Discovered in a Valentine
Feb. 14th, 2009 04:07 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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discoveredinaljYes, it's fluff, but at least it's on-time fluff, which is a minor miracle for me! Happy Valentine's Day to all those who care about such trivia. :D
Last year, on Valentines Day, someone tried to blow him up.
Well, more the table he was luckily not sitting at, than him particularly, if he was being completely honest about it. Caused enough damage, though. He spent the next few days seeing through a red mist, as close to losing it as he had been in years, wild with rage and worry, first about the random girl he had been with at the restaurant (shamefully, the name had receded into the unreachable part of his memory, although the battered bandaged face never would). And later, infinitely worse, about Doyle.
Bodie was no big fan of Valentine’s Day. Not a massive fan of love at all, really, although it sounded fine in theory. For him, though, it was at best irrelevant, at worst frankly dangerous. He’d made his choices about life long ago, and they didn’t leave room for settling down and doing the happily-married thing. And on the few occasions when he’d let his guard down, let his heart get in the way of perfectly decent no-strings sex, it – well, it hadn’t ended well. So, after the last time, after Marikka (the one person he’d ever met who he might have called a soul-mate) had been gunned down while he looked on in horrible impotence, he had resolved on the spot never to leave himself open like that again.
All that changed in a frantic heartbeat, at the moment when he burst through the house where Doyle was being held, to find his partner, battered and exhausted half to death, slumped on the kitchen floor. All the fury, terror, relief he was storing up transmuted in that instant into a surge of love so deep and pure and unmistakably real that he knew it must have shown on his face, though he did his best to cover it with a bit of the usual banter. Doyle, distracted by his own concerns, responded in kind (and what the hell kind of insult was ‘dumb crud’ supposed to be anyway?), and Bodie thought – hoped – his moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability had gone unremarked.
Some bloody hope. This was Doyle, after all. Never missed a trick, and worried at things with the kind of dogged persistence that would make Miss Marple sigh with envy. For weeks, Bodie lived through a ruthless, sustained interrogation that ran the gamut from sudden surprise attacks to subtle tangential remarks designed to provoke an unguarded disclosure. Bodie fielded each onslaught deftly enough, but the strain began to tell, and he was just at the point of concluding that he was going to have to give his partner a bit of a kicking just to get him off his back for a bit, when Doyle took the whole thing out of his hands altogether.
“Bodie. You got a minute?”
They were in the locker room. It was a nice piece of strategy from Doyle – Bodie had been making sharp exits every time they had found themselves alone together, but now he had just showered, was naked apart from the towel he had just been drying himself with, and was in no position to go haring off up the corridors of CI5. He suppressed a sigh.
“Look, Ray, I’m knackered, I’ve had a rough day and I’m not in the mood. Leave it, OK?”
There was a pause, as Bodie, trying without total success to retain an unselfconscious sang-froid about a situation they’d been in countless times before, dropped the towel and hurriedly donned underwear and trousers. He could feel Doyle’s eyes upon him, knew his partner well enough to know it was only a matter of time before the silence was shattered.
“Coward.”
There it was. Bodie turned, deliberately and with considerable effort steeling himself against the sight of Doyle leaning casually against the door – exit-blocking presumably being part of the strategy – looking tousled, slightly grubby and ridiculously gorgeous.
“Sorry?” And The Cow maintained he couldn’t act. The great man Connery himself would have been hard pressed to match the cool distance of Bodie’s tone.
Doyle’s lips twitched slightly. “You heard me. You’re a coward.”
“I’ve shot people for less, mate.”
“Oh yeah? Go on then. Try your luck.” Doyle allowed his gaze to flicker insolently down over the still half-dressed Bodie, lingering purposefully at groin level. “I can see you’re well armed, anyway.”
Bodie swallowed, willing away the stirring he could feel in response to his partner’s overt scrutiny. This was, in truth, what he’d been dreading since he’d been stupid enough to let his guard down – Doyle taunting, making lewd cracks – how long would it be before he decided to let the others in on the joke?
“Look. This has got to stop.”
Doyle grinned. “Couldn’t agree more, sunshine.”
“No…I…” Bodie took a breath, tried again. Calm but firm, Bodie. Calm but firm. “Seriously, Doyle, this can’t go on. It’s doing my head in.”
“Too right.” Doyle nodded emphatically, the smile fading. “We can’t have something affecting our work like this. For fuck’s sake, Bodie, how are we supposed to be a team, have each other’s backs, if you’re running away from me every chance you get? It’ll get one of us killed before long, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Bodie bristled instantly, taking a couple of steps towards Doyle without realising he was moving at all. “Come off it, mate. Any feelings I might have for you are nothing to do with work. Do you seriously think I'd put us in danger just because…because of…”
Fuck.
He closed his eyes against the triumphant grin plastered over his partner’s face, but he couldn’t block out the words. “A-ha! Now we’re getting somewhere. So, you do have feelings for me?”
