NS: Old Lions
Sep. 21st, 2008 09:42 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
discoveredinaljI'm sneaking this in on Pago-Pago time, but since it is still the twenty-first where I live, I figure I'm allowed.
My prompts were New Forest and camping gear.
Old Lions
by Verlaine
Juggling three carrier bags, four library books and six cans of lager, Doyle gave the latch on the garden gate a firm elbow, following through with a knee to the door itself. He sidled through, barely managing to avoid hooking one bag on the latch, and was about to apply a backwards kick to close the gate behind him when something registered on the periphery of his vision.
He froze.
Instincts thirty years old and never forgotten kept him motionless while he rolled his eyes sideways and down. A length of cord stretched at knee-height across the path, one end pegged securely in among the runner beans growing along the garden wall. Moving his head only enough to follow the string's progress, Doyle found himself staring at Bodie's old one-man tent, neatly pitched in the middle of their small patch of grass.
"What the—"
Doyle gave the gate its kick and turned a jaundiced look on the tent. Its original olive drab had faded to a somewhat bilious grey, and the rear was markedly sway-backed, the result of Bodie having bent one of the poles and never finding an exact replacement. Not one of the colourful modern domes looking like something out of an adventure video, Doyle thought, but still, considering it was nearing fifty, it was holding up pretty well.
In front of the herb bed, Bodie's air mattress hung between two garden chairs, looking decidedly limp and unwell. His sleeping bag flapped across the washing line, and on the ground underneath it sat a small box filled with plastic packets. Doyle put down his shopping and plucked out two of them at random. The faded orange lettering on one announced it to be dehydrated cheese omelet, while the other claimed to be chicken and rice curry. With a shudder, Doyle tossed them back into the box.
A sudden metallic clanking behind the kitchen door heralded Bodie emerging into the garden, his knees dusty and his hair ruffled, a square can in one hand and his ancient primus ring in the other.
Doyle shook his head, unable to hold back a chuckle. "Running away to join the Boy Scouts, are you?"
"Worse." Bodie deposited can and stove on the ground with a grunt. "Remember I told you the cricket club was thinking of organizing a weekend in the New Forest for the kids from the youth centre? Well, it's here."
"You're joking," Doyle said in not entirely feigned horror. "A weekend in the woods with that lot? They'll all be screaming for their wireless connection before Saturday lunch. And have you looked at this thing?" He gave the air mattress a disdainful flick. "It leaked ten years ago, if I remember right."
"That's okay, I'm not sleeping on it." Bodie sounded more than little smug. "They're laying on a caravan for the adult supervision." He made quotation marks in the air. "Most of the kids haven't got much gear, so we're all scrounging together what we can."
Doyle sighed. "So, let me see if I've got this right. Twenty-two teenagers, most of whom have seen more of the inside of the local nick than of the countryside, are going to be turned loose in the New Forest with buggery old camping gear and you to provide a good example?"
"Wasn't my idea," Bodie said defensively? "I'd've taken them out for a few hours playing Grand Theft Auto and fed 'em up with curry and chips." At Doyle's shudder, he grinned. "It's supposed to be good for the little bastards, getting them into fresh country air and hiking their hind legs off."
"Not to mention feeding them reconstituted chemicals and making them sleep in the mud."
"And look how I turned out." Bodie preened slightly and slapped a hand to his still-flat stomach.
"That," Doyle gave the stomach a proprietary rub, "is entirely my doing."
"Yeah, veg three meals a day and plenty of horizontal exercise will wear a man away." Bodie yelped as the rub turned into a pinch. "Just for that, no reconstituted hot milk for you."
"I'll try to bear up under the disappointment."
Laughing, Bodie headed back into the house. "Lager or cider?" he called over his shoulder.
"Cider, ta."
Doyle rearranged the air mattress so there was room for him in the garden chair and stretched out with a contented sigh. He was debating the merits of talking Bodie into putting the shopping away when he heard a muffled thump from inside, the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting something solid. There was something about the quality it that brought him to his feet, his fingers itching for the gun he no longer wore.
"Bodie? Did you fall?" He started for the kitchen.
