Burn's Night Fic
Jan. 25th, 2009 03:06 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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discoveredinaljI'd had nary an idea for this challenge, until Callisto mentioned the following subject. So here, thanks to herself, is a 'Doyle's Scarf Fic'.
Tartanesque
Amidst chaos, Liz stood quietly alone, feeling rather like a goddess who dwelt timelessly in the eye of a hurricane.
Such was the nature of her assignment.
The turmoil didn't touch her; nearby was only empty space. Variegated brick and concrete, tarmac and mud, rubbish and weeds marred the ground where she stood, but at a distance, so that she felt apart from the filth. Everywhere was noise, of anguish, anger and accusations, pleas for assistance, shouted commands and dissent. Explosions rocketed debris as burning walls crumbled, releasing acrid oily waves of flame-tainted atmosphere.
She inhaled carefully, ready to cough politely into the sleeve of her coat.
The fire brigade was now out in force, she noted, and the confusion was subsiding into a semblance of order as the local constables claimed control.
Upon a field of grey lay an incongruous splash of vivid colour, almost like a butterfly settled briefly upon a disposal bin, or a single insignificant blossom appearing transiently in the accumulated dirt of a pavement crack.
She felt irresistibly drawn to rescue the scrap.
"Tsk, 9.1," Cowley scolded. "You know better than to disturb objects at a crime scene."
"It's Doyle's," she asserted impassively, careful to offer the justification without any semblance of insubordination.
The Old Man took it from her and examined the fabric. "Doyle's? Surely not." His mind seemed entirely focused on the scene, even as he replied. "An Irish tartan, aye, but representing County Tyrone, and therefore more likely Bodie's."
"Oh," she nodded agreement, although she certainly had seen Ray wearing the red scarf earlier that day. However, with all said and done, Cowley was still Controller, and not to be contradicted lightly.
"A modern plaid, like most of the bright ones; ye couldna' well hide in the heather wearing that, eh?" He continued the lecture to her, even as he interrupted himself to bark orders into his R./T. "More recent than most of those in Scotland, which are generally not particularly old, either. Still, tartan is an attestation to the Celtic spirit, and therefore worthy of itself."
"Yes, sir."
"Have we any word yet, from DIS?"
"Not yet."
"Give them another ten minutes, and then stir them again."
"Yes, sir."
"A modern plaid for an ancient warrior family," he resumed as if certain of her ability to follow any conversational thread he chose amongst the tangled many. "Clan Aoidh Bhuidie, descending from Niall of the Nine Hostages, himself. A regal lineage, that. Ah ha, I must speak with the Chief Inspector there, I wont be a moment." The Old Man stalked off, still clasping the red scarf in one hand.
Half an hour later, he finally returned to his motor. As Liz started the engine, the Old Man slid into the passenger seat beside her. "What agents have we still in the field?"
"Williams and Tate on distance obs in Gorton. Bodie, Doyle and Anson at hospital. Murphy, Jax, Sally and Ruth still on site here. There's eight more of 'A Squad' continuing at the Latimer House conferences. All others are at HQ or on R/T standby."
Cowley glared at his wrist watch. "We'll can spare a few minutes to dash by Guys, then." He scrubbed his hand over his chin, worrying his slightly untidy bristles with open displeasure.
Glancing aside, Liz caught him in a look that she only could assess as deep weariness. She focused carefully back on the road, giving him a moment to himself. When next she viewed him from the corner of her eye, she found him dusting the scarf, teasing at a smear of crusted mud and blood.
"I'd meant to wash that for Doyle, erm, Bodie I mean," she smiled slightly. "If you'll leave it with me, I'll see to it."
"Aye," Cowley nodded absently. And then, in a tone she'd never before heard from the Controller, he murmured, "O wert thou in the cauld blast, on yonder lea, on yonder lea, my plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee."
Liz held her breath a moment then, in hopes of more, but all in vain. It was lovely stuff to her hearing, and wistfully rendered, however ephemeral. She exhaled on a sigh, then grabbed up the R/T. "9.1 to HQ. Status on agents at hospital?"
"HQ to 9.1. Just spoke to Anson. He's all patched up and only waiting for a ride."
"Tell him we're en route. The others?"
"Walking-wounded and surly as wasp- stung bears."
"Understood. Will approach with all due caution," Liz declared solemnly. She was delighted to detect a slight guffaw from Cowley's vicinity, as she accelerated the car in the direction of the hospital.
Later at headquarters, Liz was yearning for something, anything to eat, to the point of distraction. She had a tremor in her hands that she thought might herald a low blood sugar. This was not a good thing, since she knew she could lose her carefully husbanded patience and fortitude when she got hungry.
Matters were still somewhat chaotic at HQ. She decided to foray for food in the rest room, resolved to make a provisions-run, in the absence of edible substances there. She judged herself a nasty chit when she was hungry, but some of the other agents, Bodie especially came to mind, got positively dangerous.
