Fic: Till a Bullet Stopped His Song
Nov. 10th, 2008 08:58 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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discoveredinaljThe title is taken from the last line of my prompt, which was the wonderful poem by Alun Lewis, All Day It Has Rained.
Till a Bullet Stopped His Song
The wind gusted, biting its way through the jacket he’d left unzipped. Bodie turned the collar up and hunched into it. His eyes were resolutely on the headstone in front of him as a drop of mist made its way slowly down his nose. Typical. Couldn’t have managed this in spring, could you, sunshine? It was a dark and inappropriate thought, but then as Doyle had loved to tell him, so was he. He let his lips curve at that. He could have zipped the jacket up, or worn something warmer for the time of year, but he didn’t. Ever. He’d turned up in the same outfit for the past three years now – black polo, black cords, and a black leather jacket. People in the small graveyard--and there were always people around on this day--exchanged tight, respectful nods with him as they passed. He knew it was because of where they all were, what day it was, and what he wore. He also knew they might think differently if they knew he wore them because Ray had told him, in an unguarded moment of pure lust and sentiment, that he looked fucking gorgeous in them.
“You what?”
“You heard. C’mere and let’s get you out of it all. It’s been three days and you turn up from Scunthorpe dressed like that. I’ve been wanting to ravish you since lunchtime.”
And he went, stumbling back like a conquest in a harem, laughing into Ray’s mouth as Ray pushed him towards the bedroom, peeling layers off and cursing how many there were.
“You and your bloody vests,” Doyle sighed later, his mouth on Bodie’s throat and the pair of them an inch away from sleep.
“Still wearing them, mate. Still... Hello there.”
His reverie was broken by a toddler who had suddenly come into view, homing in on him with an unsteady gait. She stopped and stared up in that solemn way all toddlers have, completely self-possessed and uninhibited about inspecting the stranger before her at close range. About three, Bodie guessed, she had short dark hair in a pageboy style, and was dressed up in a navy blue pinafore dress with a coat to match. Her chubby fingers were holding–-squashing–-a few long-stemmed red flowers, one of which she extended to Bodie. He crouched down to her level.
“For me? You sure?”
A fervent nod. Apparently she was.
“Well, isn’t this my lucky day?” He reached out to take it and noticed a smiling, heavyset woman making her way towards them. He straightened and gestured towards her with the flower.
“Are you making your mum wander about looking for you?”
“Jessica! I told you to stay close.” She smiled a little breathlessly as she caught up to them, and then took hold of the girl’s hand. “I’m sorry, she has a habit of wandering.”
“Quite all right, love. And she’s been nice enough to give me a present.” Bodie smiled down at the girl, who had suddenly gone shy and was wrapping her arms around her mother’s legs.
The woman gestured over her shoulder to where a small group of people were gathered on the other side of the graveyard. “It’s just... too many adults, I think, too much standing around for her.”
“Family?”
“Yes, a grandfather and two uncles actually. All joined up together, the same regiment. And all died together at Flanders. Their names are here so it’s somewhere to go, isn’t it? To lay a wreath and remember. And you?” It was awkward, but only a little. They were, after all, gathered there for the same reason.
Bodie swung back to the headstone, which couldn’t have been plainer if it tried. ‘Ray Doyle. In Loving Memory. June 5th 1953 to November 11th 1986’. Ray’s mother had not minded Bodie’s hesitant request to leave the ‘-mond’ out of Raymond at all. He’d been kissed on his cheek for it actually, if memory served.
He cleared his throat. “My partner. Ray Doyle.”
He saw the slight hesitation as she heard the words and took in their meaning. He usually qualified it, added the professional context to glide over any awkwardness, especially with strangers. But today he didn’t. He felt the weight of the words, savoured their truth tight in his heart and deep in his bones. As he always felt them on this day.
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded tightly, not sure he could speak, and the silence was loud in his ears.
