Fic: Sanctuary
Dec. 28th, 2008 10:16 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
callistosh65.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
discoveredinaljA winter’s tale...
Sanctuary
Like most people Bodie had a vision of hell, and like most people his was a fairly traditional one. It involved flames, pitchforks and in Bodie's case, his first platoon sergeant and nothing to eat. He thought he'd actually found it once, in the heat and cruelties of Biafra. Only now he knew better. Instead of flames, he had snow; great gobs of the stuff driven by a wind which had already bitten through two layers of clothing and was busy working on the third. Instead of pitchforks, he had ice; stabbing at his eyes and numbing his thinly gloved fingers. And instead of the satisfaction of seeing his platoon leader burn, he had the frustration of letting his partner freeze. About the only thing in common was nothing to eat.
Bodie raised his eyes and tried to see, but just then a gust changed direction and whipped something cold and wet into his eyes. Jesus fucking Christ. Doyle had been out in this for about four hours, Bodie reckoned. And without so much as a bloody scarf, knowing Doyle's luck. Not that he knew for sure, of course, because he hadn't actually seen his partner for close to six days now. Six days of an undercover Bodie had hated from the start. Not least because it was Wales in winter, Doyle on his own, and Bodie stuck in a village the size of a postage stamp. A bunch of nationalists were branching out, and had spent the winter months combining the burning of holiday homes with the selling of heroin. A deal had soured, the body count was rising, and CI5 had been called in. With Benny out on leave, Doyle had been the obvious choice and had gone in undercover as a disillusioned buyer with East German contacts for both bombs and drugs. Perfect, thought Cowley. Disaster, thought Bodie, trying to ignore how eager Doyle had been for this. He always fancied himself undercover did Doyle, loving all the dressing up and trying out of accents. Though Bodie had winced at his Welsh one, and told him unless he was aiming for Cardiff via Pakistan he'd be shot out of indignation alone.
Doyle had promptly whacked him on the head with a dog-eared Playboy and mused aloud about a hair-cut to make himself look older. At which point Bodie had sprayed tea all over the squad room and told him it would take more than a mop-crop to make any bloody difference, but to be sure and phone Olivier at the National and see what he thought.
And that was the rub, really, because no matter how he sought to ridicule the notion, Bodie knew in his bones that it wouldn't make any difference. Nothing ever did. Two things always happened when Doyle went undercover. One, Doyle got hurt, and two, Bodie's nerves shredded themselves on the nearest available target. In a memorable moment of high temper it had been Cowley once. But this time it was Peterson, the young wet-behind-the-ears recruit who they'd all clapped on the back and commiserated with back at HQ, and who Bodie had snarled at and lifted up by his lapels that very morning.
Doyle had proved a convenient target too. Trapped in the car together for the drive up, Bodie had borne so much, and then had had little choice but to puncture Doyle's Boys Own enthusiasms. It was fucking Wales, for fucks sake, in fucking winter… His brain had taken a while to get hold of his mouth, and by the time it had, Peterson was slinking down and pretending deafness in the back seat, while his partner was spitting back a few choice words of his own. The ensuing silence for the rest of the journey had been about as frosty as the weather.
So here he was, tramping through snow drifts and cursing Doyle, ex-platoon seargants and fucking woolly-back land once again. And cursing Peterson, who had followed a van containing a bound up Doyle, seen him pushed out and led off through a farm gate in the middle of nowhere... and who had then ballsed everything up by hitting a patch of black ice, pranging the car, and knocking himself out on the steering wheel.
By the time Peterson had been found, patched up and had his lapels torn off, Doyle had been out of sight and contact for a good few hours. Bodie had ordered Peterson back to the B&B to sit by the phone, nurse his headache and contemplate his future as a human being--never mind an agent--if Doyle turned up with so much as frostbite.
Bodie squinted into the distance again. About fifty yards ahead was the edge of what looked like a fairly substantial copse of trees. It was the only change in landscape, everything else a rolling blanket of white as far as the eye could see. Any tracks were long gone, and the thought that the falling snow would have covered up blood and a body by now made him clench his jaw and fix his eyes on the woods. Doyle was in there. Had to be.
