wine glass.

"Got myself shot."

Martin glanced hungrily at the food and Lestrade served him up while the story continued.

"I was at the bank, withdrawing some money, when three men walk in, striding up until I'm right in front of them. They've got stockings over their heads, and one of them has a shotgun. He was the son of a farmer. And they fire a shot off and everyone hits the deck."

There was a pause as Martin took a large gulp of wine, hand shaking as he recalled the trauma.

"They-they blasted open the door - so stupid, they have bulletproof glass but not bulletproof doors - and the debris sliced open the side of my face. My surgeon said he removed a six inch splinter from my eyelid and brow. I was lucky to have not suffered a brain injury. That was two and a half months ago."

He touched the scarred tissue gently and flicked his good eye to observe Lestrade. They held each other's gaze, Lestrade not flinching nor recoiling, calmly processing the sharp angles of Martin's face.

"You don't find it disturbing."

It was a statement of fact not a question. In his former line of work Lestrade had seen many horrible things. He didn't find Martin's disfigurement to be unappealing.

"You don't think I'm hideous."

"I think you're a walking pit of bad luck," chuckled Lestrade. "What did you do before the robbery?"

Martin's shyness fell away, his face truly beaming with happiness.

"I flew."

As this strange, compelling, redhead started to talk, Lestrade couldn't help but be swept away by Martin's raw enthusiasm. And for the first time since his dishonourable dismissal from the Met, Lestrade began to feel human again.

***

Gregory was an interesting, kind, and extremely handsome man, and Martin had no idea why the ex-DI was interested in him - an ugly, inept ex-pilot. The way that their conversations flowed, how Greg hung off his every word, the touches, the glances of appreciation, and the way Greg looked after him at dinner, well, it was a bit much. Someone actually wanted him. Not only that, someone wanted him after the Accident. As if to reassure himself, Martin had taken to touching the edge of his eye socket, where the main scar ran down his cheekbone, grounding him, telling himself that this was real.

They were sitting on the couch, watching the news with a cup of tea while they waited for their chocolate lava cakes to warm in the oven. Their thighs pressed together, despite the fact that the Chesterfield (deep red, dark timber, expensive and Martin wondered how Gregory had afforded it) was large enough for them to sit without touching. It was exhilarating, and as Martin craved basic human affection, he lapped it up eagerly. Being slightly more daring than he would normally he snuggled into Greg's shoulder. 

What happened next, they both blamed the wine. Not in a bad way, of course, but in a way that indicated that their slight tipsiness made Gregory deem them both unsuitable to drive home. Martin pointed out that Greg was already home.

"I meant to drive you home," said Greg, ruffling those pretty curls in his fingers.

"Well I propose something else," murmured Martin.

He set down his tea so not to spill it and swung his feet up, toes wiggling in his socks. He turned his head up to look at Gregory.

"What do you propose, Captain?" asked Greg softly.

Their lips were so close and Martin could almost taste the salty gravy scent on Greg's breath. His heart had started up a quick beat, and the gentle touch Martin held against Greg's chest told him the older man's heart was beating just as fast as his. Their lips pouted in anticipation, their bodies shuffling closer as the seconds dragged on. Just as Martin had made up his mind to pull Greg's face to his, a ding from the kitchen made him break off. He sighed. Timing and luck really weren't his forte.

"I propose that the cakes are done," he said.

The tension had snapped (and Martin couldn't help but think of how sexual it had been) and Greg cursed the decision to put the desserts on to warm. Martin retreated again into his shell.

Good gracious, what on earth had they been doing? They were definitely tipsy, and Martin bit back embarrassment as he swallowed his secrets in big, burning hot pieces of lava cake.

***

Sunlight awoke them the next morning, Martin in the guest bedroom and Gregory in the comfort of his own bed. It was weak, still early and filtered by the unconventional skylights, but the birds were already twittering their indignation. 

In this natural chaos Martin roused, blinking at the unusual amount of light. His attic faced away from the dawn, and what little light there that still managed to seep through was blocked out by an old drape, throwing back to when he used to sleep during the day for an overnight flight. However he was quite content, the firm mattress supporting his back and squashy duvet keeping him cocooned in warmth.

Downstairs, Lestrade was not so happy. What was wrong with him, trying to kiss Martin last night? For one, he too strongly resembled Sherlock, and secondly, he'd met Martin by stopping him from jumping from a bridge and if that wasn't an indication of serious issues, then Greg didn't know what was (you've got issues too, snarked a voice in his head to which he told it to kindly fuck off), and thirdly, well thirdly, they'd known each other for what, two days at the most. These not the solid building blocks a good relationship needed and Greg knew it. Besides, what would a smart man like Martin want with a washed-up, greying, old ex-Detective Inspector that worked as a barista in a shit-hole cafe?

