discoveredinalj | Fic: Five Christmases

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Happy Holidays!

Five Christmases
by JoJo

(1) 1976

Christmas, and it seemed like everyone had gone domestic.

Even the unmarrieds in CI5 were at it.   McCabe disappeared to become maudlin with his four brothers in Luton, Murphy departed for an endless knees-up at his grandparents’ pub and Anson - bloody Nora, he was actually, seriously going to go through with it - intended to be fattened-up by his fiancee’s military family on their private estate in Virginia Water.

It was no skin off Bodie’s nose that his stepmother hadn’t been in touch. Because, obviously, even if she had been, he wouldn’t be available.

Unavailable at Christmas. That was how it was, and that was how he liked it. Better by far than piling up a phone-bill making arrangements about who was going to be where, doing what, with whom.

“Marcia,” Bodie said, choosing a name at random from his mental little black book when it had become obvious that he was the only one with no plans. He had put himself on call for the whole period up to and including New Year’s Day, presuming that even the combined might of the Red Brigades, the KGB and the IRA would give him a day or two’s grace, but hopefully no more than that. In the spirit of goodwill to all men.

“She the one with the dodgy ex-husband?” asked McCabe.

“Eh? No.”

“The Cuban dancer?”

“Marcia just happens to know exactly how to do me giblets,” Bodie said, going for the laugh as usual.

“You told her you’re coming for Christmas?” Doyle asked from the far corner. Bodie tugged his gaze over.   Trust Doyle.

It had been four months since he’d gained this partner, his first, and it was a novelty that wasn’t showing any signs of wearing off. Most of the time he still felt obliged to talk rubbish in order to cover up the abject devotion which had come over him after about half a day in the company of the prickly sod with the mad hair and acid tongue. The prickly sod who appeared to have multiple friends and family wanting him to spend Christmas with them and their multiple kids.

Why did Doyle have to look and sound so all-knowing anyway? As if he was sadly well aware Bodie was charting a completely erratic course for any-port-in-a-storm.

“Marcia’ll be made up,” he said, slightly belligerent, hating the expression on Doyle’s face but cravenly loving it at the same time.

Marcia was actually more surprised than made up. Bodie arrived late on Christmas Eve with a box of Mr Kipling Mince Pies, slightly squashed, and some asti spumante.   He stayed for twenty-four hours during which time they had a lot of sex, mostly not in bed, and didn’t talk much.

“If I could be with family, I would,” Marcia told him. “Where are yours? Why aren’t you there? There’s someone you’d rather be with than me, isn’t there?”

“Don’t know, don’t care, yes,” Bodie answered.

“Mr First-name-Bodie, is Christmas night. Why you with me?”

“Told you,” he replied, “Don’t know, don’t care, and yes.”

She threw him out before the big film on BBC1.

To Bodie’s relief, something came up on Boxing Day so he didn’t have to find anyone else to occupy him until Doyle got back.

(2) 1977

Doyle thought watching Bodie get slowly pissed might be a bit like undergoing open-heart surgery without anaesthetic. Painful, bloody and not to anyone’s benefit.

“Whose stupid idea was this,” McCabe whined in his special Christmas whine. “Special Branch and CI5 at the same bash? Those tight bastards didn’t bring enough booze for a start. Look at them laying into ours. What the bloody hell, Doyle? I hope you’re keeping an eye on him.”

What with keeping an eye on Bodie, whose ability to irritate coppers was being magnified exponentially by the amount of gin he was knocking back, and refereeing an extended shouting match between Angie Anson and her husband, Doyle didn’t feel that the end of the year was shaping up too well.

It seemed like they’d only been at the damn wedding five minutes ago. Doyle had copped off with one of the bridemaids in her flower-sprigged Bo-Peep dress - hi, Denise, my name’s Ray, I work with your brother and I was wondering if you realised you’ve lost your sheep - and had been in the doghouse with Bodie ever since. He didn’t really know why. Not for positive.

“Stop winding them up,” Doyle told him, wisely keeping the plea out of his voice. He’d orchestrated a neat jive propelling them both away from a couple of hefty DCs that he recognized from God knew where. “There’ll only be trouble.”

Bodie’s eyes were quite focused but a bit on the mad side. He wasn’t noticeably unsteady on his feet either, which made controlling him doubly hard. “Nah, this is great, Doyle. Leave us alone.”

“How much have you had?” Doyle felt like he was back on the beat at chucking-out time.

“Not nearly enough.”

“It’s Christmas next week, not the end of the world.”

“That’s all you know.”

“Come on, mate. Let McCabe sob into his beer. You’re the one who entertains the troops with his sparkling wit and repartee. Remember?”