Some fifty minutes later he wasn't so sure. The woods were thicker than he'd anticipated and the uneven ground and falling snow were reducing his speed and visibility even more. There was a path, which even his African trained senses could track and follow, and which he knew was his and Doyle's best bet. If Doyle were alone, then he'd figure it as his one shot at leading to something or somewhere. If Doyle were with the sheep-shaggers, they'd not be competent soldiers enough to branch out. And if Doyle were wounded, then all bets were off and it really didn't matter if Bodie stumbled round in circles calling out his name.
He'd fallen twice, not badly, but enough to know he was fighting his own clock as well as Doyle's. The cold was seeping into more than his clothes, he could feel tendrils of it whispering through his body now, turning down sensation and clarity, sapping his will to stay sharp and focused.
He blinked, sure of movement off to his left. Cursing the snow and his lethargy, he spun as fast as he could and knew it was still dangerously slow. He fell rather than dived for cover and the gun weighed heavy as he drew in a painful breath and tried to focus. If it didn't hurt so fucking much he'd've been tempted to laugh at the picture he was presenting. Some rescue mission. All they were going to find was a lifesize icicle, gun in hand, legs spread behind him in the snow. He could be chipped out by archaeologists and end up with a tag on his toe in a museum somewhere. He flinched at a sudden noise and narrowed his vision. It took a second to realise it had been his own bark of laughter. And another to realise he was in trouble now... Fuck, he was drifting badly. He bit his lip hard, an old survival trick, which sharpened his vision as the blood punctured out, but the shape was to his right now and closing fast.
On a gasp he turned, struggling to get fingers he couldn't feel to just wrap themselves around his bloody gun…
A hand on his shoulder almost stopped his heart. Then a warm voice gusted the wind out of his ear."This you rescuing me then, Bodie?"
It made no sense, and Bodie was sure that any second the numbed circuits in his brain were going to blink out this hallucination, but for right now it appeared as Doyle, wrapped up from head to toe, and hauling him ungently to his feet and talking about the fire brigade. Or something. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell this apparition to piss the fuck off and just leave him be, when his arm was dragged unceremoniously across a pair of shoulders and his feet were urged forward.
"Couldn't save a cat up a bloody tree, you couldn't. Come on, handsome, we need to get moving."
At that point Bodie knew it was real. Any appariton of his own conjuring would have been nicer to him. He let his head sag in relief and for once in his life he took the easier option; he closed his mouth and simply let his partner lead the way.
******
If he’d had the coordination, he’d’ve pinched himself. After an interminable trudge up some kind of incline out of the woods, Doyle had produced a key and pushed him through the door of some kind of stone-walled cottage...
... into a warmth that took the air from his lungs it hurt so much.
Hustled into a chair while he bit his lip and tried not to make unseemly noises, he actually let Doyle get him out of his jacket before he got a grip on both himself and Doyle's wrist.
"Doyle..." he managed, stilling his partner as he was rising.
“What?”
Bodie looked past Doyle, to the bare but snug one-room wide cottage, to the small fire in the grate he’d been plonked next to, and then up to the rosy and apparently unharmed cheeks of his partner.
He gave up.
“Joined the c-cause, have you? We burning this down in a m-minute?”
“You know me, I never could resist a bleeding heart. Even a Welsh one.” Doyle was there in front of him, pink of face and cheery of grin, and Bodie was tempted to see if his own face worked enough yet for him to give one back, but he was still playing catch up and Doyle was just not helping.
Something in his expression must have given him away, because Doyle straightened quickly and walked away to drape Bodie’s sodden parka over a small wooden chair. “I know, I know, but I’ll fill you in while you warm up, mate.” He shook his head and nodded at the parka.“Only you could wear that and still turn blue. Hang about and I’ll put some tea on. There’s a pan and a gas-ring around here somewhere.”