As she arrived at the rest room, she became aware of some raucous hilarity. She ducked inside to view the show.
Sutured, singed, and still reeking of smoke, Bodie and Doyle held centre stage.
"Give me that," Doyle grabbed at the scarf with his unbandaged hand.
"It's mine." Laughing, Bodie easily blocked the maneuver. He held the scarf, this one a sea green and deep blue plaid, high over his partner's curly head.
"The red one's yours, twit. That one's for County Leinster. 'Doyle' is the most numerous family name in Leinster."
Bodie's brow scrunched, disturbing a burn dressing on his forehead. "Well, then, I'm 'olding this 'ostage until you return mine."
"Oh!" Doyle looked suddenly contrite, as the probable fate of the red scarf occurred to his imagination. His forlorn pout was irresistible.
"I've washed the mud off it. It's hanging out to dry in the ladies' locker room," Liz kindly informed him.
Instantly, Doyle's expression went from woebegone to wicked. "I shall go fetch it straight away. Ruth and Sally still showering, are they?"
"Oi! It's my scarf, you said. I'll go get it," Bodie hastily crammed the green scarf into Ray's hand.
Doyle shoved back, initiating a tussle.
Anson, with his arm in a sling and swath, stood well back from the action. He winked at Liz. "Murph is dating triplets," he advised her, as if that explained everything.
"Oh?" she began, and then blushed when her stomach growled audibly.
"Three bewitching honey blondes," Murphy spoke up from the comfy chair in the corner. "Absolutely identical. Can't tell them apart to save my soul. Recruited these two louts to help me squire them about town, lest I expire from sheer exhaustion, you know?"
"Oh," Liz nodded agreement, rather distracted by hunger pangs, from the otherwise fascinating tale.
"Seems they're into Scottish Country Dancing, complete with the wearing of authentic tartan costume," Anson winked at Liz. "Can't you just picture Murphy, Bodie and Doyle, all clad in kilts flapping in the breeze?"
"Seems like you lot have done your research. " As the invoked picture of manifest masculine charm intruded rather vividly on her imagination, Liz shivered. Maybe she was giddy from hunger and unspent adrenalin, and it was this biochemistry that motivated her to speak. "So, very likely you've discovered the answer. Properly, what is worn under a kilt?" She wriggled her eyebrows suggestively.
The handsome threesome exchanged glances but failed to answer.
Cowley's voice cracked the stunned silence. "Nothing!" he declared imperiously.
Startled but determined to brave out the scene, with a merely interested demeanor, Liz turned to face their Controller, who'd just arrived unnoticed.
"That is the correct answer to your question, 9.1. Properly, nothing is worn under a man's kilt." Cowley's pale blue eyes twinkled as he set a large tin of fresh, buttery, aromatic shortbread on the rest room table. "No, lass. Nothing is WORN under a kilt, as everything there must be maintained in perfect working order."
Leaving the youngsters to consider his pun, the Old Man pivoted smartly, and chuckling, withdrew to the peaceful quiet of his office.
Quotation notation: Cowley quotes my personal favorite of Robert Burn's poetry, "O Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast" which follows in its entirety. [Bodie and Doyle's Tyrone and Leinster plaids can be seen at the tartan navigator, linda clifford dot com.]
O wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee;
Or did Misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it aw, to share it aw.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a Paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I Monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my Crown
Wuid be my Queen, wuid be my Queen.
Tartanesque
Amidst chaos, Liz stood quietly alone, feeling rather like a goddess who dwelt timelessly in the eye of a hurricane.
Such was the nature of her assignment.
The turmoil didn't touch her; nearby was only empty space. Variegated brick and concrete, tarmac and mud, rubbish and weeds marred the ground where she stood, but at a distance, so that she felt apart from the filth. Everywhere was noise, of anguish, anger and accusations, pleas for assistance, shouted commands and dissent. Explosions rocketed debris as burning walls crumbled, releasing acrid oily waves of flame-tainted atmosphere.
She inhaled carefully, ready to cough politely into the sleeve of her coat.
The fire brigade was now out in force, she noted, and the confusion was subsiding into a semblance of order as the local constables claimed control.
Upon a field of grey lay an incongruous splash of vivid colour, almost like a butterfly settled briefly upon a disposal bin, or a single insignificant blossom appearing transiently in the accumulated dirt of a pavement crack.
She felt irresistibly drawn to rescue the scrap.
"Tsk, 9.1," Cowley scolded. "You know better than to disturb objects at a crime scene."
"It's Doyle's," she asserted impassively, careful to offer the justification without any semblance of insubordination.