The coffee-pot came to the boil, and Lestrade poured himself a mug of it, strong, no milk, no sugars. Heat burnt into his hands as a resounding crack split the morning air. Ceramic pieces fell apart in his hands as the mug, clearly on the last legs of its painfully short life, gushed the contents all over the bench.

"Fuck!"

Cupping the broken pieces in his hands, Lestrade dumped them in the sink and ran blessedly cold water over his hands, watching in distaste as the coffee dripped down the cabinets. He'd bitch at Mycroft later, once he thought of something appropriately vitriolic for spending so much money on the sodding Chesterfield and not the diningware. Cheap crap - one of the plates had snapped clean in half the other day.

His hands stung. His eyes stung too - why couldn't life stop kicking him? Because he did like Martin. And he did want to get to know him better. And maybe, down the track, just maybe he wanted a relationship with him. Sodding bloody fuck. Greg hated romance films and somehow he'd ended up in one.

Ah. Deep breath. Take it easy, boyo. One step at a time.

One step

At

A

Time

Okay. Minor (well, major) panic attack over. Let's crack on shall we, Lestrade? There's a good chap. Now get a new mug and let's start again.

***

Okay, so I lied about posting the whole thing only when I'd finished writing it. Don't worry, it will actually be finished once I get Lestrade to stop angsting, and Martin to get an eyepatch. They are being surprisiingly cooperative. Now I must sleep as I open the store tomorrow morning (blah! I hate sunday opens.) Also dreamwidth comment restrictions - you little beauty! I love them.

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Re: Fill: Five Past Midnight 1B/2 (Please Read Warnings at beginning of 1A))


(Anonymous)
2012-02-11 03:54 pm UTC (link)
Love this so far!
I'd feel sorry for Lestrade and his discharge from the Met, but at least he has Mycroft paying the bills.
Poor Martin though. He always gets such a kicking...

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sostrangechild: Icon by moi! (altaïr)

Re: Fill: Five Past Midnight 1B/2 (Please Read Warnings at beginning of 1A))


[personal profile] sostrangechild
2012-02-15 04:37 pm UTC (link)
See, I want to see what happens to Lestrade in the aftermath. And I don't think it's going to be quite so happy as I've made it. His wife is cheating on him, he's got no income, his reputation is ruined so he can't really get s decent job in London, and he's just lost a very good friend. :( So for now, he gets his bills covered by Mycroft as a token of appreciation.

As for Martin...well Martin is the fandom punching bag. I do promise that there will be a happy ending. :) thank you very much for reading!

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Re: Fill: Five Past Midnight 1B/2 (Please Read Warnings at beginning of 1A))


(Anonymous)
2012-02-12 09:19 am UTC (link)
I'm in a bit of a hurry, but I needed to say: BRILLIANT! On so many levels! Oh, you broken, broken boys...

Looking forward to the next chapter and thanks so much for filling this wonderful prompt!

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sostrangechild: Icon by moi! (altaïr)

Re: Fill: Five Past Midnight 1B/2 (Please Read Warnings at beginning of 1A))


[personal profile] sostrangechild
2012-02-15 04:40 pm UTC (link)
Our broken boys will put each other back together again, no matter how long it takes. Thank you very much for stopping by to read! The next chapter should be up next week (hopefully!)

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tiwtin: (LtF)

Re: Fill: Five Past Midnight 1B/2 (Please Read Warnings at beginning of 1A))


[personal profile] tiwtin
2012-02-12 09:51 am UTC (link)
I'm loving this, they're both so sweet! I've never thought of this pairing before, but it really works!

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sostrangechild: Icon by moi! (altaïr)

Re: Fill: Five Past Midnight 1B/2 (Please Read Warnings at beginning of 1A))


[personal profile] sostrangechild
2012-02-15 04:42 pm UTC (link)
Me either! But when the prompt came up, it all fell into place, and I had to write it. :D thank you for reading!

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Re: Fill: Five Past Midnight 1B/2 (Please Read Warnings at beginning of 1A))


(Anonymous)
2012-02-15 07:40 am UTC (link)
OP

I can´t. I can´t. I'm Kristen Bell about sloths right now.
http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lzf0bml9Dc1qfhtin.gif <-my actual, legit face right at this instant.

Ok, Here´s me reading your fic, real time:

HOLY SHIT MARTIN LET ME HUG YOU
--

Fathers Day verse?
--

"My name is Ca - Martin. Martin Crieff." - I want to punch you and kiss you at the same time.
--

"No goodbyes?" asked Lestrade.

"Goodbye," said Martin gruffly. "I probably won't see you around."

