discoveredinalj | Fic: I Believe in Father Christmas

Like a complete twig, I have messed my dates up and so have to post this now even though my actual day is tomorrow! My apologies go especially to

m31andy ,

byslantedlight and

empty_mirrors, who have had to untangle the mess I've managed to wrangle up with this. I'm really sorry, ladies! D:

I Believe in Father Christmas

“Come on, Ray, shake a leg, will you?”

The voice, filtering in through the spiced air, had been hanging over Doyle’s head for the past half hour. Bodie was in the other room, ironing his dress shirt a little too efficiently. Doyle always used to take the piss out of his partner for his seldom-revealed obsessive tendencies when it came to neatness and domestic chores. Until the time Bodie turned round and said that, unlike some people, he wasn’t allergic to looking presentable.

Doyle glared at himself in the mirror above the fireplace, finally gave up the struggle and stepped back. Too bloody right. That was it. His knees were too hot and everything was hopeless. Defeated by a bloody bow-tie.

“I don’t see why we have to wear dickie-bows tonight, anyway,” he fumed loudly, taking his frustrations out on the innocent coal-scuttle by his side by booting it as hard as he could.

Bodie wandered in from the other room, shirt open and still-warm from the ironing board. He gave Doyle a steady, amused look but otherwise stayed quiet as the as the iron scuttle rang with the force of his partner’s kick.

Coming closer, hands reaching out, he took the two ends of Doyle’s bow-tie and deftly twisted them into a sharp bow. Without stopping, he patted Doyle’s cheek and stepped back to survey his handiwork.

A large grin spread itself instantly across his features, and he reached out and tugged at Doyle’s lop-sided collar.

“Only you can make a suit like that look scruffy, d’you know that?”

“It’s just a Christmas dinner,” Doyle protested, pulling self-consciously at his dress shirt and cummerbund. His anxiety lent a hiss to his tone, a foul twist to his mouth.

“Don’t see why we have to get all tarted up for it, anyway.”

Tarted up was one way of putting it, Bodie thought. He looked quite the picture in his suit, did Ray Doyle. Strange to see him so ill at ease in his own skin. But Bodie understood why all too well. He wasn’t going to be the first to say it, though.

“Anyway, you’re one to talk, flower,” Doyle narrowed his eyes meanly, glaring at Bodie’s rarely-seen chest.

Bodie looked down and took the hint, turning away to do up his buttons.

He sniffed. “Don’t know why you’re getting so wound up about it. Just a stupid meet-and-greet, isn’t it? Just got to show your pretty face, keep the ministers happy you’re real.”

“And not just some nameless spook, right?” Doyle spat with probably a lot more venom than he intended, running his hands through his hair - as if that was going to do anything to tame it to the standards of the stuffy politicians Cowley wanted them to suck up to.

He sighed heavily, but caught the look Bodie was giving him, and raised his chin. “Whatever. Free bar, right?”

“Too right,” Bodie nodded, but his eyes were still keen. Too keen. So Doyle turned away and started searching for his house keys, which were forever losing themselves in his over-cluttered living room, filled with bits and bobs Doyle had bought - always bought - to make a new flat feel more like a home. To make him feel more human.

“Come on, then, bugger-lugs. You ready or what?” Doyle was already half-out the door, stuffing his new-found keys in his jacket pocket, ruining the line of the suit cut. He was clearly eager to get this over with. Bodie couldn’t blame him.

“Never ready for stuff like this, me.” Bodie, buttoning his own suit, followed him. He grabbed his parka from the stand in the hallway. It was bloody cold out, swanky dinner suit or not.

Doyle gave him a small smile, catching his eye as he opened the front door, but it was more for Bodie’s sake than out of any real amusement.

They stepped out into the frosted air, and tried not to notice how it pinched their cheeks.

As they walked in silence around the corner to the ginnel garage Doyle had, Bodie thought back on the events of the past week, making sure he kept his objectivity.

The conference they had been covering had turned into a bloody nightmare, in every sense of the word. The attack had come suddenly, and they had been cut off from the epicentre of the panic, their only information in that locked and bolted room coming from a bug they’d planted earlier. Just in case. Their protection had been spread too thinly and people had died. Cowley had died.

Bodie’s breath came harsh suddenly, and he huffed a big white cloud into the winter air. Doyle glanced at him in the darkness but said nothing. He disappeared in the night, dipping under the garage door, while Bodie waited on the pavement.