“God, you’re an irritating pain in the arse, you know that, Doyle?” Bodie moved back towards the lockers, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Doyle, turning to face him with a defiance that he hoped masked the panic. “Yeah, OK, fuck knows why mind, but I’ve got feelings for you. All right? Satisfied now? I’m a fucking shirtlifter, apparently.”
“You’re an idiot, is what you are.”
“I…what?”
“And a coward, like I said. I’ve fancied you for ages now, but if you will keep dragging birds out for romantic Valentine’s Day dinners for two in cosy restaurants, how am I supposed to know I’m in with a chance?”
Bodie stared, slowly allowing this turn of events to sink in. A smile crept tentatively onto his face for the first time in what felt like ever. “Oh, that. Jealous, were we? Wasn’t you that planted that bomb, was it?”
“Not funny, Bodie.” Doyle closed the gap between them, eyes wide and solemn now. “Worst moment of my life, that. Talking to you on the phone, and then this almighty bang, and then nothing. I thought…oh, bollocks to this.”
And that was all the warning Bodie got, as Doyle grabbed his shoulders punishingly, dragging him closer until their mouths clashed together. Lips and tongues battling, teeth jolting against each other, panting breaths intermingling and passing back and forth, as the pair of them found a rhythm and the rough grips settled into more gentle caresses. Doyle pressed into Bodie against the cool metal of the lockers, their bodies tight against each other, and Bodie could feel his own erection hard against Doyle’s.
He pulled back slightly. “Listen, mate, don’t think I’m not enjoying this, but I really don’t think this is the place. Can we continue this conversation somewhere else?”
“You’re on. I’m taking you out for dinner. Proper posh food, candles, the works. And then back to mine, where…” his voice lowered to a calculated huskiness that had Bodie itching to grab him and have his way with him there and then “…I intend to have you screaming like a little girl before the night’s out. More than once, quite likely. Happy Valentine’s Day, Bodie.”
“Yeah.” Bodie was having trouble breathing. “You too.”
Pulling himself together, he dragged on a T-shirt, shoving the rest of his stuff haphazardly into his bag and following the departing Doyle. As the door opened, a thought struck him.
“Doyle?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s April.”
“So?”
“Nothing. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
___________________________________
Title: Man Without a Clue
Author: Bistokids
Word Count: 1350 ish
Disclaimer: Nowt to do with me.
Warning/Notes: I have shamelessly taken two canon episodes and switched their order, for no better reason than that it suited me to do so. Also, I've set MWaP in February, even though the various gardening exploits would tend to imply otherwise. So sue me. Actually, please don't. :)
Last year, on Valentines Day, someone tried to blow him up.
Well, more the table he was luckily not sitting at, than him particularly, if he was being completely honest about it. Caused enough damage, though. He spent the next few days seeing through a red mist, as close to losing it as he had been in years, wild with rage and worry, first about the random girl he had been with at the restaurant (shamefully, the name had receded into the unreachable part of his memory, although the battered bandaged face never would). And later, infinitely worse, about Doyle.
Bodie was no big fan of Valentine’s Day. Not a massive fan of love at all, really, although it sounded fine in theory. For him, though, it was at best irrelevant, at worst frankly dangerous. He’d made his choices about life long ago, and they didn’t leave room for settling down and doing the happily-married thing. And on the few occasions when he’d let his guard down, let his heart get in the way of perfectly decent no-strings sex, it – well, it hadn’t ended well. So, after the last time, after Marikka (the one person he’d ever met who he might have called a soul-mate) had been gunned down while he looked on in horrible impotence, he had resolved on the spot never to leave himself open like that again.
All that changed in a frantic heartbeat, at the moment when he burst through the house where Doyle was being held, to find his partner, battered and exhausted half to death, slumped on the kitchen floor. All the fury, terror, relief he was storing up transmuted in that instant into a surge of love so deep and pure and unmistakably real that he knew it must have shown on his face, though he did his best to cover it with a bit of the usual banter. Doyle, distracted by his own concerns, responded in kind (and what the hell kind of insult was ‘dumb crud’ supposed to be anyway?), and Bodie thought – hoped – his moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability had gone unremarked.
Some bloody hope. This was Doyle, after all. Never missed a trick, and worried at things with the kind of dogged persistence that would make Miss Marple sigh with envy. For weeks, Bodie lived through a ruthless, sustained interrogation that ran the gamut from sudden surprise attacks to subtle tangential remarks designed to provoke an unguarded disclosure. Bodie fielded each onslaught deftly enough, but the strain began to tell, and he was just at the point of concluding that he was going to have to give his partner a bit of a kicking just to get him off his back for a bit, when Doyle took the whole thing out of his hands altogether.
“Bodie. You got a minute?”
They were in the locker room. It was a nice piece of strategy from Doyle – Bodie had been making sharp exits every time they had found themselves alone together, but now he had just showered, was naked apart from the towel he had just been drying himself with, and was in no position to go haring off up the corridors of CI5. He suppressed a sigh.
