Day 10: Fic "Bears a Berry" by Lysimache
Dec. 10th, 2008 04:45 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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discoveredinaljI hope everyone has enjoyed the wordsearch (and hasn't been too frustrated!)! Sorry it took me so long to get home to post the fic; students took longer after school than I'd planned! But here we go. Happy Holidays to everyone! :)
"Bears a Berry"
by Lysimache
This year, it seemed the criminals of England were taking a no doubt well-deserved holiday of their own. No threats of terrorist activity to mar the season, no kidnappings of highly placed government officials, not even a rumor of a big drug shipment about to come in. Peace on earth, as far as Bodie was concerned. Wearily, he added his signature to the last of the papers stacked high on his desk.
"About ready?" Doyle asked him from the other side of the room. Doyle's desk too was covered in paperwork, no unusual sight these days, although his clearance rate was still faster than Bodie's, no matter how he tried to keep up with the little swot. Where he got the energy to read it all was a continual mystery. And so quickly! Still, that meant that what was left undone on Bodie's desk could often safely migrate to Doyle's before finding its eternal home somewhere in Records.
"That was the last of it, all right. Never a dull moment here." He smiled at his partner, who was gathering up their things for the night.
"Take a sight more than all this to fill your quota for excitement, mate," Doyle laughed. "Come on then, there's a nice cuppa waiting for you at home."
"Oh, that's definitely excitement, that is." Bodie took the jacket and scarf -- it had been unseasonably cold -- his partner held out for him. "Two days off at Christmas, though, that's a real treat."
"Plenty of time to enjoy your Christmas pressies."
"I plan on enjoying you, sunshine."
*****
The next day went by in a flurry of preparations -- Doyle had insisted on roasting a goose for their Christmas dinner, and there were several more packages to be trimmed, but at long last things were quieting. Bodie had convinced Doyle to grab a glass of single-malt scotch -- "How's that for a CI5 tradition," he'd laughed -- and join him on the sofa, in front of the fire. It was toasty warm now, the two of them, well, snuggled close together. Doyle had insisted that if they were to be home together for Christmas, for the first time since they'd joined Cowley's mob, they were going to do things properly, and so properly they'd done it: a fir-trimmed Yule Log burned merrily away.
The opening sounds of the boy singing the first solo from King's came faintly through the radio. He sounded young, scared… and heart-breakingly beautiful.
Doyle sighed against his shoulder as other voices, stronger, deeper, joined in, the chorus growing to a swell with the organ underneath.
"Can you imagine what that's like, singing with millions of people listening in?" he asked Doyle, idly.
"Not for me, thanks. Did a solo in church once, though."
"No, go on, did you?" It still surprised him, sometimes, what they didn't know about each other after so many years.
"All things bright and beautiful, all creatures--" Doyle warbled at him, eyes raised soulfully heavenward.
Bodie shushed him. "You're drowning out the real singers, there. The ones who wouldn't scare the ears off a haddock."
"Philistine," Doyle sniffed. "No accounting for some people's taste."
"I'm well known as an art lover, old son," Bodie told him archly. The mischief on Doyle's face, that was worth any amount of clowning, the way he crinkled his eyes and opened his mouth so wide -- well, what could be better?
"Lover of well-endowed nudes, you mean."
"Who am I to scorn nature's gifts?"
A gentle snort, and Doyle settled back against his shoulder. Bodie's hand tangled in his curls, a little greyer now than they used to be, but still soft under his fingers.
The choir kept singing, some carols he knew, some he'd never heard. The even tones of the readers repeated the words he'd heard every year as a child: For unto us a child is born… Bodie closed his eyes, Doyle warm against his side, and stretched his legs onto the footstool.
Doyle was humming again next to him, singing along with the chorus:
of all the trees that are in the wood
the holly bears the crown
oh, the rising of the sun...
Contentment swirled around him. He had waited for a moment like this for -- a lifetime? No matter what other chaos might invade their lives (and invade it always did, he thought wryly), for the moment. He was completely happy.
He drifted, near sleep.
*****
Cold. The woods are cold, even for those born in them. Frost beckons in spots. The ground glistens in the dawn sun as though some princeling has scattered over it millions of tiny jewels.
His breath clouds in the air. He pulls his blood-red mantle closer.
A bell peals, distant. They're coming.
He adjusts the crown one more time. Is it on correctly? The leaves' points catch in his hair. His hair, dark as stone, has brought him this honour, along with his skin, pale as milk.
Shouts, closer.