Except he hadn’t died, had he? A training exercise for the whole outfit, to expose all the holes and flaws in their make-up. Areas for improvement. A clinical, efficient way of seeing how they reacted under the most extreme pressure. An exposition of a chain of command, broken. They had to be the best of the best, and they had to be prepared to be ruthless. It was all a matter of trust.

In such cold, business-like terms, Bodie found comfort. He understood, truly he did, that they needed to know how to react when something so… catastrophic happened. Cowley, likewise, needed to know how they would react. Whether they would crumble away into nothing, whether they would band together. Who would lead and who would follow.

Car headlights flooded him, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes.

Doyle’s face, though. Doyle’s face behind his shaking gun, when Cowley stepped out from behind the door. What Bodie had felt didn’t matter because Doyle’s face had been the thing to crumble. And it hadn’t looked the same since.

A sharp, dog-whistle in the wintry silence of the night. He looked down to see Doyle pulling a horrible face at him through the car window, nose pressed against the glass. He punched it lightly, and watched in satisfaction as Doyle jerked away with a scrunched face, blinking and shaking his head like a dog.

“Gotcha,” Bodie chuckled, and went round the other side of the car, slipping into the passenger seat.

By the time he looked back, the smile still on his face as they pulled out of the cul-de-sac, Doyle once again had that face on him. The one that made Bodie want to punch him for being so incessantly hard on himself.

Doyle had lowered the gun he’d had trained on the face of the MP who was making every attempt to leave the room, something Ci5 were trained in such situations to prevent happening. His trembling arm had dropped, and simply stared at Cowley as if he didn’t know who he was. Bodie, shaking with wasted adrenaline and pure, unadulterated fear after hours of experiencing what was suddenly the worst thing in the world, had laughed. Had thrown his head back and laughed like a madman. But Doyle hadn’t laughed since.

It had been days. This wasn’t out of the ordinary - Doyle could work a bad temper for weeks - but for some reason, this was different. Bodie, secure with his place in the universe (or, rather, the sewer) and the order of things, felt like the rug had been pulled out from under him, so god help reach-for-the-stars, bloody question-everything-under-the-sun Raymond Doyle. There was something silent and sad about this mood he’d been in, and Bodie could barely bring himself to examine the possible reasons for it, for fear of what he might uncover. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Except he did. Really loads.

Spurred on by this childish impulse to know completely, in the sudden, jarring quiet of the car, Bodie grew brave under the cover of darkness.

“He had to see,” he said softly, and held his breath, watching for the warning sign.

He wasn’t expecting Doyle to just sigh. “I know.”

And that, apparently, was all Doyle had to say on the matter. The mingled expression on his face implied otherwise, but his lips were pressed firmly together, drawing his face tight against his bones, and Bodie didn’t know where to go from there. But that had never stopped him before, so he opened his mouth.

“Fuck!” Doyle swerved the car to one side, sending Bodie crashing into the window as he pulled over with a jerk. He scrabbled for the door and crashed outside, the cold air swarming into the car and making Bodie gasp. He heard the sound of his partner retching and bushes rustling.

Shit, Bodie thought, this was really tearing him up. He had to sort this out. Ignoring the dick-head in the white cortina, stabbing the horn as they passed the car, Bodie opened his door and ran round the front of the car.

Doyle was standing, doubled over the dusty beam of the headlamp with his hands braced on his thighs, throwing up while trying to keep his face as far away from his tux as possible. Inappropriately, Bodie realised he was vaguely impressed.

He thought he should do something. Rub his back or something equally awkward but well-intentioned. But, knowing Doyle, he might bite his hand off, so best not. He needed to do something with his arms. Bodie crossed them, and leaned on the bonnet of the car.

Doyle spat bile into the frosted ground, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his lips drawn back against his teeth. He was breathing heavily, and he wouldn’t look at Bodie. He looked as if he were about to bolt, his feet and body starting out in several different directions at once, intent on getting away.

“Sit,” Bodie ordered.

It was telling that Doyle didn’t bristle, he just did as he was told. “Sat,” he said, hitting the side of the car with a thump, his back to Bodie.

His shoulders, which would normally have been somewhere in the region of his ears under such circumstances, held a downward tilt under the suit jacket which was beginning to spot with the slight sleet that had begun to drift from the dark sky. Bodie sighed.

“Look… this is shit,” he said, for lack of anything more appropriate or helpful.

Doyle laughed, but it was a mirthless noise that barked up into the cold air in a puff of bitterness. “Yeah,” he said, looking upwards into the falling snow. “It really is.”