“Look, Ray, I’m knackered, I’ve had a rough day and I’m not in the mood. Leave it, OK?”
There was a pause, as Bodie, trying without total success to retain an unselfconscious sang-froid about a situation they’d been in countless times before, dropped the towel and hurriedly donned underwear and trousers. He could feel Doyle’s eyes upon him, knew his partner well enough to know it was only a matter of time before the silence was shattered.
“Coward.”
There it was. Bodie turned, deliberately and with considerable effort steeling himself against the sight of Doyle leaning casually against the door – exit-blocking presumably being part of the strategy – looking tousled, slightly grubby and ridiculously gorgeous.
“Sorry?” And The Cow maintained he couldn’t act. The great man Connery himself would have been hard pressed to match the cool distance of Bodie’s tone.
Doyle’s lips twitched slightly. “You heard me. You’re a coward.”
“I’ve shot people for less, mate.”
“Oh yeah? Go on then. Try your luck.” Doyle allowed his gaze to flicker insolently down over the still half-dressed Bodie, lingering purposefully at groin level. “I can see you’re well armed, anyway.”
Bodie swallowed, willing away the stirring he could feel in response to his partner’s overt scrutiny. This was, in truth, what he’d been dreading since he’d been stupid enough to let his guard down – Doyle taunting, making lewd cracks – how long would it be before he decided to let the others in on the joke?
“Look. This has got to stop.”
Doyle grinned. “Couldn’t agree more, sunshine.”
“No…I…” Bodie took a breath, tried again. Calm but firm, Bodie. Calm but firm. “Seriously, Doyle, this can’t go on. It’s doing my head in.”
“Too right.” Doyle nodded emphatically, the smile fading. “We can’t have something affecting our work like this. For fuck’s sake, Bodie, how are we supposed to be a team, have each other’s backs, if you’re running away from me every chance you get? It’ll get one of us killed before long, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Bodie bristled instantly, taking a couple of steps towards Doyle without realising he was moving at all. “Come off it, mate. Any feelings I might have for you are nothing to do with work. Do you seriously think I'd put us in danger just because…because of…”
Fuck.
He closed his eyes against the triumphant grin plastered over his partner’s face, but he couldn’t block out the words. “A-ha! Now we’re getting somewhere. So, you do have feelings for me?”
“God, you’re an irritating pain in the arse, you know that, Doyle?” Bodie moved back towards the lockers, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Doyle, turning to face him with a defiance that he hoped masked the panic. “Yeah, OK, fuck knows why mind, but I’ve got feelings for you. All right? Satisfied now? I’m a fucking shirtlifter, apparently.”
“You’re an idiot, is what you are.”
“I…what?”
“And a coward, like I said. I’ve fancied you for ages now, but if you will keep dragging birds out for romantic Valentine’s Day dinners for two in cosy restaurants, how am I supposed to know I’m in with a chance?”
Bodie stared, slowly allowing this turn of events to sink in. A smile crept tentatively onto his face for the first time in what felt like ever. “Oh, that. Jealous, were we? Wasn’t you that planted that bomb, was it?”
“Not funny, Bodie.” Doyle closed the gap between them, eyes wide and solemn now. “Worst moment of my life, that. Talking to you on the phone, and then this almighty bang, and then nothing. I thought…oh, bollocks to this.”
And that was all the warning Bodie got, as Doyle grabbed his shoulders punishingly, dragging him closer until their mouths clashed together. Lips and tongues battling, teeth jolting against each other, panting breaths intermingling and passing back and forth, as the pair of them found a rhythm and the rough grips settled into more gentle caresses. Doyle pressed into Bodie against the cool metal of the lockers, their bodies tight against each other, and Bodie could feel his own erection hard against Doyle’s.
He pulled back slightly. “Listen, mate, don’t think I’m not enjoying this, but I really don’t think this is the place. Can we continue this conversation somewhere else?”
“You’re on. I’m taking you out for dinner. Proper posh food, candles, the works. And then back to mine, where…” his voice lowered to a calculated huskiness that had Bodie itching to grab him and have his way with him there and then “…I intend to have you screaming like a little girl before the night’s out. More than once, quite likely. Happy Valentine’s Day, Bodie.”
“Yeah.” Bodie was having trouble breathing. “You too.”
Pulling himself together, he dragged on a T-shirt, shoving the rest of his stuff haphazardly into his bag and following the departing Doyle. As the door opened, a thought struck him.
“Doyle?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s April.”
“So?”
“Nothing. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
___________________________________
Title: Man Without a Clue
Author: Bistokids
Word Count: 1350 ish
Disclaimer: Nowt to do with me.
Warning/Notes: I have shamelessly taken two canon episodes and switched their order, for no better reason than that it suited me to do so. Also, I've set MWaP in February, even though the various gardening exploits would tend to imply otherwise. So sue me. Actually, please don't. :)
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