So Bodie sat there, trying to concentrate while Doyle threw wood on the fire, pottered, and talked. It seemed that there’d been this girl that bomber number one and bomber number two had fancied, only bomber number three had called them both wankers and slept with her first. Which had led to fisticuffs, to Doyle getting in the middle and pulling them apart, and then to him getting coshed over the head for his troubles.
“Fucking junkies.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Started dipping in, haven’t they? They’re more concerned about their next fix than burning anything down anymore. Hopeless, mate, just hopeless.”
“Well, I did tell you.”
Doyle turned from across the room.
“You certainly did.”
Bodie shifted a little at the look he was getting. He waved his hand vaguely. “And this place?”
Doyle turned back to whatever he was doing at the small worktop.
“It’s owned by an English fisherman. Due to go up in a little inferno a week tomorrow. The idiots forgot I had the keys and that I’d seen the map. After I got away, I stayed hidden until they’d shouted themselves out and gone back to their car. Then I made straight for this place. I cut my hands free and got a fire going to stop me toes falling off. Then I helped myself to some of Mr Fisherman’s woollies, and voila. I was just trying to get back to the road when I saw you staggering about on the forest floor.”
Bodie bristled.“Wasn’t staggering.”
Doyle turned around again and favoured him with another kind of look. The kind that thawed him out a bit faster.
“’Course you weren’t, Bambi. My hero.”
Before he could muster a suitable reply, Doyle had picked up a mug and brought it over. Bodie reached to take it, but that much sudden heat on his fingers was too much and he hissed sharply.
“Oops,” said Doyle, immediately taking the mug back. He crouched down and put it on the floor between Bodie and the fire. Then he disarmed Bodie completely by staying where he was. Decidedly wary, Bodie watched as Doyle leant forward and took hold of Bodie’s cold hands. He began rubbing at them with his own warm fingers.
“Can’t have you not holding a cup of tea, sunshine. The world’ll slip off its axis, or something.”
Said with such unexpected gentleness, and all the while smiling at him from a foot away. As if the act of getting Bodie warm again was the highlight and privilege of Doyle’s day.
On an impulse he didn’t understand but was powerless to resist, Bodie did one of the easiest, strangest things he’d ever done. He moved forward, took his hands out of Doyle’s, and wrapped his arms around his kneeling partner until his cold fingers met somewhere under the man’s shoulderblades. Then Bodie just stayed there, swaying a little and soaking in a different kind of warmth from the fire on his left. The fire popped and crackled, Doyle’s rib cage lifted and fell steadily against Bodie’s--his partner apparently unfazed by his impulse--and Bodie’s heart thudded noisily in his chest. He wondered if Doyle could hear it. He had no idea how to extricate himself, and no idea what to say when he did. But he had always been one to take what he wanted from life, and right then, this was what he wanted.
“Is this you apologising?”
Bodie smiled into a few curls. Then he exhaled, utterly relieved. Trust bloody Doyle. Always knew the right thing to say.
His embarrassment suddenly gone, he squeezed harder, strength and warmth returning nicely. “Could be. Could be I just need a cuddle to warm me up quicker.”
“Nah. This is you apologising.”
Doyle’s palms were smoothing a slow circle on his back and Bodie shut his eyes to savour the sensation. He swallowed. “If you say so, mate.”
“I do, and I accept.” Doyle was the first to pull back. He crinkled his nose and matter of factly got to his feet, as if they hugged everyday of their lives, and just the bending down part to do it was the drawback. Which, Bodie thought idly, could be remedied...
“Drink your tea and we’ll nick some more of Mr Fisherman’s gear for you. The snow’s eased off and we should think about getting back to civilisation and a phone. What happened to Peterson, by the way? Has he survived your tender—
“You in the cottage! You are surrounded by armed police! Come out with your hands up!”
Both men froze. Doyle turned slowly back to Bodie, eyebrow raised. “You gave him a megaphone?”
Bodie rolled his eyes. “Two sugars no milk.”
“Eh?”
“What Peterson takes in his tea. He’s using a megaphone--or a nicked traffic cone knowing him--because that’s him all on his tod out there.”