He hadn't even managed two steps when the door snapped open hard enough to bounce against the wall and Bodie stumbled through. There was a bloody welt on his left temple, already beginning to puff up and turn purple, and a shockingly bright splash of blood through his grey hair.
"Jesus, mate!"
Doyle jumped forward, first aid instructions jumbling in his mind—ambulance, pressure, Christ, Bodie, if you've fractured your fool skull—as Bodie took another lurching step and went to his knees.
"Run, Ray!"
His voice was a blurry croak, and the words didn't register anyway. All Doyle's attention was fixed on the man in the doorway.
The man with the gun in his hand and the belt full of explosives around his middle.
"Don't move, either of you." The man was young, no more than thirty, and his face had a blank, unfinished look, as if he had stopped maturing years before he reached adulthood. Even so, the hand holding the Glock was steady and the eyes above it held a vague unfocused anger Doyle could remember seeing all too often in the past.
Mad at the world and ready to take it all with him.
Doyle chanced a side step toward Bodie, more as a test than any real attempt to reach him, and wasn't surprised when the gun came up threateningly.
"Ah, ah, ah. You don't want me to be upset."
Smiling broadly, the gunman patted the explosives belt with his free hand. Without even looking down at Bodie, he swiped the gun in his direction, missing more by accident than through any plan. The smile was more frightening than the blow; it was a reflexive movement of muscle so empty of content that it might as well have been painted on a doll's face.
Doyle shivered and dug the toes of his trainers into the grass hard enough to make his joints crack. A suicide charge wasn't going to do Bodie any good, not with him on the ground so close to the explosives, more than half stunned. Carefully he spread his hands out, trying to look old and harmless and scared.
"My wallet's in my jacket," he said, putting a shake into the words, "and there's money in the kitchen. We've got a laptop and a video player. Take whatever you want."
"I am not a thief!" There was anger, or some emotion, there but it had no effect on the flat, lightly accented voice. The prissily old-fashioned pronunciation made Doyle think of someone who had learned to speak by listening to radio tapes from a previous generation.
"Then what?"
"Information."
Doyle shook his head. "I don't know what you mean."
The gunman wagged one finger as if admonishing a backward child, and swiped at Bodie again. This time the gun hit his shoulder, and Bodie moaned.
"Bodie. Doyle. CI5. Do you think I did not check? Did not do my research? I know who you are."
"You know who we were." Doyle could barely keep the fury out of his voice. "You're about fifteen years too late, son. There's nothing we can tell you now. We haven't had security clearance since Cowley died."
"The information I want is much older than that. Years older." He smiled again, another empty stretch of flesh, and Doyle felt his skin crawl. "I want you to explain how you killed my parents."
"What?"
"Werner Dreisinger and Christina Herzog? You do remember them, don't you? You can't have killed so many you don't even remember them. My parents? You remember killing them?" Now his voice went out of control, spiraling higher with each question, until it broke on the last word, cracking like a boy soprano's.
"Dreisinger?" Doyle said in disbelief.
"Jesus." Bodie's voice was barely audible. He sagged even further, slumping sideways onto one elbow. Blood dripped off his chin, making bright little circles in the grass.
Doyle took an involuntary step, and froze as Dreisinger touched his explosives.
"Guess some things run in the family," he said savagely.
"So you do remember." Dreisinger sounded pleased.
"Oh, I remember. I remember explosions and bodies and enough guns to start a small war. I remember Bodie with a fucking bomb around his neck and your father's finger right on the detonator."
"That's not true! There were no bombs! You people murdered them because they wouldn't surrender to the government. Because everyone was afraid of their cause."
"Cause?" Doyle didn't even have to force the contempt in his voice. "Cause? They killed people to try to prove a point. They knew it was no use—Christ, nobody could have been stupid enough to believe—"
"Shut up!" Dreisinger's hand shook, and the gun wobbled as he pointed it at Doyle's forehead, a frighteningly unsteady movement.
Out of the corner of his eye, Doyle thought he saw Bodie twitch, and shift slightly. He kept his eyes resolutely away from his partner, and shuffled to his right, hunching his shoulders, trying to make it a flinch, a nervous reaction to Dreisinger's unsteadiness. The gun followed him. Good enough. If he could attract the bastard's attention away from Bodie, get him out of hitting range at least, maybe there was a chance.