What will he look like, he wonders. Smaller than himself? Blond? Broad like Father Oak?
Eyes green as Midsummer, he knows that.
He feels them almost before he sees them, coming into his clearing, shaking the ground. He himself has no attendants today, but with the new king is a riotous group, men and boys, all attired in green tunics and leggings, a few sprouting horns in their hair matted with autumn's leaves. Many are waving branches hung with hundreds of tiny bells, a joyful cacophony.
The other must be in the middle of the crowd, still hidden.
"Challenge!" they begin to shout. "Challenge the king!"
His blood stirs. The hair on his arms pricks up. He stamps the ground once.
"Who challenges me?" he calls out.
The mass of men in front of him parts like a river hitting a stone in its path. In the middle, standing proudly erect, is he.
His double looks nothing like him, nor should he. Smaller, clad all in green, hair a mass of messy copper under his oak-leaf and acorn crown, eyes a laughing, laughing green.
"I challenge you," the other says.
The newcomer holds a torch high in his hand. Flames wreathe his head, curls red and gold. Poised, wild; flight, fight?
"Who are you to challenge me?" he calls.
"I am the new light; I bring warmth and growth," he is answered.
"Who are you?" he asks again.
"I am the new light; I take away darkness and decay," he is answered.
"Who are you?" he asks a third time.
"I am the new light: I am King of the Oaks," he is answered.
"I, King of the Holly, accept your challenge."
A roar, deafening; beating of breasts, brandishing of branches.
He takes a step; the other matches him. Inch by inch, closer they come. He raises his staff, smooth wood of the holly, tipped with a fir-cone. Oak raises his blazing torch, perfect answer.
Their hands are close enough to touch, reaching out. The distance is but a breath. Who will cross first?
Oak whispers, "I'll put down the torch; you put down the staff--bare hands."
He barely nods in response, but, eyes never leaving Oak, carefully sets his staff down on the hoary ground. The torch Oak passes back to the crowd without a glance.
Hands bare, they circle. Oak feints left; he goes right. Oak swings up, he ducks down. A bubble of joy bursts from his throat, soul-deep laugh. Oak echoes his merriment. Spins, mirrored. A blow, a glance, his lips are red as the holly.
His skin is shining like burnished gold. Whom could he tell of this magic? One other knows. Oak holds him close, pushes him down.
"Do you submit?" Oak asks. Whom could he tell?
"I submit," he answers. He shivers once.
"I shall warm you," the Oak King whispers. His eyes are dark, dark. His hands trace a burning flame down his cheek.
"It is done!" the Oak King cries loud to his band. "Go forth, spread tidings: the Oak King reigns again! Spread tidings!"
They run off in all directions. Hark! The Holly King is vanquished! The Oak King reigns again!
At last only they two are left. He hardly dares lift his head. The cold ground pushes against his knees.
He trembles. He waits, he waits. Surely they must do this now.
Still he does not look up.
He waits.
Something warm and soft settles about his shoulders. A fur. And not far crackles now a small fire, flames dancing.
Oak sinks down next to him on the cold ground. "It may be winter yet, but I am here to bring warmth and light, am I not?" His tone is merry, and he gives a bright laugh.
Another fur is spread upon the ground, and Oak motions for him to move onto it. The chill is less here, and he smiles, nods his thanks. "You are well prepared, then."
A quick glance, hot, runs down his body. "I doubt anything could have prepared me for you. You are-" The other stops, seeming uncertain.
"I am what?"
"Beautiful, I think. I had not imagined you so."
"Someone ugly? Warty?"
"Someone old, at any rate. You cannot be much older than I am myself."
"And you but newborn," he whispers. Knowing that it will be all right, now, he leans forward and kisses Oak, twines his fingers through the curls he's wanted to touch since first he saw them. Perhaps he should have waited, but the enthusiastic response leaves no doubt of his welcome.
Oak's hands explore his body, stroking him gently at first, then with more strength, never tentative. He laughs merrily again as he kisses his way down towards his manhood. Clothes pushed aside, he feasts hungrily, and Holly groans aloud, climaxing more quickly than he'd thought to.
"Through your seed, I am reborn, brother." Oak smiles. His face glows gold.
Holly kisses him. "I celebrate your rebirth, brother. The year turns."
The next act is as inevitable as the spring -- he has prepared for it all along -- and yet, somehow still unexpected. It is everything he thought and nothing he imagined when Oak gently enters him. He had thought to feel surrender, submission, sure he would be angry, and yet, he is none of those things. He has never wanted anything so much. His blood pounds.