Doyle nodded his approval. “Initiative, Cowley will approve.”
“Not when he sees what the prat did to the car, he won’t.” Bodie stretched, feeling human again. He was strangely unwilling to let Peterson and the outside world in to this odd little sanctuary. He eyed Doyle, who, if the look softening his face was anything to go by, was feeling the same damn thing and about to walk back to him, not to the front door. Bodie sighed and made a shooing motion.“Go on, Ray, identify yourself. We’ll get the pillock in, defrost him, and make him drive us home. How does that sound?”
The smile Bodie got back was blinding, and way out of proportion.
“Sounds like a slice of heaven, mate.”
And Bodie knew he had it bad when he had to admit that somewhere in the space of an hour, a slice of heaven had turned into being trapped in a pranged-up Capri with his partner.
He smiled to himself.
One sanctuary to another then.
******
Title: Sanctuary
Author: Callisto
Gen or Slash: pre-slash
Archive Proslib/Circuit: Sure
Disclaimer: Nope, Santa still didn’t give them to me.
Notes: Thanks to the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ancastar, who deserves extra eggnog for beta’ing this as soon as she survived a chilly snow-delayed journey home. Hugs to you, darlin’. And a hug for the title too. And apologies for Bodie’s attitude to Wales here. I myself grew up there and have decided not to take offence because the poor lad was under a lot of stress.
Sanctuary
Like most people Bodie had a vision of hell, and like most people his was a fairly traditional one. It involved flames, pitchforks and in Bodie's case, his first platoon sergeant and nothing to eat. He thought he'd actually found it once, in the heat and cruelties of Biafra. Only now he knew better. Instead of flames, he had snow; great gobs of the stuff driven by a wind which had already bitten through two layers of clothing and was busy working on the third. Instead of pitchforks, he had ice; stabbing at his eyes and numbing his thinly gloved fingers. And instead of the satisfaction of seeing his platoon leader burn, he had the frustration of letting his partner freeze. About the only thing in common was nothing to eat.
Bodie raised his eyes and tried to see, but just then a gust changed direction and whipped something cold and wet into his eyes. Jesus fucking Christ. Doyle had been out in this for about four hours, Bodie reckoned. And without so much as a bloody scarf, knowing Doyle's luck. Not that he knew for sure, of course, because he hadn't actually seen his partner for close to six days now. Six days of an undercover Bodie had hated from the start. Not least because it was Wales in winter, Doyle on his own, and Bodie stuck in a village the size of a postage stamp. A bunch of nationalists were branching out, and had spent the winter months combining the burning of holiday homes with the selling of heroin. A deal had soured, the body count was rising, and CI5 had been called in. With Benny out on leave, Doyle had been the obvious choice and had gone in undercover as a disillusioned buyer with East German contacts for both bombs and drugs. Perfect, thought Cowley. Disaster, thought Bodie, trying to ignore how eager Doyle had been for this. He always fancied himself undercover did Doyle, loving all the dressing up and trying out of accents. Though Bodie had winced at his Welsh one, and told him unless he was aiming for Cardiff via Pakistan he'd be shot out of indignation alone.
Doyle had promptly whacked him on the head with a dog-eared Playboy and mused aloud about a hair-cut to make himself look older. At which point Bodie had sprayed tea all over the squad room and told him it would take more than a mop-crop to make any bloody difference, but to be sure and phone Olivier at the National and see what he thought.
And that was the rub, really, because no matter how he sought to ridicule the notion, Bodie knew in his bones that it wouldn't make any difference. Nothing ever did. Two things always happened when Doyle went undercover. One, Doyle got hurt, and two, Bodie's nerves shredded themselves on the nearest available target. In a memorable moment of high temper it had been Cowley once. But this time it was Peterson, the young wet-behind-the-ears recruit who they'd all clapped on the back and commiserated with back at HQ, and who Bodie had snarled at and lifted up by his lapels that very morning.
