Discovered in a Christmas Stocking Day 18

[hagsrus.livejournal.com]

How He Won Him
by The Hag


"Afternoon," Bodie said confidently when Alf opened Marge's front door. "Merry Christmas."

Alf blocked his way. "Get an invite from Herself, did you?"

"I'm always invited."

"Your pal was, but -- "

"Whither he goeth, mate. Is he here yet?"

"Marge said it would be all right." Herbert had arrived on the scene. " 'I suppose that shifty-eyed lout will come barging in as usual,' was how she put it." He winked at Bodie. "You'd better have brought her something nice."

"Bottle of that scent she always wears."

"Oh, good. She can stick it with the other five hundred she's got so far. Your friend brought some kind of potted plant -- probably the cat'll chew the leaves and then be sick in it, that's the usual."

In fact Bodie had something tucked in his shirt pocket she'd like a lot more, but that wasn't the bodyguards' business.

"All right, up the stairs, you know the way."

The house was gaudily gorgeous with paper chains and bells, ubiquitous fairy lights, clumps of holly and mistletoe and twinings of tinsel garlands. Small Christmas trees were dotted around and the air was redolent of pine and tobacco and -- Bodie's nose twitched hopefully -- a whiff of something savoury drifting through the open door ahead.

And Doyle was in there. Doyle whom he hadn't seen for two days.

As always the sight of that room triggered memory of backtracking Sammy Bladon, memory that still haunted his worst dreams, of Doyle helpless with a failed gun, a split-second that seemed to stretch to eternity while he pulled his own trigger, and saw Doyle slumping, sliding down the wall, hit, dying....

And Doyle, squatting, eyes shut, nodding that he was okay, then turning to Bodie with that "Hey. Thanks." Voice like raw silk. Just the vestige of a smile. Their eyes met and held for a moment, a moment in which Bodie was lost, then snatched himself back to reality, examining the dead man, the rifle, and Cowley bawling up to know what was happening, pissed off at another useless corpse. "I should have let him kill you," Bodie had joked, words that echoed back to him in those struggling nightmares of Doyle hit, dying....

And the day he had found Doyle in a spreading pool of his own blood, hit, dying....

All these years; all those times on the edge of disaster when he had felt they were on the brink of reaching for each other, claiming each other....

Like three days ago when Doyle had pulled him out of a skid on a slippery roof ledge and they had teetered perilously, grabbing each other to keep their balance, Doyle's arms round him, holding him just a bit longer than necessary. Bodie had gasped his brief thanks and hadn't pulled away quite as quickly as he should have done, and Doyle's eyes had locked with his -- and -- something -- then Doyle's arms were no longer holding him, and they were back in pursuit of their quarry. One more moment that might have been the moment if only there had been time....



He knew that Doyle had grown quite fond of Marge. Her invitations were always worth accepting for the high quality information she provided, and he had grown adept at evading her tender advances -- more habit than ardour these days, Bodie thought. But Doyle took Bodie along as chaperone as often as he could, and Marge seemed resigned. She wasn't actually rude to him -- well, not that much -- and once had even offered him one of her special Marge's Lightnings, that godawful gin, rum and green Chartreuse she claimed to find sexy. He'd had a headache the rest of the day.

There was Doyle, over by the buffet table, nibbling something, chatting with divided attention to the man next to him, eyes and ears discreetly alert to the crowd of guests, never knowing what you might overhear in this house. Bodie sucked in the sight of him, dressed in a dark green open-necked shirt and tight moleskin trousers, silver at neck and wrist, mop of curls, damaged cheek, wide-set eyes, curved mouth, all the familiarity of thousands of times of seeing; always after absence a jolting sense of wonder at the way Doyle's ugly mug could morph into unpredictable fleeting beauty.

Bodie moved through the throng to Doyle's side and took a shrimp off his plate, waiting for the indignant response, but Doyle said, "Know that paw anywhere, always after the grub." He turned his head, pleasure in his greeting smile. Something more than pleasure? "Back from Liverpool, then? Any luck?"

"No, but the Cow said -- "

Marge's voice rose, piercing the chatter: "All right, everybody, time for the crystal readings."

"Blimey, punch-up time," somebody riposted.

"It's my party and I'll scry if I want to," Marge said defiantly, producing the crystal ball from a cupboard and settling herself in front of it at the desk.

"Always sees somebody havin' it off where they didn't ought to," Doyle's erstwhile companion commented. "Never keeps tactfully quiet about anything, does she? Likes mixin' it up."

"Does she really think she sees stuff?" Bodie asked.