Then the child tugged, pointed back, and asked her mum for sweets. The mother rolled her eyes heavenwards, and they both looked down at her in gratitude for a difficult moment saved. As mother and child walked off, Jessica turned back, and Bodie got a vigorous wave of the hand clutching the flowers, petals spraying everywhere. He waved his own in salute. Then he scanned the graveyard and turned back.
The small groups were thinning, fewer every year. The significance of the date for the rest of the world had not even struck Bodie until the second year. He had looked up and seen all those dark-clothed people crowded near a small regimental monument, and wondered if there’d been an accident he hadn’t heard about. Then he’d caught sight of a poppy, and the irony and the fucking poetry of it had hit him so hard he’d almost fallen to his knees and vomited.
This was the only anniversary he did. Not for them the sentimentality of firsts – first kiss, first fuck, first night, first anything really. But he did have a few lasts now. The last breath, sighed into Bodie’s neck as he’d screamed for Ray to hang the fuck on, the last time he’d said I love you and meant it, the last cock inside him as he’d held his breath and tried not to come, and the last time he had ever held a man’s face in his hands, and not seen it for the tears.
Bodie blinked and looked at his watch. A few of the old crew would be waiting for him at the pub. Murphy, Jax, Peterson. They never left him on his own on November the 11th. And he knew Cowley would be by later, with the perfect combination of scotch and silence.
He laid his flower on the headstone and let his fingers rest as a fist on the smooth stone awhile. Time to breathe in and out again for one more year, then. To put one foot in front of the other like the good soldier he’d always been.
“See you, sunshine. Keep it warm, eh?”
******
Title: Till a Bullet Stopped His Song
Author: Callisto
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes
Disclaimer: Sadly not mine
Notes: No puppies and daisies here, I’m afraid, it’s a death fic. The image of Bodie in this just took me by the throat and wouldn't let go. Huge hugs and thanks are due to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
izzie7 and jojosimco, who beta’d this incredibly quickly for me.
Till a Bullet Stopped His Song
The wind gusted, biting its way through the jacket he’d left unzipped. Bodie turned the collar up and hunched into it. His eyes were resolutely on the headstone in front of him as a drop of mist made its way slowly down his nose. Typical. Couldn’t have managed this in spring, could you, sunshine? It was a dark and inappropriate thought, but then as Doyle had loved to tell him, so was he. He let his lips curve at that. He could have zipped the jacket up, or worn something warmer for the time of year, but he didn’t. Ever. He’d turned up in the same outfit for the past three years now – black polo, black cords, and a black leather jacket. People in the small graveyard--and there were always people around on this day--exchanged tight, respectful nods with him as they passed. He knew it was because of where they all were, what day it was, and what he wore. He also knew they might think differently if they knew he wore them because Ray had told him, in an unguarded moment of pure lust and sentiment, that he looked fucking gorgeous in them.
“You what?”
“You heard. C’mere and let’s get you out of it all. It’s been three days and you turn up from Scunthorpe dressed like that. I’ve been wanting to ravish you since lunchtime.”
And he went, stumbling back like a conquest in a harem, laughing into Ray’s mouth as Ray pushed him towards the bedroom, peeling layers off and cursing how many there were.
“You and your bloody vests,” Doyle sighed later, his mouth on Bodie’s throat and the pair of them an inch away from sleep.
“Still wearing them, mate. Still... Hello there.”
His reverie was broken by a toddler who had suddenly come into view, homing in on him with an unsteady gait. She stopped and stared up in that solemn way all toddlers have, completely self-possessed and uninhibited about inspecting the stranger before her at close range. About three, Bodie guessed, she had short dark hair in a pageboy style, and was dressed up in a navy blue pinafore dress with a coat to match. Her chubby fingers were holding–-squashing–-a few long-stemmed red flowers, one of which she extended to Bodie. He crouched down to her level.
“For me? You sure?”
A fervent nod. Apparently she was.