"Shut up!" Dreisinger repeated. "It was all propaganda. They doctored the news reports to conceal the truth. If the people had known what your organization did, your whole corrupt system would have fallen."
"You're joking!" Doyle laughed. "D'you think anyone would have cared, after what they did? Did you ever even try to find out how many they killed?"
"And you are lying." Dreisinger's voice had gone much calmer. "You have to justify what you did. After all, you profited from the exploitation of the people as much as anyone did."
"Yeah, right. Lap of luxury here." His gesture took in the small garden and the aging bungalow it sat behind. "Takes a real bite out of our Swiss bank account to keep this place up." He moved another half step, and Dreisinger moved with him.
"Money is not the only profit. You had, what do they call it at the cinema? A license to kill. For men like you, it would be worth more than money."
"License to get killed, more like." Doyle bit down the rest of the words. It might make sense to try and play for sympathy, but he couldn't do it. What he and Bodie had suffered wasn't carrion to be picked over by the madman in front of him.
Dreisinger shrugged. "You were surprised that the people's heroes would defend themselves against you?"
Bodie moved again. Doyle couldn't see what he was doing, didn't even dare to look in case Dreisinger noticed and realized he'd almost turned his back to one of his opponents.
"You want to know what happened?" Doyle leaned in slightly, willing Dreisinger to keep his attention completely on him. "There wasn't anything heroic or romantic about it. No last stand for the great cause. Your father died trying to murder my partner. Your father's lover shot your mother out of pure spite when she knew it was all over."
"That's not true."
"I was there," Doyle hammered the words home. "It wasn't about a cause, it wasn't about any kind of statement or martyrdom. Your mother died because your father couldn't keep his prick in his pants when she wasn't around. Because his new woman would rather see her rival dead, even if she was going to spend the rest of her life in prison."
"Liar!" Dreisinger's voice broke again. "Mama was a hero. You—you're making it sound—take it back!" He gripped the gun with both hands, as if it had suddenly become too heavy for him.
"She died in a catfight over a man." Doyle took one more sideways step. "If they hadn't had guns, they'd have been pulling hair and scratching each other's eyes out. Wouldn't have been pretty, but she'd be alive."
"Liar!" Dreisinger's voice rose to a scream. He tried to pull the trigger, but his hands shook so violently he couldn't complete the motion. With a wordless shriek he threw the gun at Doyle and reached toward his belt.
Bodie moved.
There was a sharp decisive clang. Dreisinger staggered, shook his head, took one shaky step and slumped to the ground.
Doyle scrambled gracelessly for the gun, sliding across the grass after it, cursing the stiffness that slowed him down and made his fingers clumsy. Scooping up the weapon, he nearly fell himself, just barely managing to stay on his feet as he spun around. The view in front of him brought a whistle of heartfelt admiration.
Dreisinger was out cold, a bloody lump rising on the back of his head. On the ground beside him lay Bodie's primus ring, with a definite dent in one side of the reservoir. Bodie himself was flat on his stomach, throwing arm still extended.
"Nice work, mate."
A muffled grunt was his only answer.
"Bodie?" Edging past Dreisinger, Doyle knelt beside his partner, gently turning him onto his side, fingers hovering over the gash on his head, and then moving down to the pulse at his throat.
"Leave off." Bodie's eyes remained closed, but his voice was clearer. "You okay?"
"You mean outside of nearly havin' a heart attack when I saw you bleeding all over the lawn?" Doyle took what felt like his first deep breath in hours as he felt the firm, regular thump under his fingers. "Thought this was all behind us."
Bodie's eyes fluttered open. "Still Cowley's best team, even if I am seeing double," he muttered. "I did hit the bastard, didn't I?"
"Nicest job of bowling you've ever done," Doyle said with a shaky laugh. "And considering where Cowley is now, being his best team isn't saying much."
Bodie started to grin, then winced and closed his eyes again. "Don't make me laugh. My head might fall off."
"Right, hospital time. Where's my damn mobile gone?" Doyle started to lever himself up, and paused as Bodie gripped his hand. "You have to go, sunshine. That needs stitches and an X-ray."