The man shrugged. "Not much gets past her and her spy network. I've seen her do it before. It's quite a good act. Odd what she comes up with sometimes, though."

They drifted over to watch and listen.

"Oh, hello," she said to Bodie. "Like a bad penny, I see."

"And a merry Christmas to you, too." Bodie produced his gift. "Night of Passion, right?"

"Thank you. I'm switching to Joy next year, just so you know."

Bodie grimaced, aware of the price. Marge smiled cynically. "Not your favourite scent, dear?"

Doyle's elbow nudged him gently in the ribs, joke shared. "You're always a joy, Marge. Carry on gazing."

Marge did. While she got two couples glowering at each other and various singles speculating over the rosy romantic futures promised, Bodie's attention wandered to a nearby bookcase full of old bindings. David Copperfield rubbed elbows with How He Won Her. Vanity Fair nestled up to Breaking a Butterfly. A Consideration of Weaponry Employed in the Crimean Conflict might be interesting....

"Ah, here's one for you, dear," she said to Doyle. "Somebody naughty in the Ministry of Defence selling something."

Prendergast, Bodie recollected from his briefing with Cowley an hour ago. She'd already told the Old Man. What was she playing at? Surely she couldn't have sussed out somebody else since this morning!

"Arms, is it?" Doyle peered at the crystal. "Can't see anything."

"Course you can't, lovie." Marge smiled tolerantly. "But I think it's some kind of chemical, if that's any help."

"Can't you tell me the name, Marge?" Doyle begged.

Marge pondered for a few moments. "It's quite a strain. I don't know if it's worth my while."

"Come on, Marge," Doyle wheedled. "For me?"

"Well... how about a night of passion?"

"Eh? Bodie just gave you -- "

"Oh no, dear. I mean the real thing. I know I've been holding you off but I think the time has finally come to let fate have its way. Just the thought is bringing my energy back." There was the slightest edge to her voice.

Bodie could almost hear the gears whirring in Doyle's head. Teasing Marge well might be, but the game had to be played with delicate deference to her feminine vanity.

"Marge, you're much too good for me," Doyle tried gallantly. "A gorgeous woman like you -- "

"Oh, I know, dear," she replied, apparently soothed back into bland complacency. "But you deserve the best, just for once."

And Doyle wouldn't want to jeopardise her future good will. Cowley would have his goolies hanging on his hatstand if he alienated her, so no point Bodie trumping her with his private knowledge and putting her back up just yet.

Doyle shot a furtive eye-roll at Bodie and bit the proverbial bullet. "Well -- I dunno, Marge -- when would you like it?"

"Oh, I'll have to let you know. After all this Christmas rush and bustle is over. Here." She reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. She tore it in half and wrote something. "You just sign this in case you forget, so busy as I know you always are." She glared at the interested spectators. "You lot mind your own business!"

Doyle took the pen and resignedly scrawled his signature.

"There, that's lovely. Something to cherish." She tucked the folded paper into her cleavage. "Now." She jotted something on the other half of the paper and doubled it over. "There's the name for you."

Doyle thanked her with an attempt at effusive sincerity.

A couple of latecomers shoved their way to the desk, clamouring for crystal readings, and Doyle and Bodie edged away.

"Bloody 'ell," said Doyle, low-voiced but with deep feeling.

"Yeah. What's the name, then?"

Doyle looked at the paper. "Prendergast."

Crafty old besom, Bodie thought with appreciation. But no point risking the traditional messenger's fate -- let Cowley bear the brunt of Doyle's indignation.

Doyle sighed. "I'd best be off and let the Old Man know. You coming?"

"No," Bodie said thoughtfully. "I think I'll hang around for a bit."

"All right. Meet you at the pub about six?"

"I'll be there," Bodie assured him.

He gave the buffet some expert attention, watching for a chance to get Marge on her own. When everyone's attention had been attracted by a violent squabble between one of the couples she'd crystallised he made his way back to the desk where she was pensively sipping her favourite green tipple.

"You still here?" was her ungracious greeting.

He pulled a chair over. "Aren't you going to read for me, then?"

"Huh." She gave the ball a cursory glance. "Change in your life very soon if you've got the guts to ask for it. Now I've got to -- "

"Hang about," Bodie protested. "Can I have a go?"

"You?"

He pulled the crystal towards him. "I see a tall, dark, handsome man... Oh, that's me."

"Handsome," she said scornfully.

"Thanks. Well, I see a short middle-aged Scotsman talking to a middle-aged, no, sorry, bit blurred there for a moment, very glamorous blonde lady -- hmm, just this morning if I'm not mistaken."