“Well, isn’t this my lucky day?” He reached out to take it and noticed a smiling, heavyset woman making her way towards them. He straightened and gestured towards her with the flower.
“Are you making your mum wander about looking for you?”
“Jessica! I told you to stay close.” She smiled a little breathlessly as she caught up to them, and then took hold of the girl’s hand. “I’m sorry, she has a habit of wandering.”
“Quite all right, love. And she’s been nice enough to give me a present.” Bodie smiled down at the girl, who had suddenly gone shy and was wrapping her arms around her mother’s legs.
The woman gestured over her shoulder to where a small group of people were gathered on the other side of the graveyard. “It’s just... too many adults, I think, too much standing around for her.”
“Family?”
“Yes, a grandfather and two uncles actually. All joined up together, the same regiment. And all died together at Flanders. Their names are here so it’s somewhere to go, isn’t it? To lay a wreath and remember. And you?” It was awkward, but only a little. They were, after all, gathered there for the same reason.
Bodie swung back to the headstone, which couldn’t have been plainer if it tried. ‘Ray Doyle. In Loving Memory. June 5th 1953 to November 11th 1986’. Ray’s mother had not minded Bodie’s hesitant request to leave the ‘-mond’ out of Raymond at all. He’d been kissed on his cheek for it actually, if memory served.
He cleared his throat. “My partner. Ray Doyle.”
He saw the slight hesitation as she heard the words and took in their meaning. He usually qualified it, added the professional context to glide over any awkwardness, especially with strangers. But today he didn’t. He felt the weight of the words, savoured their truth tight in his heart and deep in his bones. As he always felt them on this day.
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded tightly, not sure he could speak, and the silence was loud in his ears.
Then the child tugged, pointed back, and asked her mum for sweets. The mother rolled her eyes heavenwards, and they both looked down at her in gratitude for a difficult moment saved. As mother and child walked off, Jessica turned back, and Bodie got a vigorous wave of the hand clutching the flowers, petals spraying everywhere. He waved his own in salute. Then he scanned the graveyard and turned back.
The small groups were thinning, fewer every year. The significance of the date for the rest of the world had not even struck Bodie until the second year. He had looked up and seen all those dark-clothed people crowded near a small regimental monument, and wondered if there’d been an accident he hadn’t heard about. Then he’d caught sight of a poppy, and the irony and the fucking poetry of it had hit him so hard he’d almost fallen to his knees and vomited.
This was the only anniversary he did. Not for them the sentimentality of firsts – first kiss, first fuck, first night, first anything really. But he did have a few lasts now. The last breath, sighed into Bodie’s neck as he’d screamed for Ray to hang the fuck on, the last time he’d said I love you and meant it, the last cock inside him as he’d held his breath and tried not to come, and the last time he had ever held a man’s face in his hands, and not seen it for the tears.
Bodie blinked and looked at his watch. A few of the old crew would be waiting for him at the pub. Murphy, Jax, Peterson. They never left him on his own on November the 11th. And he knew Cowley would be by later, with the perfect combination of scotch and silence.
He laid his flower on the headstone and let his fingers rest as a fist on the smooth stone awhile. Time to breathe in and out again for one more year, then. To put one foot in front of the other like the good soldier he’d always been.
“See you, sunshine. Keep it warm, eh?”
******
Title: Till a Bullet Stopped His Song
Author: Callisto
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes
Disclaimer: Sadly not mine
Notes: No puppies and daisies here, I’m afraid, it’s a death fic. The image of Bodie in this just took me by the throat and wouldn't let go. Huge hugs and thanks are due to
izzie7 and jojosimco, who beta’d this incredibly quickly for me.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
this is kaye
Date: 2008-11-11 02:19 pm (UTC)Just a gorgeous thing - and I do love Alun Lewis, btw.
Just bask in the fb, girl - you deserve it!
kaye
Re: this is kaye
Date: 2008-11-11 02:51 pm (UTC)