Doyle had proved a convenient target too. Trapped in the car together for the drive up, Bodie had borne so much, and then had had little choice but to puncture Doyle's Boys Own enthusiasms. It was fucking Wales, for fucks sake, in fucking winter… His brain had taken a while to get hold of his mouth, and by the time it had, Peterson was slinking down and pretending deafness in the back seat, while his partner was spitting back a few choice words of his own. The ensuing silence for the rest of the journey had been about as frosty as the weather.
So here he was, tramping through snow drifts and cursing Doyle, ex-platoon seargants and fucking woolly-back land once again. And cursing Peterson, who had followed a van containing a bound up Doyle, seen him pushed out and led off through a farm gate in the middle of nowhere... and who had then ballsed everything up by hitting a patch of black ice, pranging the car, and knocking himself out on the steering wheel.
By the time Peterson had been found, patched up and had his lapels torn off, Doyle had been out of sight and contact for a good few hours. Bodie had ordered Peterson back to the B&B to sit by the phone, nurse his headache and contemplate his future as a human being--never mind an agent--if Doyle turned up with so much as frostbite.
Bodie squinted into the distance again. About fifty yards ahead was the edge of what looked like a fairly substantial copse of trees. It was the only change in landscape, everything else a rolling blanket of white as far as the eye could see. Any tracks were long gone, and the thought that the falling snow would have covered up blood and a body by now made him clench his jaw and fix his eyes on the woods. Doyle was in there. Had to be.
Some fifty minutes later he wasn't so sure. The woods were thicker than he'd anticipated and the uneven ground and falling snow were reducing his speed and visibility even more. There was a path, which even his African trained senses could track and follow, and which he knew was his and Doyle's best bet. If Doyle were alone, then he'd figure it as his one shot at leading to something or somewhere. If Doyle were with the sheep-shaggers, they'd not be competent soldiers enough to branch out. And if Doyle were wounded, then all bets were off and it really didn't matter if Bodie stumbled round in circles calling out his name.
He'd fallen twice, not badly, but enough to know he was fighting his own clock as well as Doyle's. The cold was seeping into more than his clothes, he could feel tendrils of it whispering through his body now, turning down sensation and clarity, sapping his will to stay sharp and focused.
He blinked, sure of movement off to his left. Cursing the snow and his lethargy, he spun as fast as he could and knew it was still dangerously slow. He fell rather than dived for cover and the gun weighed heavy as he drew in a painful breath and tried to focus. If it didn't hurt so fucking much he'd've been tempted to laugh at the picture he was presenting. Some rescue mission. All they were going to find was a lifesize icicle, gun in hand, legs spread behind him in the snow. He could be chipped out by archaeologists and end up with a tag on his toe in a museum somewhere. He flinched at a sudden noise and narrowed his vision. It took a second to realise it had been his own bark of laughter. And another to realise he was in trouble now... Fuck, he was drifting badly. He bit his lip hard, an old survival trick, which sharpened his vision as the blood punctured out, but the shape was to his right now and closing fast.
On a gasp he turned, struggling to get fingers he couldn't feel to just wrap themselves around his bloody gun…
A hand on his shoulder almost stopped his heart. Then a warm voice gusted the wind out of his ear."This you rescuing me then, Bodie?"
It made no sense, and Bodie was sure that any second the numbed circuits in his brain were going to blink out this hallucination, but for right now it appeared as Doyle, wrapped up from head to toe, and hauling him ungently to his feet and talking about the fire brigade. Or something. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell this apparition to piss the fuck off and just leave him be, when his arm was dragged unceremoniously across a pair of shoulders and his feet were urged forward.
"Couldn't save a cat up a bloody tree, you couldn't. Come on, handsome, we need to get moving."
At that point Bodie knew it was real. Any appariton of his own conjuring would have been nicer to him. He let his head sag in relief and for once in his life he took the easier option; he closed his mouth and simply let his partner lead the way.
******
If he’d had the coordination, he’d’ve pinched himself. After an interminable trudge up some kind of incline out of the woods, Doyle had produced a key and pushed him through the door of some kind of stone-walled cottage...