(I'll just leave this here)
--

I love your Lestrade.
--

The dinnner scene is amazing. Warm and just a hint of awkward.
--

And your Martin makes me want to cry with how beautiful and innocent and coy and Martin he is.
--

GREG CALLING MARTIN CAPTAIN (ded)
--

In short: I love everything about this fic and I can't wait for the rest!

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Re: Fill: Five Past Midnight 1B/2 (Please Read Warnings at beginning of 1A))


(Anonymous)
2012-02-28 03:25 am UTC (link)
Oh god, I love this! Can't wait for the next part!!! *squee*

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Re: Fill: Five Past Midnight 1B/2 (Please Read Warnings at beginning of 1A))


(Anonymous)
2012-04-01 04:10 pm UTC (link)
OP here.

Hi, sorry to be pushy like this, but I just want to know if you're still going to update this fic. It's absolutely ok if you're not, you probably have a bunch of other stuff you need to get to.

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sostrangechild: Icon by moi! (altaïr)

Fill: Five Past Midnight 2/3 (Please Read Warnings at beginning of 1)


[personal profile] sostrangechild
2012-04-01 11:06 pm UTC (link)
Firstly I'd like to apologise for the dreadful delay in this next part. What you are reading today is the fourth draft, typed up on a phone. Yep, I write everything on my phone because I ALWAYS have it with me. Instead of making a fifth draft, I decided to just get it out there. So enjoy, and I hope it doesn't disappoint! (P.S. There is a third part being written.)
*****

Two months down the line the dinners had evolved into something more than a meal. They had crept into both of their lives, slipping from Sundays to any day of the week that they were both available. Lestrade took less shifts at the cafe, finishing at a reasonable time, meeting Martin at the supermarket to pick out groceries and walk home. Dinner would be made and at the table they would talk, often having a playful argument about who would get the leftovers (Martin always won - but despite this, he still hadn't edged away from being underweight).

Dinner wasn't the only thing they did together - they had DVD marathons (Doctor Who, Top Gear, James Bond, horror nights, whatever they found down at the video shop that they liked), early morning jogs, lazy Sunday afternoons reading, exploring the farmer's market at the agricultural college. By now the cottage was more of a home to Martin than the attic. The majority of Martin's belongings, excluding furniture, were accumulating in the nooks and crannies of the cottage - the spare bedroom had the majority of his wardrobe.

However it wasn't all sunshine and joy. Several times mid conversation, Martin simply stopped talking and his damaged eye would pulse, as if to try to open once again. And Lestrade hated that, hated how broken the Accident had made Martin, and couldn't help but cradle the too-skinny frame close to his chest, murmuring comforting words as he carded his fingers in Martin's thick curls. Because he understood the desolation Martin felt - had seen that all consuming monster of grief, hope, broken hearts, and choking rage far too many times in families and friends of victims - had felt it himself in the first six months (the six months without Martin) after the Fall. It hurt so much, head pounding, emotions spiralling, logic fractured and warped. Anything could happen in that time, where you felt as though you were drifting through a grey drizzle of rain, unable to find sanctuary. If someone wasn't there to tether you, then there was always the chance you'd slip away on the currents.

Thankfully these moments of anguish were fading in Greg's presence, although that didn't mean the captain didn't have breakdowns in that horrid attic of his. Lestrade did his best - could only do his best and always had, even right until the bitter end at New Scotland Yard - and kept looking after Martin in the same way he coaxed Sherlock through cocaine withdrawals. There was only a trace of selfishness in his actions - the roots of desire had taken hold of Gregory and he very much wanted Martin to take a step closer to a potential relationship. He couldn't deny any longer that he could only see Martin as the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. 

The young, beautiful, sharp and freckled face wasn't Sherlock at all. Their physical similarities weren't the reason why Lestrade was interested - you'd have to be completely insane to survive a romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes. Martin was entirely different, painted in bright hues of amber and gold, compared to the ink of midnight blue and blood of Sherlock. Every time he so much as even caught a glimpse of Martin, Greg's heart would blossom and it ached when Martin was gone.

And when Lestrade came home, eyes hazy and listless, Martin would carefully place his arms around the older man and tell him that it wasn't his fault. That he wasn't corrupt, wasn't a liar, wasn't wrong to have allowed Sherlock into his crime scenes, his home, his heart. By letting Sherlock run free, he had saved lives - many lives, old and young - and had made London just that little bit safer.

*****

"You look famished."

"I paid the rent."

"When did you last eat?"

"Three days ago."

"Three da-get in here."

Greg bundled the man inside, sitting him on a stool. A slice of cold pizza was pushed into Martin's hands, the plate of hawaiian slices put on the bench beside him.

"We're not doing this anymore, Martin," he said sternly.

A wild, wide-eyed expression plastered itself on Martin's face.

"I-I don't understand what you mean."