Every sunrise he has ever seen seems to illuminate the glade while he gladly feels Oak press close, and with every movement they make, the joy within him threatens to burst the frail frame of skin holding it together. Oak's arms wrap tightly around him.
Everything tenses. Oak's fingers dig in, hard. He cannot breathe. A few thrusts, hard. Both cry out. The ground spins under him. He feels hot; he feels cold. He is within, without, surrounded, touched.
When next he is aware, they are lying together, limbs entwined, on the furs. Oak is laughing at him with those green, green eyes and petting his hair gently.
"Awake at last, are you?"
"I wasn't asleep," he protests. "Not a bit."
"As you wish," the other man says, agreeably, although he clearly doesn't mean a word of it. "Wouldn't be polite to argue now, would it?"
"Not now, no." He reaches over and kisses Oak gently.
Oak seems a bit surprised and says, "You don't have to, you know."
"I know," he replies, and he kisses him again for good measure. They are silent for a long while. Somewhere in the distance, a bird is singing a midwinter song.
The sun has reached full zenith. They must return. He knows this, and yet, he does not wish to leave. But they should go back to their separate villages, celebrate the darkness' defeat.
"I do not wish to leave you," Oak says. "Can we not just stay here?"
Strange to hear his thoughts on the other man's tongue. Sighing, he stands up and offers his hand. They adjust their clothes, although he leaves his holly crown on the ground, picking up only his staff. He resettles Oak's leafy garland with a caress.
"Tell me your name?" he asks. He knows this question is forbidden, and yet he cannot help himself.
Oak looks troubled. He bites his lip. "I should not."
"Tell me."
"Deomiorix," he whispers, finally.
"I shall see you in six months, Deomiorix," he says firmly. "Until then, be well, my brother."
"Be thou well," Deomiorix answers him, with a final caress, a brief kiss.
Each begins to walk back, leaving the glade in opposite directions. "Wait!" Deomiorix calls. "What is your name?"
"Boduoc," he answers, smiling as wide as he can. "Until the spring!"
His step is light. Light has been reborn.
*****
Bodie sat up rapidly, startled. Doyle looked amused, as though he had been laughing at some private joke. All else was quiet in their flat.
"Finally awake? You've missed the rest of the service, sleepyhead," Doyle said fondly.
"Wasn't asleep," Bodie answered him.
"Whatever you say," Doyle answered him agreeably. For some reason Doyle's words struck him as funny, although he couldn't have told you why, and he reached over to ruffle his partner's hair. He kissed him too, for good measure.
"Didn't know we had hung any mistletoe," Doyle said, no trace of a complaint in his tone. "I guess we could go and find some if you like. Nice trip to the woods? It grows on oak trees, you know. The ancient Druids thought it was sacred or something."
Bodie gave his partner an odd look. "You know, funny you should say that."
"Oh?"
"I just had the strangest dream..."
FINIS
**************
Title: Bears a Berry
Author: Lysimache
Slash or Gen: slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: no, thank you
Disclaimer: Not mine, not in the slightest.
Prompt: The Holly and the Ivy
Summary: Of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown.
Notes: "The Holly and the Ivy" is one of the less-Christian Christmas carols, and when I was thinking about it as a prompt, somehow it got tangled up in my head with the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols broadcast from King's College, Cambridge, and the (modern) myth of the Oak King and the Holly King. So I threw them all together in a story. :)
The Celtic names come from a project by two professors (one of Celtic, one of Classics) at Cambridge, the Celtic Personal Names of Roman Britain database, which is seriously awesome, even if they probably didn't think it would be a fanfic resource. *bg*
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lucullean for encouragement and lots and lots of heartfelt gratitude to maubast for beta-reading. :) (Thanks, as always, are due to sineala, alpha and omega reader. <3)
"Bears a Berry"
by Lysimache
This year, it seemed the criminals of England were taking a no doubt well-deserved holiday of their own. No threats of terrorist activity to mar the season, no kidnappings of highly placed government officials, not even a rumor of a big drug shipment about to come in. Peace on earth, as far as Bodie was concerned. Wearily, he added his signature to the last of the papers stacked high on his desk.
"About ready?" Doyle asked him from the other side of the room. Doyle's desk too was covered in paperwork, no unusual sight these days, although his clearance rate was still faster than Bodie's, no matter how he tried to keep up with the little swot. Where he got the energy to read it all was a continual mystery. And so quickly! Still, that meant that what was left undone on Bodie's desk could often safely migrate to Doyle's before finding its eternal home somewhere in Records.