... into a warmth that took the air from his lungs it hurt so much.
Hustled into a chair while he bit his lip and tried not to make unseemly noises, he actually let Doyle get him out of his jacket before he got a grip on both himself and Doyle's wrist.
"Doyle..." he managed, stilling his partner as he was rising.
“What?”
Bodie looked past Doyle, to the bare but snug one-room wide cottage, to the small fire in the grate he’d been plonked next to, and then up to the rosy and apparently unharmed cheeks of his partner.
He gave up.
“Joined the c-cause, have you? We burning this down in a m-minute?”
“You know me, I never could resist a bleeding heart. Even a Welsh one.” Doyle was there in front of him, pink of face and cheery of grin, and Bodie was tempted to see if his own face worked enough yet for him to give one back, but he was still playing catch up and Doyle was just not helping.
Something in his expression must have given him away, because Doyle straightened quickly and walked away to drape Bodie’s sodden parka over a small wooden chair. “I know, I know, but I’ll fill you in while you warm up, mate.” He shook his head and nodded at the parka.“Only you could wear that and still turn blue. Hang about and I’ll put some tea on. There’s a pan and a gas-ring around here somewhere.”
So Bodie sat there, trying to concentrate while Doyle threw wood on the fire, pottered, and talked. It seemed that there’d been this girl that bomber number one and bomber number two had fancied, only bomber number three had called them both wankers and slept with her first. Which had led to fisticuffs, to Doyle getting in the middle and pulling them apart, and then to him getting coshed over the head for his troubles.
“Fucking junkies.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Started dipping in, haven’t they? They’re more concerned about their next fix than burning anything down anymore. Hopeless, mate, just hopeless.”
“Well, I did tell you.”
Doyle turned from across the room.
“You certainly did.”
Bodie shifted a little at the look he was getting. He waved his hand vaguely. “And this place?”
Doyle turned back to whatever he was doing at the small worktop.
“It’s owned by an English fisherman. Due to go up in a little inferno a week tomorrow. The idiots forgot I had the keys and that I’d seen the map. After I got away, I stayed hidden until they’d shouted themselves out and gone back to their car. Then I made straight for this place. I cut my hands free and got a fire going to stop me toes falling off. Then I helped myself to some of Mr Fisherman’s woollies, and voila. I was just trying to get back to the road when I saw you staggering about on the forest floor.”
Bodie bristled.“Wasn’t staggering.”
Doyle turned around again and favoured him with another kind of look. The kind that thawed him out a bit faster.
“’Course you weren’t, Bambi. My hero.”
Before he could muster a suitable reply, Doyle had picked up a mug and brought it over. Bodie reached to take it, but that much sudden heat on his fingers was too much and he hissed sharply.
“Oops,” said Doyle, immediately taking the mug back. He crouched down and put it on the floor between Bodie and the fire. Then he disarmed Bodie completely by staying where he was. Decidedly wary, Bodie watched as Doyle leant forward and took hold of Bodie’s cold hands. He began rubbing at them with his own warm fingers.
“Can’t have you not holding a cup of tea, sunshine. The world’ll slip off its axis, or something.”
Said with such unexpected gentleness, and all the while smiling at him from a foot away. As if the act of getting Bodie warm again was the highlight and privilege of Doyle’s day.
On an impulse he didn’t understand but was powerless to resist, Bodie did one of the easiest, strangest things he’d ever done. He moved forward, took his hands out of Doyle’s, and wrapped his arms around his kneeling partner until his cold fingers met somewhere under the man’s shoulderblades. Then Bodie just stayed there, swaying a little and soaking in a different kind of warmth from the fire on his left. The fire popped and crackled, Doyle’s rib cage lifted and fell steadily against Bodie’s--his partner apparently unfazed by his impulse--and Bodie’s heart thudded noisily in his chest. He wondered if Doyle could hear it. He had no idea how to extricate himself, and no idea what to say when he did. But he had always been one to take what he wanted from life, and right then, this was what he wanted.
“Is this you apologising?”