"I mean that you can't keep choosing rent over your wellbeing, and I can't keep ignoring that you get seriously ill because you've not got enough fat on those bones of yours!"

"But I have no other options," protested Martin, taking a large bite from his food. "And I'm not that skinny - I've put on three pounds, thank you very much!"

"Like hell you have. Which is why I'm asking if you'd like to move in with me."

Martin almost choked. He put down his half-eaten slice, thumping his chest while clearing his throat.

"What?"

"Come on, you're not stupid Martin. You pretty much live here anyway," chided Greg.

"I can't. Greg, it's unfair on you - the rent -"

"Mycroft pays for it."

"I know, but -"

Greg placed a hand on Martin's, making eye contact with him. The result was as he hoped with Martin stuttering himself into silence, flustered, one hand fluttering as he tried to scrape together his thoughts. His green-grey eye scanned over Greg's face carefully, lips pursed together, brow crinkled slightly in thought.

"I can't," said Martin in a soft breath.

"Why not?"

"I like you."

"Yes. I like you too, you silly man."

"No, I like y-"

Leaning in to interrupt, Greg gave Martin a gentle kiss on the lips, then pulled back to judge the younger man's reaction. He patted Martin's hand nervously. After looking half-shocked and half off in a daydream, Martin snapped back to attention. The silence drew out as they stared at each other, a blush rising on Martin's cheekbones.

"Oh," he said faintly.

"Was I wrong?" asked Greg, startled, backing away.

"No! Come here!"

Alarmed, Martin's hands shot out, grabbing Greg's wrists and pulling him back. They bumped their noses as Greg overbalanced but they quickly regained it, and with a bit of "do I tilt left, no right, no I go left!" they managed to kiss again. Long, sinewy arms slid around Greg's waist, pushing him against Martin, drawing him close. After a few moments of frantic snogging (and nipping, and licking, and smelling, and oh god Martin smelt fantastic) they pulled away, panting from both a lack of air, excitement, and arousal.

"You're accepting?"

Martin nodded, reaching for Greg's face to nuzzle against his neck.

"Bedroom? Or are we going too fas-"

"Captain, we've been making eyes at each other for the past two months, and almost kissed on several occasions. To be honest I'm surprised we didn't explode from the sexual tension."

"Then why are we wasting time?"

"My apologies," said Greg with a cheeky smirk.

With an easy practiced motion, his slid his arms around Martin and threw him over one shoulder. Martin squeaked, not daring to wiggle. Patting the small curve of Martin's buttocks, Greg carried him upstairs to have the best sex of his life. Well, the best sex of his life so far. He may be the older man in the relationship, but he still had some tricks up his sleeve.

***

The next morning, they walked across Fitton to collect the few belongings of Martin's that remained in the share-house, and the death trap affectionately known as Martin's van. Something had changed in Martin, Greg thought, something was growing inside of him. His confidence was blooming, sheltered by hope and love - a confidence that would grow stronger over time. It was the happiest Martin had been in a long time, clasping Greg's hand in his own, squeezing it every now and then to reassure himself that Greg was real. If Martin hadn't already done so, it would have been Greg squeezing Martin's hand, and as it were, he kept brushing his fingers in those cropped, copper-red curls.

When Greg stuck his head into the room that Martin had lived in for the past several years, he gagged and had to cover his mouth and nose. Poor aeration and a healthy patch of mould contributed to the rank stench of decay. The spores were already making his throat feel hoarse. Martin scuttled past, sensing Greg's unease, and made short work of his former home, stuffing the rest of his neatly folded clothes into his overnight case. One of the desks in the room belonged to him - a ratty linoleum covered thing - along with a wobbly free-standing mirror, and a bookshelf crammed full of flight manuals and battered second-hand (or tenth-hand) novels scraped together from ex-students leaving things behind.

"I thought most of your books were at the cottage," said Lestrade, arming himself with a pair of scissors and a roll of tape.

"Only a few."

After making a box, Greg pulled out a reasonably sized novel and leafed through it.

"You've got an eclectic reading taste, Martin."

"They're the best of a bad lot."

"So you like -" and here Greg double-checked the cover, "Choke, then?"

Martin flushed bright red and ducked his head. Chuckling, Greg pecked Martin's cheek. He flipped through it again before packing it away. There were a few things he wanted to further investigate in it.

Without too much effort, they loaded the transit, said farewell to the students (who weren't at all surprised by Martin's departure - apparently they were running bets at the college as to when the awkward couple finally got together), and coaxed the van into taking them home.

Home.

It felt like sinking into a hot bath on a Winter's night, frost melting away in a near-painful but wonderful warmth. He, Martin Crieff, after all the years spent in the student flats, finally had a home. A home with somebody that he truly admired and was admired by in return. Somebody that loved him.

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