"That was the last of it, all right. Never a dull moment here." He smiled at his partner, who was gathering up their things for the night.
"Take a sight more than all this to fill your quota for excitement, mate," Doyle laughed. "Come on then, there's a nice cuppa waiting for you at home."
"Oh, that's definitely excitement, that is." Bodie took the jacket and scarf -- it had been unseasonably cold -- his partner held out for him. "Two days off at Christmas, though, that's a real treat."
"Plenty of time to enjoy your Christmas pressies."
"I plan on enjoying you, sunshine."
*****
The next day went by in a flurry of preparations -- Doyle had insisted on roasting a goose for their Christmas dinner, and there were several more packages to be trimmed, but at long last things were quieting. Bodie had convinced Doyle to grab a glass of single-malt scotch -- "How's that for a CI5 tradition," he'd laughed -- and join him on the sofa, in front of the fire. It was toasty warm now, the two of them, well, snuggled close together. Doyle had insisted that if they were to be home together for Christmas, for the first time since they'd joined Cowley's mob, they were going to do things properly, and so properly they'd done it: a fir-trimmed Yule Log burned merrily away.
The opening sounds of the boy singing the first solo from King's came faintly through the radio. He sounded young, scared… and heart-breakingly beautiful.
Doyle sighed against his shoulder as other voices, stronger, deeper, joined in, the chorus growing to a swell with the organ underneath.
"Can you imagine what that's like, singing with millions of people listening in?" he asked Doyle, idly.
"Not for me, thanks. Did a solo in church once, though."
"No, go on, did you?" It still surprised him, sometimes, what they didn't know about each other after so many years.
"All things bright and beautiful, all creatures--" Doyle warbled at him, eyes raised soulfully heavenward.
Bodie shushed him. "You're drowning out the real singers, there. The ones who wouldn't scare the ears off a haddock."
"Philistine," Doyle sniffed. "No accounting for some people's taste."
"I'm well known as an art lover, old son," Bodie told him archly. The mischief on Doyle's face, that was worth any amount of clowning, the way he crinkled his eyes and opened his mouth so wide -- well, what could be better?
"Lover of well-endowed nudes, you mean."
"Who am I to scorn nature's gifts?"
A gentle snort, and Doyle settled back against his shoulder. Bodie's hand tangled in his curls, a little greyer now than they used to be, but still soft under his fingers.
The choir kept singing, some carols he knew, some he'd never heard. The even tones of the readers repeated the words he'd heard every year as a child: For unto us a child is born… Bodie closed his eyes, Doyle warm against his side, and stretched his legs onto the footstool.
Doyle was humming again next to him, singing along with the chorus:
of all the trees that are in the wood
the holly bears the crown
oh, the rising of the sun...
Contentment swirled around him. He had waited for a moment like this for -- a lifetime? No matter what other chaos might invade their lives (and invade it always did, he thought wryly), for the moment. He was completely happy.
He drifted, near sleep.
*****
Cold. The woods are cold, even for those born in them. Frost beckons in spots. The ground glistens in the dawn sun as though some princeling has scattered over it millions of tiny jewels.
His breath clouds in the air. He pulls his blood-red mantle closer.
A bell peals, distant. They're coming.
He adjusts the crown one more time. Is it on correctly? The leaves' points catch in his hair. His hair, dark as stone, has brought him this honour, along with his skin, pale as milk.
Shouts, closer.
What will he look like, he wonders. Smaller than himself? Blond? Broad like Father Oak?
Eyes green as Midsummer, he knows that.
He feels them almost before he sees them, coming into his clearing, shaking the ground. He himself has no attendants today, but with the new king is a riotous group, men and boys, all attired in green tunics and leggings, a few sprouting horns in their hair matted with autumn's leaves. Many are waving branches hung with hundreds of tiny bells, a joyful cacophony.
The other must be in the middle of the crowd, still hidden.
"Challenge!" they begin to shout. "Challenge the king!"
His blood stirs. The hair on his arms pricks up. He stamps the ground once.
"Who challenges me?" he calls out.
The mass of men in front of him parts like a river hitting a stone in its path. In the middle, standing proudly erect, is he.
His double looks nothing like him, nor should he. Smaller, clad all in green, hair a mass of messy copper under his oak-leaf and acorn crown, eyes a laughing, laughing green.
"I challenge you," the other says.
The newcomer holds a torch high in his hand. Flames wreathe his head, curls red and gold. Poised, wild; flight, fight?