Bodie ignored that and gestured with his glass across the room. “That bloke over there’s really getting on my tits.” Doyle grasped a handful of shirt round about the shoulder seam, just in case.

“You’re absolutely bloody determined aren’t you,” he said, feeling miffed and, for some reason that escaped him for the moment, entirely responsible. “Question is, who’s going to land one first ... you, or Angie?”

Bodie’s head swivelled around looking for something else. “I need someone to dance with,” he announced.

“Well it won’t be me, Ginger. Listen, if I have to scrape you off the floor later I won’t be pleased.”

A soft and fumy breath stole across Doyle’s cheek. “I think you’d better leave then.”

Something in Bodie’s voice, that hint of mania, made Doyle grip the shirt even tighter. “Not a chance,” he said. “Not a bleeding chance.”

(3) 1978

The Reverend Cannon got as far as the eighth lesson and sent the Magi on their way with as much of a flourish as he could manage after a long week. He also said something meaningful to some very latecomers about Christmas spirit and not leaving the door open during the service please because it got terribly draughty in the back pews.

He prayed that he’d get to Hark the Herald Angels and beyond without any unseasonal upset. Mr Cowley had assured him the men posted in his church were just on observational duty concerning one of his parishioners, and that they carried guns as standard, not because they intended to shoot at anyone attending midnight service.

Bodie, who’d been perched on a shiny wooden seat for half an hour too long, pressed his palms together and scratched at the end of his nose with steepled fingers.

“Amen,” he said.

There was a not-so soft snort from Anson by the aisle which made a lady in a fur coat turn her head.

“Just getting into the spirit,” Bodie muttered, closing his eyes.

“Oh shit,” said Anson, jabbing him fiercely in the side. “There goes our rabbit.”

Bodie’s eyes popped open again and he was on the move over the back of the seat in an instant.

“Number 87 in the hymnbook,” intoned the Reverend from his lectern, eyes stealing over the top of his glasses at the sound of a small kerfuffle. “Ding Dong Merrily on High.”

The organ was attempting a jaunty introduction as first a man in a camel coat in the front row got to his feet looking panicked, and then an unknown member of his congregation came sprinting down the aisle towards him.

“Belfry!” bawled Anson, but Bodie was already outside staring up into the dark sky.

The scaffolding on the crumbling spire of St Michael and All Angels was rattling in the wind. The metal felt cold enough to weld itself into Bodie’s skin as he grabbed hold with both hands and began to climb.

You’d have laughed your socks off, mate. Christmas Eve. You’ve got your feet up in front of the telly, Anson and me are up a sodding bell-tower.

The plank he stepped on at the top shifted and Bodie felt his foot nearly go from under him. The sound of a bullet whining off metal zinged past his ear. Snapping a hand to the side of his face, he staggered back, clunked into solid stone and went down. Through the planks he could see angels. And stars. Definitely stars. Strung from a spruce tree and blowing in the wind. Angel. Star. Angel. Star.

The bell clanged twice.

“Oi! Quasimodo!” he bellowed, angry now, hand slippery on his gun.

Another bullet, almost lost by the wind. The distinctive clunk of a heavy body rattling the joists and then hitting the deck.

The planks bounced under Bodie’s backside. A pitiless chill blew into his bleeding face and he suddenly didn’t want to move. Anson, breathing hard, was offering a hand, but Bodie couldn’t think of a damn thing he wanted to get up for.

(4) 1979

Four Christmases in, and Doyle was getting the message.

He was getting the message that Christmas was unlucky and that they’d do well to lock themselves in a bunker until it was all over. Last year Bodie had got concussed on top of a church. This year ... Christ. It was a broken shoulder. His. Broken. Smashed. Absolutely wrecked.

Doyle had an idea he saw Bodie wince at the same moment his good arm was jabbed by a nurse with tinsel round her cap, and then he was abruptly hit by a cosh that relaxed him so much he thought he might actually start to dribble. Although there were hands manipulating the injured limb, the pain had withered away into a small, insignificant thing about the size of a tic-tac. He heard the slap of wet plaster on his skin, then his eyelids sank down in slow motion and he stretched his toes out towards the end of the bed and settled down to forget everything for a while.

The curtains jangled open on their metal rings.

Unwillingly Doyle hauled his eyelids apart to see an unmistakeable shadow looming at him.

“Just came to say night-night.”

Doyle’s mouth flapped in a silent, sticky question.

“They don’t like the look of you,” Bodie told him. Bright eyes crinkled in the face that Doyle was starting to fix. “Bit of a ding-dong, mate. You took a hell of a thump.” A grin of pure devotion. Obviously Bodie thought Doyle was blind as well as fractured, but Doyle wasn’t able to say a single word about it. “Blimey, you are out of it, aren’t you? Get some shut-eye then. I’m off down the pub to have a chat with old Anson. He’s a bit gloomy, y’know. This time of the year, bit rough for him. What with Angie and all. So ... hum ... yes, going to spread a bit of cheer, give him the benefit of my long experience.”