"I know." Bodie didn't loosen his grip. "You realize this means you'll have to come with me? Can't go off camping on my own with a head injury."
"You—" Doyle sputtered to a halt, and laughed softly. "Anywhere you want, Bodie. Anywhere you want."
The starlings are tough, but the lions are made of stone.
Title: Old Lions
Author: Verlaine
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Not yet, thanks. Needs fiddling.
Disclaimer: Mine? Hah!
My prompts were New Forest and camping gear.
Old Lions
by Verlaine
Juggling three carrier bags, four library books and six cans of lager, Doyle gave the latch on the garden gate a firm elbow, following through with a knee to the door itself. He sidled through, barely managing to avoid hooking one bag on the latch, and was about to apply a backwards kick to close the gate behind him when something registered on the periphery of his vision.
He froze.
Instincts thirty years old and never forgotten kept him motionless while he rolled his eyes sideways and down. A length of cord stretched at knee-height across the path, one end pegged securely in among the runner beans growing along the garden wall. Moving his head only enough to follow the string's progress, Doyle found himself staring at Bodie's old one-man tent, neatly pitched in the middle of their small patch of grass.
"What the—"
Doyle gave the gate its kick and turned a jaundiced look on the tent. Its original olive drab had faded to a somewhat bilious grey, and the rear was markedly sway-backed, the result of Bodie having bent one of the poles and never finding an exact replacement. Not one of the colourful modern domes looking like something out of an adventure video, Doyle thought, but still, considering it was nearing fifty, it was holding up pretty well.
In front of the herb bed, Bodie's air mattress hung between two garden chairs, looking decidedly limp and unwell. His sleeping bag flapped across the washing line, and on the ground underneath it sat a small box filled with plastic packets. Doyle put down his shopping and plucked out two of them at random. The faded orange lettering on one announced it to be dehydrated cheese omelet, while the other claimed to be chicken and rice curry. With a shudder, Doyle tossed them back into the box.
A sudden metallic clanking behind the kitchen door heralded Bodie emerging into the garden, his knees dusty and his hair ruffled, a square can in one hand and his ancient primus ring in the other.
Doyle shook his head, unable to hold back a chuckle. "Running away to join the Boy Scouts, are you?"
"Worse." Bodie deposited can and stove on the ground with a grunt. "Remember I told you the cricket club was thinking of organizing a weekend in the New Forest for the kids from the youth centre? Well, it's here."
"You're joking," Doyle said in not entirely feigned horror. "A weekend in the woods with that lot? They'll all be screaming for their wireless connection before Saturday lunch. And have you looked at this thing?" He gave the air mattress a disdainful flick. "It leaked ten years ago, if I remember right."
"That's okay, I'm not sleeping on it." Bodie sounded more than little smug. "They're laying on a caravan for the adult supervision." He made quotation marks in the air. "Most of the kids haven't got much gear, so we're all scrounging together what we can."
Doyle sighed. "So, let me see if I've got this right. Twenty-two teenagers, most of whom have seen more of the inside of the local nick than of the countryside, are going to be turned loose in the New Forest with buggery old camping gear and you to provide a good example?"
"Wasn't my idea," Bodie said defensively? "I'd've taken them out for a few hours playing Grand Theft Auto and fed 'em up with curry and chips." At Doyle's shudder, he grinned. "It's supposed to be good for the little bastards, getting them into fresh country air and hiking their hind legs off."
"Not to mention feeding them reconstituted chemicals and making them sleep in the mud."
"And look how I turned out." Bodie preened slightly and slapped a hand to his still-flat stomach.
"That," Doyle gave the stomach a proprietary rub, "is entirely my doing."
"Yeah, veg three meals a day and plenty of horizontal exercise will wear a man away." Bodie yelped as the rub turned into a pinch. "Just for that, no reconstituted hot milk for you."
"I'll try to bear up under the disappointment."
Laughing, Bodie headed back into the house. "Lager or cider?" he called over his shoulder.
"Cider, ta."
Doyle rearranged the air mattress so there was room for him in the garden chair and stretched out with a contented sigh. He was debating the merits of talking Bodie into putting the shopping away when he heard a muffled thump from inside, the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting something solid. There was something about the quality it that brought him to his feet, his fingers itching for the gun he no longer wore.