"Who are you to challenge me?" he calls.
"I am the new light; I bring warmth and growth," he is answered.
"Who are you?" he asks again.
"I am the new light; I take away darkness and decay," he is answered.
"Who are you?" he asks a third time.
"I am the new light: I am King of the Oaks," he is answered.
"I, King of the Holly, accept your challenge."
A roar, deafening; beating of breasts, brandishing of branches.
He takes a step; the other matches him. Inch by inch, closer they come. He raises his staff, smooth wood of the holly, tipped with a fir-cone. Oak raises his blazing torch, perfect answer.
Their hands are close enough to touch, reaching out. The distance is but a breath. Who will cross first?
Oak whispers, "I'll put down the torch; you put down the staff--bare hands."
He barely nods in response, but, eyes never leaving Oak, carefully sets his staff down on the hoary ground. The torch Oak passes back to the crowd without a glance.
Hands bare, they circle. Oak feints left; he goes right. Oak swings up, he ducks down. A bubble of joy bursts from his throat, soul-deep laugh. Oak echoes his merriment. Spins, mirrored. A blow, a glance, his lips are red as the holly.
His skin is shining like burnished gold. Whom could he tell of this magic? One other knows. Oak holds him close, pushes him down.
"Do you submit?" Oak asks. Whom could he tell?
"I submit," he answers. He shivers once.
"I shall warm you," the Oak King whispers. His eyes are dark, dark. His hands trace a burning flame down his cheek.
"It is done!" the Oak King cries loud to his band. "Go forth, spread tidings: the Oak King reigns again! Spread tidings!"
They run off in all directions. Hark! The Holly King is vanquished! The Oak King reigns again!
At last only they two are left. He hardly dares lift his head. The cold ground pushes against his knees.
He trembles. He waits, he waits. Surely they must do this now.
Still he does not look up.
He waits.
Something warm and soft settles about his shoulders. A fur. And not far crackles now a small fire, flames dancing.
Oak sinks down next to him on the cold ground. "It may be winter yet, but I am here to bring warmth and light, am I not?" His tone is merry, and he gives a bright laugh.
Another fur is spread upon the ground, and Oak motions for him to move onto it. The chill is less here, and he smiles, nods his thanks. "You are well prepared, then."
A quick glance, hot, runs down his body. "I doubt anything could have prepared me for you. You are-" The other stops, seeming uncertain.
"I am what?"
"Beautiful, I think. I had not imagined you so."
"Someone ugly? Warty?"
"Someone old, at any rate. You cannot be much older than I am myself."
"And you but newborn," he whispers. Knowing that it will be all right, now, he leans forward and kisses Oak, twines his fingers through the curls he's wanted to touch since first he saw them. Perhaps he should have waited, but the enthusiastic response leaves no doubt of his welcome.
Oak's hands explore his body, stroking him gently at first, then with more strength, never tentative. He laughs merrily again as he kisses his way down towards his manhood. Clothes pushed aside, he feasts hungrily, and Holly groans aloud, climaxing more quickly than he'd thought to.
"Through your seed, I am reborn, brother." Oak smiles. His face glows gold.
Holly kisses him. "I celebrate your rebirth, brother. The year turns."
The next act is as inevitable as the spring -- he has prepared for it all along -- and yet, somehow still unexpected. It is everything he thought and nothing he imagined when Oak gently enters him. He had thought to feel surrender, submission, sure he would be angry, and yet, he is none of those things. He has never wanted anything so much. His blood pounds.
Every sunrise he has ever seen seems to illuminate the glade while he gladly feels Oak press close, and with every movement they make, the joy within him threatens to burst the frail frame of skin holding it together. Oak's arms wrap tightly around him.
Everything tenses. Oak's fingers dig in, hard. He cannot breathe. A few thrusts, hard. Both cry out. The ground spins under him. He feels hot; he feels cold. He is within, without, surrounded, touched.
When next he is aware, they are lying together, limbs entwined, on the furs. Oak is laughing at him with those green, green eyes and petting his hair gently.
"Awake at last, are you?"
"I wasn't asleep," he protests. "Not a bit."
"As you wish," the other man says, agreeably, although he clearly doesn't mean a word of it. "Wouldn't be polite to argue now, would it?"
"Not now, no." He reaches over and kisses Oak gently.
Oak seems a bit surprised and says, "You don't have to, you know."
"I know," he replies, and he kisses him again for good measure. They are silent for a long while. Somewhere in the distance, a bird is singing a midwinter song.