She was taken aback for a moment. "Well, so what? Not cricket or something?"

He shook his head sadly. "I thought better of you, Marge, I really did. Why don't you let me give it back to him?"

"Why should I? Keep him on his toes!"

He looked at the crystal again. "I see an unsavoury-looking bloke called -- er -- Tony -- " Marge stiffened. " Something like Hesk--"

"Hesketh!" she exclaimed.

"Yeah, that's probably the one. Owes somebody a lot of money."

"I'll say he does," Marge responded grimly. "What do you know about him, then?"

"One good turn deserves another, Marge."

"What have you got?"

"An address."

Mammon versus Eros. No competition.

"Reliable?"

"As of yesterday."

"Oh, all right, then," she agreed reluctantly.

"And a book."

"Book?" She was incredulous.

"From the case there."

"That old tat? I just keep them because the covers look nice. They've all been valued, not worth anything. Help yourself. You might find an old Beano Book if you look hard."

"A bit too advanced for me." Bodie slid the envelope from his pocket and Marge de-cleavaged Doyle's IOU. "Merry Christmas again." At least he had the perfect Christmas gift for Doyle.

"Oh, take your book and b-- clear off."

He collected A Consideration of Weaponry Employed in the Crimean Conflict, and on impulse added How He Won Her. Gran might get a kick out of it.



The pub was crowded and noisy and Doyle morose when Bodie joined him. His mood lightened for a few minutes of catching up on the gossip but he soon reverted to brooding over the fast one Marge had pulled.

Bodie bought him a drink and resignedly prepared to be a sympathetic audience, one ear tuning to a joke somebody was telling at a nearby table by way of relief.

" -- he gives her the money but all he does is stick his big toe --"

"Cheer up," Bodie urged. "Flattering, really. Probably won't try to take you up on it."

" -- says to the doctor, look, my big toe's gone all -- "

"Just knowing she's got it," Doyle gloomed. "Should have forged Cowley's signature."

" -- syphilis of the toe. So he says, Doctor, that must be the strangest -- "

"And bloody Linda stood me up again. Supposed to go to a party. I'm about through with her."

" -- came in a couple of days ago with a shocking case of athlete's twat!" the adjacent raconteur concluded triumphantly.

"What are you smirking about?" Doyle demanded belligerently. "I suppose you think Linda -- "

"No, no," Bodie said hastily. "Just overheard something." He started to reach for the IOU.

"Moron."

In that case, Bodie decided, the ratbag could wait for his Christmas present.

Doyle finished his drink. "I'm going home and watch something on the telly."

"Fancy a pizza, then?"

Doyle looked as if he'd refuse, then gave a half-apologetic grimace. A reluctant smile touched his eyes. "All right. There's some lager in the fridge. That werewolf film's on tonight. Got that brunette with the legs you like."

They took the pizza back to Doyle's flat, watching the end of an American cop show while they ate. The hero was having problems with his girlfriend.

"Don't know what it is with women," Doyle said when it ended, turning down the sound. "Seem to be on a different wavelength or something."

"Well, they're women, Ray. That's the whole point."

Doyle picked a mushroom out of congealed cheese and contemplated it without enthusiasm. "Think there'd be one I could hang on to. Fed up, all this chasing. Know they get pissed off with all the broken dates, but still. Time I got a bit settled." He dropped the mushroom back onto the pizza slice and poked it into place.

"That'll put 'em off for a start," Bodie said. "Why can't you just eat like a human being?"

"What? Oh. Wasn't thinking.... "

"Need to cultivate a few social graces, mate. Try being a bit couth for a change." Bodie flipped a paper napkin in his direction. "Don't just suck the grease off your fingers like that. Can't take you anywhere."

"Man's home is his pigsty. Had fresh sawdust down just last week." Doyle wiped his fingers, wadded up the napkin and tossed it onto the growing heap of detritus.

"There's always Marge."

"Yeah, well, there's birds I fancy and birds I don't. And she's definitely a don't. If she calls it in -- "

"You'll close your eyes and think of England?"

"Have to think of a lot more than England, I can tell you. Take more than guts to bed her. When she gets all snuggly I get a soft-on."

If you've got the guts to ask for it, Marge had said. What the hell.

Bodie leaned back and half-closed his eyes. "Ever think about changing your luck?"

Doyle tensed. There was the briefest pause before he said "What?"

"If you're not having any luck with women these days..."

Doyle stared at him, a flicker of something not completely surprised in his expression. "Who with? I mean, what are you on about? I'm not -- "

Who with. Halfway there already. "Well, I'm usually around."