The Old Man took it from her and examined the fabric. "Doyle's? Surely not." His mind seemed entirely focused on the scene, even as he replied. "An Irish tartan, aye, but representing County Tyrone, and therefore more likely Bodie's."
"Oh," she nodded agreement, although she certainly had seen Ray wearing the red scarf earlier that day. However, with all said and done, Cowley was still Controller, and not to be contradicted lightly.
"A modern plaid, like most of the bright ones; ye couldna' well hide in the heather wearing that, eh?" He continued the lecture to her, even as he interrupted himself to bark orders into his R./T. "More recent than most of those in Scotland, which are generally not particularly old, either. Still, tartan is an attestation to the Celtic spirit, and therefore worthy of itself."
"Yes, sir."
"Have we any word yet, from DIS?"
"Not yet."
"Give them another ten minutes, and then stir them again."
"Yes, sir."
"A modern plaid for an ancient warrior family," he resumed as if certain of her ability to follow any conversational thread he chose amongst the tangled many. "Clan Aoidh Bhuidie, descending from Niall of the Nine Hostages, himself. A regal lineage, that. Ah ha, I must speak with the Chief Inspector there, I wont be a moment." The Old Man stalked off, still clasping the red scarf in one hand.
Half an hour later, he finally returned to his motor. As Liz started the engine, the Old Man slid into the passenger seat beside her. "What agents have we still in the field?"
"Williams and Tate on distance obs in Gorton. Bodie, Doyle and Anson at hospital. Murphy, Jax, Sally and Ruth still on site here. There's eight more of 'A Squad' continuing at the Latimer House conferences. All others are at HQ or on R/T standby."
Cowley glared at his wrist watch. "We'll can spare a few minutes to dash by Guys, then." He scrubbed his hand over his chin, worrying his slightly untidy bristles with open displeasure.
Glancing aside, Liz caught him in a look that she only could assess as deep weariness. She focused carefully back on the road, giving him a moment to himself. When next she viewed him from the corner of her eye, she found him dusting the scarf, teasing at a smear of crusted mud and blood.
"I'd meant to wash that for Doyle, erm, Bodie I mean," she smiled slightly. "If you'll leave it with me, I'll see to it."
"Aye," Cowley nodded absently. And then, in a tone she'd never before heard from the Controller, he murmured, "O wert thou in the cauld blast, on yonder lea, on yonder lea, my plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee."
Liz held her breath a moment then, in hopes of more, but all in vain. It was lovely stuff to her hearing, and wistfully rendered, however ephemeral. She exhaled on a sigh, then grabbed up the R/T. "9.1 to HQ. Status on agents at hospital?"
"HQ to 9.1. Just spoke to Anson. He's all patched up and only waiting for a ride."
"Tell him we're en route. The others?"
"Walking-wounded and surly as wasp- stung bears."
"Understood. Will approach with all due caution," Liz declared solemnly. She was delighted to detect a slight guffaw from Cowley's vicinity, as she accelerated the car in the direction of the hospital.
Later at headquarters, Liz was yearning for something, anything to eat, to the point of distraction. She had a tremor in her hands that she thought might herald a low blood sugar. This was not a good thing, since she knew she could lose her carefully husbanded patience and fortitude when she got hungry.
Matters were still somewhat chaotic at HQ. She decided to foray for food in the rest room, resolved to make a provisions-run, in the absence of edible substances there. She judged herself a nasty chit when she was hungry, but some of the other agents, Bodie especially came to mind, got positively dangerous.
As she arrived at the rest room, she became aware of some raucous hilarity. She ducked inside to view the show.
Sutured, singed, and still reeking of smoke, Bodie and Doyle held centre stage.
"Give me that," Doyle grabbed at the scarf with his unbandaged hand.
"It's mine." Laughing, Bodie easily blocked the maneuver. He held the scarf, this one a sea green and deep blue plaid, high over his partner's curly head.
"The red one's yours, twit. That one's for County Leinster. 'Doyle' is the most numerous family name in Leinster."
Bodie's brow scrunched, disturbing a burn dressing on his forehead. "Well, then, I'm 'olding this 'ostage until you return mine."
"Oh!" Doyle looked suddenly contrite, as the probable fate of the red scarf occurred to his imagination. His forlorn pout was irresistible.
"I've washed the mud off it. It's hanging out to dry in the ladies' locker room," Liz kindly informed him.
Instantly, Doyle's expression went from woebegone to wicked. "I shall go fetch it straight away. Ruth and Sally still showering, are they?"
"Oi! It's my scarf, you said. I'll go get it," Bodie hastily crammed the green scarf into Ray's hand.
Doyle shoved back, initiating a tussle.
Anson, with his arm in a sling and swath, stood well back from the action. He winked at Liz. "Murph is dating triplets," he advised her, as if that explained everything.
"Oh?" she began, and then blushed when her stomach growled audibly.