The sun has reached full zenith. They must return. He knows this, and yet, he does not wish to leave. But they should go back to their separate villages, celebrate the darkness' defeat.
"I do not wish to leave you," Oak says. "Can we not just stay here?"
Strange to hear his thoughts on the other man's tongue. Sighing, he stands up and offers his hand. They adjust their clothes, although he leaves his holly crown on the ground, picking up only his staff. He resettles Oak's leafy garland with a caress.
"Tell me your name?" he asks. He knows this question is forbidden, and yet he cannot help himself.
Oak looks troubled. He bites his lip. "I should not."
"Tell me."
"Deomiorix," he whispers, finally.
"I shall see you in six months, Deomiorix," he says firmly. "Until then, be well, my brother."
"Be thou well," Deomiorix answers him, with a final caress, a brief kiss.
Each begins to walk back, leaving the glade in opposite directions. "Wait!" Deomiorix calls. "What is your name?"
"Boduoc," he answers, smiling as wide as he can. "Until the spring!"
His step is light. Light has been reborn.
*****
Bodie sat up rapidly, startled. Doyle looked amused, as though he had been laughing at some private joke. All else was quiet in their flat.
"Finally awake? You've missed the rest of the service, sleepyhead," Doyle said fondly.
"Wasn't asleep," Bodie answered him.
"Whatever you say," Doyle answered him agreeably. For some reason Doyle's words struck him as funny, although he couldn't have told you why, and he reached over to ruffle his partner's hair. He kissed him too, for good measure.
"Didn't know we had hung any mistletoe," Doyle said, no trace of a complaint in his tone. "I guess we could go and find some if you like. Nice trip to the woods? It grows on oak trees, you know. The ancient Druids thought it was sacred or something."
Bodie gave his partner an odd look. "You know, funny you should say that."
"Oh?"
"I just had the strangest dream..."
FINIS
**************
Title: Bears a Berry
Author: Lysimache
Slash or Gen: slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: no, thank you
Disclaimer: Not mine, not in the slightest.
Prompt: The Holly and the Ivy
Summary: Of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown.
Notes: "The Holly and the Ivy" is one of the less-Christian Christmas carols, and when I was thinking about it as a prompt, somehow it got tangled up in my head with the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols broadcast from King's College, Cambridge, and the (modern) myth of the Oak King and the Holly King. So I threw them all together in a story. :)
The Celtic names come from a project by two professors (one of Celtic, one of Classics) at Cambridge, the Celtic Personal Names of Roman Britain database, which is seriously awesome, even if they probably didn't think it would be a fanfic resource. *bg*
Thanks to
lucullean for encouragement and lots and lots of heartfelt gratitude to maubast for beta-reading. :) (Thanks, as always, are due to sineala, alpha and omega reader. <3)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-12-10 10:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-10 10:12 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for commenting! :)
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Date: 2008-12-10 10:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-10 10:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-10 11:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-11 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-11 04:02 am (UTC)Lovely story!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-11 07:09 am (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-11 08:23 am (UTC)Well done and thank you!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-11 02:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-11 03:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-11 03:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-11 04:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-11 04:55 pm (UTC)Lovely and Christmasy - just what I was in the mood for! Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-11 06:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-12 12:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-12 12:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-12 12:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-12 12:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-12 12:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-12 12:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-12 12:28 am (UTC)also, Bodie on his knees before Doyle is rarely a bad thing *g*
Definitely a good thing to be able to work into a story! *bg*
Thank you so much for the comments! :)
no subject
Date: 2008-12-12 12:30 am (UTC)Thanks so much for the kind comments! :)
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Date: 2008-12-12 12:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-12 12:32 am (UTC)Thank you for the kind comments! :)
no subject
Date: 2008-12-12 12:34 am (UTC)Thank you for the comments! :)
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Date: 2008-12-12 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-12 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-12 01:40 am (UTC)I agree with you wholeheartedly!
It's possible I'm biasedI know I'm biased *g*, but I do think Pros lends itself to that kind of heroic myth-telling better than many fandoms. The "chalk and cheese" dynamic, the "brothers-in-arms"/"us against the world" themes in the show itself draw on the classic ones: Roland & Oliver or Achilles & Patroclus for example. I don't see the same kind of relationship with, say, Gene/Sam or Jack/Ianto.OTOH I hate it when mythological parallels are hammered, explained to death in a story. You didn't do that at all, so more props to you!
no subject
Date: 2008-12-12 11:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-13 11:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 07:53 pm (UTC)