"Bodie? Did you fall?" He started for the kitchen.
He hadn't even managed two steps when the door snapped open hard enough to bounce against the wall and Bodie stumbled through. There was a bloody welt on his left temple, already beginning to puff up and turn purple, and a shockingly bright splash of blood through his grey hair.
"Jesus, mate!"
Doyle jumped forward, first aid instructions jumbling in his mind—ambulance, pressure, Christ, Bodie, if you've fractured your fool skull—as Bodie took another lurching step and went to his knees.
"Run, Ray!"
His voice was a blurry croak, and the words didn't register anyway. All Doyle's attention was fixed on the man in the doorway.
The man with the gun in his hand and the belt full of explosives around his middle.
"Don't move, either of you." The man was young, no more than thirty, and his face had a blank, unfinished look, as if he had stopped maturing years before he reached adulthood. Even so, the hand holding the Glock was steady and the eyes above it held a vague unfocused anger Doyle could remember seeing all too often in the past.
Mad at the world and ready to take it all with him.
Doyle chanced a side step toward Bodie, more as a test than any real attempt to reach him, and wasn't surprised when the gun came up threateningly.
"Ah, ah, ah. You don't want me to be upset."
Smiling broadly, the gunman patted the explosives belt with his free hand. Without even looking down at Bodie, he swiped the gun in his direction, missing more by accident than through any plan. The smile was more frightening than the blow; it was a reflexive movement of muscle so empty of content that it might as well have been painted on a doll's face.
Doyle shivered and dug the toes of his trainers into the grass hard enough to make his joints crack. A suicide charge wasn't going to do Bodie any good, not with him on the ground so close to the explosives, more than half stunned. Carefully he spread his hands out, trying to look old and harmless and scared.
"My wallet's in my jacket," he said, putting a shake into the words, "and there's money in the kitchen. We've got a laptop and a video player. Take whatever you want."
"I am not a thief!" There was anger, or some emotion, there but it had no effect on the flat, lightly accented voice. The prissily old-fashioned pronunciation made Doyle think of someone who had learned to speak by listening to radio tapes from a previous generation.
"Then what?"
"Information."
Doyle shook his head. "I don't know what you mean."
The gunman wagged one finger as if admonishing a backward child, and swiped at Bodie again. This time the gun hit his shoulder, and Bodie moaned.
"Bodie. Doyle. CI5. Do you think I did not check? Did not do my research? I know who you are."
"You know who we were." Doyle could barely keep the fury out of his voice. "You're about fifteen years too late, son. There's nothing we can tell you now. We haven't had security clearance since Cowley died."
"The information I want is much older than that. Years older." He smiled again, another empty stretch of flesh, and Doyle felt his skin crawl. "I want you to explain how you killed my parents."
"What?"
"Werner Dreisinger and Christina Herzog? You do remember them, don't you? You can't have killed so many you don't even remember them. My parents? You remember killing them?" Now his voice went out of control, spiraling higher with each question, until it broke on the last word, cracking like a boy soprano's.
"Dreisinger?" Doyle said in disbelief.
"Jesus." Bodie's voice was barely audible. He sagged even further, slumping sideways onto one elbow. Blood dripped off his chin, making bright little circles in the grass.
Doyle took an involuntary step, and froze as Dreisinger touched his explosives.
"Guess some things run in the family," he said savagely.
"So you do remember." Dreisinger sounded pleased.
"Oh, I remember. I remember explosions and bodies and enough guns to start a small war. I remember Bodie with a fucking bomb around his neck and your father's finger right on the detonator."
"That's not true! There were no bombs! You people murdered them because they wouldn't surrender to the government. Because everyone was afraid of their cause."
"Cause?" Doyle didn't even have to force the contempt in his voice. "Cause? They killed people to try to prove a point. They knew it was no use—Christ, nobody could have been stupid enough to believe—"
"Shut up!" Dreisinger's hand shook, and the gun wobbled as he pointed it at Doyle's forehead, a frighteningly unsteady movement.