Bodie smiled into a few curls. Then he exhaled, utterly relieved. Trust bloody Doyle. Always knew the right thing to say.
His embarrassment suddenly gone, he squeezed harder, strength and warmth returning nicely. “Could be. Could be I just need a cuddle to warm me up quicker.”
“Nah. This is you apologising.”
Doyle’s palms were smoothing a slow circle on his back and Bodie shut his eyes to savour the sensation. He swallowed. “If you say so, mate.”
“I do, and I accept.” Doyle was the first to pull back. He crinkled his nose and matter of factly got to his feet, as if they hugged everyday of their lives, and just the bending down part to do it was the drawback. Which, Bodie thought idly, could be remedied...
“Drink your tea and we’ll nick some more of Mr Fisherman’s gear for you. The snow’s eased off and we should think about getting back to civilisation and a phone. What happened to Peterson, by the way? Has he survived your tender—
“You in the cottage! You are surrounded by armed police! Come out with your hands up!”
Both men froze. Doyle turned slowly back to Bodie, eyebrow raised. “You gave him a megaphone?”
Bodie rolled his eyes. “Two sugars no milk.”
“Eh?”
“What Peterson takes in his tea. He’s using a megaphone--or a nicked traffic cone knowing him--because that’s him all on his tod out there.”
Doyle nodded his approval. “Initiative, Cowley will approve.”
“Not when he sees what the prat did to the car, he won’t.” Bodie stretched, feeling human again. He was strangely unwilling to let Peterson and the outside world in to this odd little sanctuary. He eyed Doyle, who, if the look softening his face was anything to go by, was feeling the same damn thing and about to walk back to him, not to the front door. Bodie sighed and made a shooing motion.“Go on, Ray, identify yourself. We’ll get the pillock in, defrost him, and make him drive us home. How does that sound?”
The smile Bodie got back was blinding, and way out of proportion.
“Sounds like a slice of heaven, mate.”
And Bodie knew he had it bad when he had to admit that somewhere in the space of an hour, a slice of heaven had turned into being trapped in a pranged-up Capri with his partner.
He smiled to himself.
One sanctuary to another then.
******
Title: Sanctuary
Author: Callisto
Gen or Slash: pre-slash
Archive Proslib/Circuit: Sure
Disclaimer: Nope, Santa still didn’t give them to me.
Notes: Thanks to the lovely
ancastar, who deserves extra eggnog for beta’ing this as soon as she survived a chilly snow-delayed journey home. Hugs to you, darlin’. And a hug for the title too. And apologies for Bodie’s attitude to Wales here. I myself grew up there and have decided not to take offence because the poor lad was under a lot of stress.
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Date: 2008-12-28 09:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 10:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 10:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 10:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 10:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 10:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 11:19 am (UTC)Thank you! I love the transition from cold to warmth--sanctuary indeed, and on more than one level. And I love their reaction to it all. It's just nice and warm and right. Cheers.
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Date: 2008-12-28 11:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 11:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 12:18 pm (UTC)Aww - Bodie as Bambi gives me the biggest grin. Brilliant. I love the usually-grumpy Doyle being all sweetness and light while riding to the rescue, and the hug is so perfectly them. My only complaint is Peterson pitching up just when things were getting interesting. ::sigh:: The lad has bad timing for sure *g*
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Date: 2008-12-28 12:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 12:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 01:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 01:35 pm (UTC)Thank you!
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Date: 2008-12-28 01:44 pm (UTC)Really not getting on Bodie's good side at all, is he?
Nor mine ::pouts::
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Date: 2008-12-28 01:59 pm (UTC)Yea for mush! LOL! Which you do so prettily. *kat ducks*
(sergeant *g*)
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Date: 2008-12-28 02:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 02:49 pm (UTC)At that point Bodie knew it was real. Any appariton of his own conjuring would have been nicer to him.
*lol* That sounds exactly how I imagine Bodie talks in his head :)
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Date: 2008-12-28 03:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-28 03:33 pm (UTC)Wonderful, thank you!
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Date: 2008-12-28 04:25 pm (UTC)