By rights, Bodie should have felt smug - and a year ago, he knew, he would have done: everything he’d ever said about the mob and their kind had been proven right. They were completely expendable, their lives were worth nothing compared with the good of the country. They weren’t even worth anything to Cowley, really.

Bodie swallowed - the truth, in itself, was surprisingly hard to take, considering he’d known it all along. Sometimes it felt like Cowley looked out for them in particular, saved them when they should have been killed in the line of duty, scolded them when they should have been fired. But Bodie knew all too well that this was an illusion born only of getting soft.

Doyle, poor lad, had been born soft. And this latest and biggest betrayal was apparently his giddy limit. And it was hurting him so much he couldn’t even hide it anymore.

“Look,” Bodie tried again, but faltered. He shifted position, his bum getting cold on the bonnet of the Capri. He cleared his throat. “Look, this is shit, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

He was expecting to be shouted at. He was expecting to be sneered at. To be honest, he was expecting Doyle to skyrocket off the side of the car and go up in a big ball of self-righteous flames. At the very least a laugh for being so ‘naïve’… He certainly was not expecting Doyle to just nod, his head bowed under acceptance. Since when had Doyle accepted real life so readily? Since when had the awkward little bugger accepted anything at all?

“Bollocks, it’s too cold for this,” Bodie said, pushing himself off the bonnet, and curling his arms deeper into his parka. He went around and stood in front of his partner, and promptly punched him in the shoulder. Not hard, but enough.

“Ow-wuh!” Doyle was brought sharply out of his mood with a scowl, clutching the front of his shoulder. He glared up Bodie through his glowering eyebrows, green eyes finally dangerous. “What’d you have to do something like that for, you prick?”

Bodie smothered his smile at how quickly Doyle could jack-knife. He tried to encourage the familiar irritation by beaming an obnoxious smirk at him. “That’s more like it. Now I know you’re real, don’t I?”

Doyle’s furious face softened at that, his mulish look melting away under Bodie’s attempt to make things right again. But the smile still wasn’t there, and that was what Bodie wanted for Christmas.

“Look,” he said again, and flinched, because it was the fiftieth time he’d done so in the past half-hour. “It doesn’t matter what happened because, really, who gives a fuck? I don’t need to believe in Cowley. I don’t need to believe in any of that shite. I’ve got you… And you’re enough for anyone, believe me.”

Doyle snorted, and looked away. “Cheers very much,” he said, and though the words were said harshly and the eyes were rolled, Bodie knew implicitly that he meant it. There were those tiny crinkles at the corners of his mismatched eyes that Bodie loved to make appear.

He watched as Doyle sniffed in a deep breath, and blew it out through his mouth. “Come on, then. Let’s go home.”

Bodie grinned, and turned away, walking back around the side of the car. “You and Father Christmas: only people I’ve ever believed in,” he called over his shoulder as he did so.

And that did make Doyle laugh. A lot.

Title: I Believe in Father Christmas
Author: ailcia/Alice
Slash or Gen: Either or, really.
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Please, ma'am.
Disclaimer: They will be mine. Oh yes. They will be mine.
Notes: I'll be honest, this is based massively on an amazing episode of the modern-day spy show Spooks that sent my flat absolutely mental a few weeks ago. Credit where it's due, like: it was an awesome episode. Also, thanks to alchemywow for doing the decent thing and betaing this like a champ: my apologies for not being able to address the POV switch in the first paragraph go entirely to her! Hope you liked - festive love to you all. :D

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I haven't seen 'Spooks', so I don't have a particular episode of that show to relate to. I thought this was very much in keeping with the darker side of Pros. I liked it very much, especially the line “You and Father Christmas: only people I’ve ever believed in" and Doyle's reaction at the end.

To be honest, knowledge of the episode is not essential, it was more that I nabbed the idea of their boss pretending to be dead in a situation set up to test the abilities of his spies. The episode ended with the reveal, but I was more interested in what happened after - and the whole episode made me think so much of our lads and their 'mobile ghetto', I couldn't resist! Thought I'd better disclaimer it, anyway.