Doyle nearly giggled at him.

“You may laugh, Raymond, but I’ve done the whole love unrequited thing myself.” Bodie nodded emphatically, and then shrugged, in that way he did whenever something occurred to him that he couldn’t deal with by shooting at it. “Yes, I suppose it is hard to imagine anyone rejecting me, but I’m afraid it’s true.” A hand smoothed the pillow next to Doyle’s ear. “It’s not easy when someone doesn’t feel the same way. So spare us both a kindly thought.”

Doyle didn’t get much shut-eye.

(5) 1980

The first goal went in on the hour and the away fans made the floor vibrate.

“I thought it went behind,” Bodie admitted. “Bloody stanchion in the way.”

“No,” said Doyle fondly, “Bloody pie in your gob.”

Their part of the terraces had a bit of wall and Bodie was leaning on it, Doyle’s hand trapped against his coccyx.

He swallowed crumbs. “How long did you know?” Somehow he couldn’t quite drop the subject.   They had been mulling it over on and off since Christmas Eve, and now here they were together on Boxing Day in the South Africa Road stand. Doyle’s fingers tickled his back.

“Maybe since last Christmas when I did my shoulder in.”

“You dozy git.”

Doyle’s eyes followed the ball. He grinned, didn’t turn his head. Bodie’s wonderment was delicious.

“But you thought you’d let me carry on being a prat for twelve months?”

Doyle thought for a bit. “Well, you’ve been a prat for five years. What difference?”

“Francis! You nob! You utter, fucking nob!” screeched the large bloke at Bodie’s elbow.

“Oh what fun it is to see United win away, hey! Jingle bells, Jingle bells .... all the way. Oh what fun it is .... hey!” came from twenty yards to their left. Tacked on to the side of the five hundred away fans enjoying their day out were a preponderance of burly, tattooed men in t-shirts who were gesturing in their direction.

“Well,” Bodie said, smiling pleasantly at them. “What we did last night? I’d have done that four years ago.”

“Yes,” said Doyle. “I know. I can’t show you I know because we’d get our heads kicked in. But I know.”

“Well if you know so much, Raymond, you can go and buy me another pie.”

“Give over. I’m not leaving this spot until we get a police escort.”

“Handball!”

“Nah, never was ... blimey, here comes the ref. That number eight’s going to get sent off if he doesn’t watch it.”

“You know what,” said Doyle, jerking his head across the wire. “Could be trouble after the whistle.”

The nearest row had laced their hands through the links and were pulling the fencing backwards and forwards. They’d long since stopped watching the game.

“Yeah, well if any of those coppers come near me with their truncheons,” said Bodie, “I’ll give ’em what for.”

Doyle laughed out loud. He seriously wanted to hug Bodie right there and then. Kiss him until he couldn’t breathe. The crowd on either side had squashed them hip to hip.

“Really,” he said. “If it kicks off ... “

Bodie shivered. “What the hell are we doing here?” he demanded. “When we could be ...” He cast a look at his neighbour and subsided. “Couple of pints in the Bush after. Then ....” A pained look flitted across his face.

Too many years of doubt.

Doyle jostled him. “A good night’s sleep, mate. We’re due at the Home Office at eight.” He went up on his toes to watch a throw-in and murmured out of the side of his mouth,   “My place?”

Bodie was about to answer when the equaliser cannoned into the net from forty yards. The whole stand rose and spilled towards the pitch in a wave. Even the wall didn’t save them. They were down four rows before they knew it, adrenaline surging through the crowd.

Doyle kept his feet better than the bulk of those around him and he got himself back up to the wall before the rest of the home support had gathered themselves.

Bodie was already there and Doyle was alarmed to see him roaring and jumping up and down on the spot, sending the away fans into a complete frenzy.

Doyle grasped his sleeve, heart thundering up his throat, and not entirely because he thought they might be about to be torn limb from limb.

“Are you sure?” he shouted. “They’ll have you for dinner, you maniac.”

“Yesterday,” Bodie said. “Now. This.” He shook two victorious fists at the wire - even at the risk of being showered in spittle, even though he really didn’t give a monkey’s who won - then grabbed Doyle’s face in both hands and kissed him violently, tongue and all.

“First fucking happy Christmas I ever had,” he said, and pushed Doyle firmly away.

It was time for an early bath

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Title: Five Christmases
Author: JoJo
Pairing: B/D
Slash/Gen: Slash
Archive at Proslib/Circuit: please
Summary: They get there in the end