Out of the corner of his eye, Doyle thought he saw Bodie twitch, and shift slightly. He kept his eyes resolutely away from his partner, and shuffled to his right, hunching his shoulders, trying to make it a flinch, a nervous reaction to Dreisinger's unsteadiness. The gun followed him. Good enough. If he could attract the bastard's attention away from Bodie, get him out of hitting range at least, maybe there was a chance.
"Shut up!" Dreisinger repeated. "It was all propaganda. They doctored the news reports to conceal the truth. If the people had known what your organization did, your whole corrupt system would have fallen."
"You're joking!" Doyle laughed. "D'you think anyone would have cared, after what they did? Did you ever even try to find out how many they killed?"
"And you are lying." Dreisinger's voice had gone much calmer. "You have to justify what you did. After all, you profited from the exploitation of the people as much as anyone did."
"Yeah, right. Lap of luxury here." His gesture took in the small garden and the aging bungalow it sat behind. "Takes a real bite out of our Swiss bank account to keep this place up." He moved another half step, and Dreisinger moved with him.
"Money is not the only profit. You had, what do they call it at the cinema? A license to kill. For men like you, it would be worth more than money."
"License to get killed, more like." Doyle bit down the rest of the words. It might make sense to try and play for sympathy, but he couldn't do it. What he and Bodie had suffered wasn't carrion to be picked over by the madman in front of him.
Dreisinger shrugged. "You were surprised that the people's heroes would defend themselves against you?"
Bodie moved again. Doyle couldn't see what he was doing, didn't even dare to look in case Dreisinger noticed and realized he'd almost turned his back to one of his opponents.
"You want to know what happened?" Doyle leaned in slightly, willing Dreisinger to keep his attention completely on him. "There wasn't anything heroic or romantic about it. No last stand for the great cause. Your father died trying to murder my partner. Your father's lover shot your mother out of pure spite when she knew it was all over."
"That's not true."
"I was there," Doyle hammered the words home. "It wasn't about a cause, it wasn't about any kind of statement or martyrdom. Your mother died because your father couldn't keep his prick in his pants when she wasn't around. Because his new woman would rather see her rival dead, even if she was going to spend the rest of her life in prison."
"Liar!" Dreisinger's voice broke again. "Mama was a hero. You—you're making it sound—take it back!" He gripped the gun with both hands, as if it had suddenly become too heavy for him.
"She died in a catfight over a man." Doyle took one more sideways step. "If they hadn't had guns, they'd have been pulling hair and scratching each other's eyes out. Wouldn't have been pretty, but she'd be alive."
"Liar!" Dreisinger's voice rose to a scream. He tried to pull the trigger, but his hands shook so violently he couldn't complete the motion. With a wordless shriek he threw the gun at Doyle and reached toward his belt.
Bodie moved.
There was a sharp decisive clang. Dreisinger staggered, shook his head, took one shaky step and slumped to the ground.
Doyle scrambled gracelessly for the gun, sliding across the grass after it, cursing the stiffness that slowed him down and made his fingers clumsy. Scooping up the weapon, he nearly fell himself, just barely managing to stay on his feet as he spun around. The view in front of him brought a whistle of heartfelt admiration.
Dreisinger was out cold, a bloody lump rising on the back of his head. On the ground beside him lay Bodie's primus ring, with a definite dent in one side of the reservoir. Bodie himself was flat on his stomach, throwing arm still extended.
"Nice work, mate."
A muffled grunt was his only answer.
"Bodie?" Edging past Dreisinger, Doyle knelt beside his partner, gently turning him onto his side, fingers hovering over the gash on his head, and then moving down to the pulse at his throat.
"Leave off." Bodie's eyes remained closed, but his voice was clearer. "You okay?"
"You mean outside of nearly havin' a heart attack when I saw you bleeding all over the lawn?" Doyle took what felt like his first deep breath in hours as he felt the firm, regular thump under his fingers. "Thought this was all behind us."
Bodie's eyes fluttered open. "Still Cowley's best team, even if I am seeing double," he muttered. "I did hit the bastard, didn't I?"
"Nicest job of bowling you've ever done," Doyle said with a shaky laugh. "And considering where Cowley is now, being his best team isn't saying much."
Bodie started to grin, then winced and closed his eyes again. "Don't make me laugh. My head might fall off."