ANYWAY, I'm really very pleased you liked it and thought it was in keeping with the show! Thanks for reading, too! :D

Edited 2009-01-03 13:08 (UTC)

Doyle’s...mulish look melting away under Bodie’s attempt to make things right again. But the smile still wasn’t there, and that was what Bodie wanted for Christmas. Just one lovely line amongst many that I could pull out and quote at you. Full of all the touches you do so well: inarticulate lads still managing to get through to each other ( Bodie's jab to Doyle's arm was particularly endearing - as was his "You and Father Christmas" line), Doyle taking it all to heart reach-for-the-stars, bloody question-everything-under-the-sun Raymond Doyle (love this description of him, btw:)), and all those great London touches - the dick-head in the Cortina, for instance.*g*

Fabulous, Alice. This has quite made my Saturday.

Edited 2009-01-03 14:13 (UTC)

Yaaaay! Thankyou, love: once again your fic comments have made me dance about a bit! I'm so glad to have helped make your Saturday! :D

I had to read this twice to get it, but once I did (and that's my fault for being dense) it really packed a punch. This was great. I can so much see Doyle realizing that he can't believe in anything that he had believed in, and I can see Bodie getting him to know that there was one thing he could believe in.

Also, good job having Bodie being able and willing to iron. IMHO, one can't survive the military w/o being good w/ an iron.

Lovely, thank you! I particularly enjoyed Bodie's method of sorting things out, including the thump on the shoulder - that seems like such a Bodie way of getting on with life. *g*

Thanks again.

No worries - thank YOU for reading! I'm well chuffed you liked it!

Bodie's a soldier at heart, isn't he? :D

You did a fine job keeping the lads so much themselves. Bodie's way of handling Doyle was spot on. And by the end, Doyle had to know that Bodie was the one who would always be there. Thanks.

Oh, thankyou very much! Am always worried about my characterisation and I had a sudden crisis when I realised Bodie fanonically never really punches Doyle (and here's my second fic in a row where he lamps him! *g*) - so you've set my heart at ease! Glad you liked! :D

I always thought that Cowleys triple thinkings, his betrayals are not often enough mentioned in fanfiction. I think it is very interesting how Bodie and Doyle handle it.
And you solution : " And you’re enough for anyone, believe me." is very nice! :-) The only possible solution if they don't want to leave CI5.
Thanks!
May I ask a question? Which name is your author's name? ailcia or Alice?

I agree with you, and I think it's well worth a look into... If I was ever able to handle anything resembling a plot in any of my fics, I'd give it a go, myself! But, yeah, the mobile ghetto thing is exactly what I love the most about the lads: they've literally only got each other!

I'm really pleased you liked it - thankyou very much for reading and letting me know your thoughts!

My real name is Alice, but my author's name is

ailcia... I just like things a bit more personal, and there's a lot of folk on my flist over here so, aye! :D

Oh my God they've killed Cowley! (apologies for South Park lapse *g*)

Very nice take on your prompt for the day. I must admit to doing a double-take at the 'Cowley had died' line, and then had to read on quick to find out what happens! Very nice, thank you!

No need to apologise for South Park references - made me laugh!

Thankyou very much! I realised I was pushing the boat out, somewhat, but I'm glad people thought it was interesting! :D

Oh, just what I needed on a snowy Monday morning! This was lovely, totally Alice, and I adored the set-up, cos I can just see Cowley doing that, and being that ruthless with them, even though they want to think that he'd look after them really - just oh for that tinge of betrayal that they're always living with, and I can so see them reacting like that, and... that were brill, that were! Thank you! *g*

So many things to love about this. I still can't decide which I like more - the mock exercise with Cowley at the centre of it because I think 'tis a facet of Cowley's personality which doesn't get explored that much in fic, or the different ways the lads cope with the Cow's "betrayal" and their uncertainty. And the ending, the ending! The eye-roll, and Bodie's parting line... *happy sigh* Not to mention the attention paid to their surroundings, the frosty ground the dusty beam of the headlamp (so much love for this line) and the white cortina.

Thank you for this!

Sharp as a tack, as always - love all your meticulous detail (Doyle's knees being too hot when he tries to use the mirror over the fireplace got to me somehow!) but most of all I love the fact that the one thing that can really get to Bodie in all this is the fact that Doyle seems to have been beaten down by it. That for him this is worse, or more important anyway, than his own feeling of betrayal, his own thoughts about having softened up a bit to wanting Cowley to care about them. They can rely on each other, never mind all the double and triple Cowley throws at them ... nice one!

I'm far more taken than I should be with Bodie being impressed at Doyle's efforts to keep his suit clean. *g*

Deftly done Petal, with a really believable reaction from both the lads to the events with Cowley.

Thanks! ♥

Fic: I Believe in Father Christmas

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