"Three bewitching honey blondes," Murphy spoke up from the comfy chair in the corner. "Absolutely identical. Can't tell them apart to save my soul. Recruited these two louts to help me squire them about town, lest I expire from sheer exhaustion, you know?"
"Oh," Liz nodded agreement, rather distracted by hunger pangs, from the otherwise fascinating tale.
"Seems they're into Scottish Country Dancing, complete with the wearing of authentic tartan costume," Anson winked at Liz. "Can't you just picture Murphy, Bodie and Doyle, all clad in kilts flapping in the breeze?"
"Seems like you lot have done your research. " As the invoked picture of manifest masculine charm intruded rather vividly on her imagination, Liz shivered. Maybe she was giddy from hunger and unspent adrenalin, and it was this biochemistry that motivated her to speak. "So, very likely you've discovered the answer. Properly, what is worn under a kilt?" She wriggled her eyebrows suggestively.
The handsome threesome exchanged glances but failed to answer.
Cowley's voice cracked the stunned silence. "Nothing!" he declared imperiously.
Startled but determined to brave out the scene, with a merely interested demeanor, Liz turned to face their Controller, who'd just arrived unnoticed.
"That is the correct answer to your question, 9.1. Properly, nothing is worn under a man's kilt." Cowley's pale blue eyes twinkled as he set a large tin of fresh, buttery, aromatic shortbread on the rest room table. "No, lass. Nothing is WORN under a kilt, as everything there must be maintained in perfect working order."
Leaving the youngsters to consider his pun, the Old Man pivoted smartly, and chuckling, withdrew to the peaceful quiet of his office.
Quotation notation: Cowley quotes my personal favorite of Robert Burn's poetry, "O Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast" which follows in its entirety. [Bodie and Doyle's Tyrone and Leinster plaids can be seen at the tartan navigator, linda clifford dot com.]
O wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee;
Or did Misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it aw, to share it aw.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a Paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I Monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my Crown
Wuid be my Queen, wuid be my Queen.
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no subject
Date: 2009-01-25 11:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-26 12:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-26 05:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-26 05:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-26 06:05 pm (UTC)Nothing is WORN under a kilt, as everything there must be maintained in perfect working order.
LOL - I love your Cowley; he's so in control, but has time to bring them shortbread and pull their legs. Murphy and the triplets is a wonderful touch *g*
Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-26 07:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-27 01:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-27 01:50 pm (UTC)Thank you very much indeed for taking note of the punchline. Of course, it's a traditional question and reply, but one which still gives me a chuckle, years after I first heard it.
Shall we dwell upon the view of Murphy worrying about how to keep up with his triplicate troubles, and Bodie and Doyle tussling over the scarf? It's snowing here, and I find that evocation quite warming, heh. Huggishness, hope tis warm where you are.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-27 10:06 pm (UTC)With this one I llike how the scarfs trigger Cowleys Scottish speeches and how the scarfs seem to change owners now and then. I suppose there IS a Clan Aoidh Bhuidie?
I love fiction where I can learn something as in "Holla golly"! A (positively) lovely who done it with a bit hurt comfort and as commented with nice early relationship dynamics and some lively side characters. Really an ep of it's own.
Thank you for both these very enjoyable reads!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-28 02:49 pm (UTC)Indeed, Clan Aoidh Bhuidie is said to have settled in Antrim County in the fourteenth century, a group of people directly descended from the legendary Niall of the Nine Hostages, and is now common in both Antrim and Tyrone. I chose Tyrone for Bodie's Irish home place, since I wanted a scarlet plaid for the scarf. I'm only guessing that Bhuidie or Bhuidhe may be an alternate spelling of Bodie; they do sound similar, don't they?
And the other comment, that 'Doyle' is the most numerous family name in Leinster is also true. I don't think any of these lovely Irish tartans were yet designed, back in the days that The Professionals were on TV; so the scarf's plaid is a bit of an anachronism, which I hope folks will excuse.
The other explanation for the name 'Bodie', I offered in my fic "Stuck", which is almost finished but not quite. [I should go back and post the last chapter at my lj, heh]:
"Bodie enjoyed the proprietor's teasing recognition. Upon their first meeting, the old gent had informed him that his was a variant of an ancient name. According to the landlord, Bodie was descended in direct lineage from Boadicea, warrior Queen of the Brythonic Celts, whose tribe had harried the Roman invaders in 60 AD, and very nearly, though not quite, sent them scurrying back to Italy where they belonged."
no subject
Date: 2009-02-09 02:09 pm (UTC)Thank you - and sorry to be so late!
no subject
Date: 2009-02-09 07:40 pm (UTC)Still, I think Liz is very much a part of the group in Pros, and I thought she'd be a nice observer for this fic.
Thanks so much for kind comments and a bit of a review. You've quite made my Monday.
Huggishness, darlin'!