"Right, hospital time. Where's my damn mobile gone?" Doyle started to lever himself up, and paused as Bodie gripped his hand. "You have to go, sunshine. That needs stitches and an X-ray."
"I know." Bodie didn't loosen his grip. "You realize this means you'll have to come with me? Can't go off camping on my own with a head injury."
"You—" Doyle sputtered to a halt, and laughed softly. "Anywhere you want, Bodie. Anywhere you want."
The starlings are tough, but the lions are made of stone.
Title: Old Lions
Author: Verlaine
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Not yet, thanks. Needs fiddling.
Disclaimer: Mine? Hah!
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 03:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-23 11:58 pm (UTC)And Bodie's insistance that he can't go camping without Doyle now. Doyle and 22 teenagers, mind. I can't see Bodie letting the opportunity pass to wheedle Doyle into caravan sex *BG*
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 03:36 am (UTC)This was a fun read. I'm used to older lad stories being quite "cozy" so I really wasn't expecting it to take off in this direction at all -- thank you for that!
So many nice turn arounds, the aging camping equipment, then showing us the lads are still in fine shape and then the grey hair and Doyle's cursing the stiffness of his joints... and all tied up with an earlier story from their career that we're already familiar with.
It really made me smile to think of them this way. Thank you! :D
no subject
Date: 2008-09-24 12:05 am (UTC)I'm very glad you enjoyed.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 04:36 am (UTC)Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-24 12:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 06:25 am (UTC)I adore these older lads - they sound so normal and generally happy, and still in touch with what they did all their lives. Love that Bodie's still playing cricket, and that he's working to keep kids out of trouble too. And that Doyle, of course, would do anything for him, and... oh, just *happy sigh* and meltiness! Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2008-09-24 12:22 am (UTC)I want my older guys to be happy, but still have that edge when they need it. And while most people seem to prefer Bodie in black, I love him in those cricket whites
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 07:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-28 07:00 pm (UTC)I love how Dreisinger got walloped on the head with a primus stove I'm sort of writing from experience there: I dropped my own one-burner on my foot once, and limped for weeks. Definitely a potential lethal weapon.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 09:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 10:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 01:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 01:47 pm (UTC)And obviously NOTHING has changed: “…and you to provide a good example…” :-)
Thanks for that glimpse into their future!
no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 04:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-29 04:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-22 11:24 pm (UTC)Outstanding.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-29 04:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-23 10:01 pm (UTC)Sorry for the late comment therefore!
Liked this lots. Starts out as a nice cosy 'Older Lads' scenario, then suddenly does a tyre-squealing turn and races off down the 'seriously dangerous situation' route! And it's such a logical outcome of their work, as well - of course there'd be nasties coming out of the woodwork for years after they retired, they're ex-CI5 for goodness sake!
I really liked your description of young Dreisinger, too.
his face had a blank, unfinished look, as if he had stopped maturing years before he reached adulthood.
Uh-oh, warning bells here, and then later -
He smiled again, another empty stretch of flesh, and Doyle felt his skin crawl.
Mine too!
Lovely. Thank you for posting this!
no subject
Date: 2008-09-28 06:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-25 04:49 pm (UTC)But yes. Older lads! And still having a slice of action! I love how the fic started - charmingly humourous and with a wonderful eye to minute detail. And suddenly, wham! I think I read the second part whilst holding my breath. And above all, the lads still irrepressibly themselves despite being much older, down to their banter, their ability to read and coordinate with each other in tight situations, and the concern they share for one another
Thank you for this! I really enjoyed reading this.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-28 06:54 pm (UTC)That's OK - I'm still thanking people from weeks ago.
And thanks for letting me you know you enjoyed it. I like writing older lads, and am glad to see I seem to be getting them right.
no subject
Date: 2008-09-28 11:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-09-29 04:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-28 02:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-28 08:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-28 08:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-28 08:42 pm (UTC)I recced it today on the crack_van. :D
no subject
Date: 2010-09-28 08:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-28 08:48 pm (UTC)I do love your older lads and couldn't decide between Beautiful Year and this one. Then I consulted Andy's incredibly helpful delicious list of Pros stories recced at the crack_van (they like it if we don't repeat recs) and discovered that Beautiful Year had been recced before so the choice became obvious. *g*