"You?"

"Yeah." Bodie stared back, unblinking beneath Doyle's malachite glare. "Look, you eating that last slice or just molesting it?"

"Uh." Doyle pushed the remaining pizza towards him. "What, you saying you're bi, then?" He narrowed his eyes. "I mean, all those birds, when would you ever -- ?"

"Haven't for years, sunshine." Bodie concentrated on coping with soggy crust and sagging cheese. He considered discarding the segment with Doyle's fingerprint, but, deciding it might be as much of Doyle as he could ever hope to get into his mouth, devoured it with private satisfaction. Tom Jones, think what you could have done with a pizza! He started to lick the last remnants off his fingers, caught Doyle's sardonic eye and reached for a napkin. "Your turn to fetch the beer. Dump this lot while you're at it."

"Bi, hah, likely," Doyle muttered, juggling the carton and its complement of debris.

"Get a move on, Ray, I'm parched. Don't want to miss the start of the film, do you?"

The brief respite from Doyle's presence gave him a chance for several deep breaths, but they didn't do much for the simmering tension he had so far managed to conceal. High risk game, this. He could swear the signals were there, was positive they were there, but still ...

...Doyle hadn't hit the ceiling.

Doyle returned, clutching cans of beer, eyes focused in challenge. "You don't do that stuff, mate." He flopped down onto the sofa and set the cans on the table.

"You know best," Bodie murmured, snapping off a ring-pull. "Shit."

"Clod." Doyle opened another successfully and passed it over. "So do you? Queer stuff?"

"Gay stuff, sunshine. Queer's not polite these days."

"Yeah, I know," Doyle said irritably. "Queer where I grew up." He tried to prod the crippled can open with a relentless finger, managing to weaken the metal enough to produce a hissing eruption of foam and fine spray. "Need the bomb squad." He slammed it onto the table and licked the fallout off his hand. "Queer was the politest they called it. Rabid polecats got more respect. I never..." He reached over and prodded again. "You really?"

"Told you." Bodie moved the can out of reach. "Just going to soak the place with beer, aren't you? Film's starting. Look, there's that bird -- "

"Sod the film." Doyle turned the television off. "For real, Bodie? Queer, whatever, gay...?" There was a note in his voice that stirred Bodie to further hope. He looked away. Swallowed beer. Battled the urge to look back at Doyle. Waited.

"Why do you think I'd be interested, then?" Doyle asked at last.

A hundred reasons, Bodie thought. A thousand. Nothing you couldn't explain away but they all add up to -- interested.

He decided a diversion wouldn't hurt. See if Doyle went back to the subject afterwards.

He pulled the IOU out of his pocket. "Here. Before I forget. Talked Marge into handing this over." He flipped it onto the table. "Merry Christmas."

IOU A Night of Passion (signed) Ray Doyle.

Doyle grabbed it, read it quickly, crumpled it in his hand. Bodie was about to utter a sarcastic "You're welcome," but Doyle scowled ferociously and said: "You bastard! All right, I'll play you for it."

"Eh? I didn't mean -- "

But Doyle was away in his own reality. "Look -- cards, all right? If you win I'll -- ." He sucked in breath between clenched teeth. "Christ, I dunno."

Bodie couldn't resist. "Well, if I'm going to risk my Night of Passion, what are you putting up?"

"I -- "

"Lasagne," Bodie said decisively. "Like you brought to Kirstie's pot luck last year."

Doyle was breathing hard. "You're on. And if I win -- "

"You're in the clear. No cooking, no passioning."

Doyle grabbed a pack of cards from a drawer and shuffled. "What are we playing?"

"You choose."

"Just -- highest card wins, best of three?"

"Pure chance, eh?"

Doyle shrugged, dealt two cards face down. "Choose."

Bodie did. "Eight," he said.

"Jack."

Two more.

"Seven," said Bodie.

"Six."

Last two. Bodie stared at the king of clubs.

"Nine," said Doyle.

"Three." Bodie flipped his card face down, shoved it under the pack. "You're off the hook, sunshine." He drained the last of his beer. "You change the sawdust in the bog too?"

"It'll do for you, anyway." Doyle picked up the crumpled IOU and smoothed it out. There was no triumph in his face, but when Bodie returned he was all furious accusation, the cards in his hand held up to expose the king. "You bloody well cheated! You were just winding me up the whole time, weren't you? Bastard!"

"It was your Christmas present, Ray. Wasn't trying to cash it in. Cards were your idea."

The baleful glower faltered. "Then what was all that about luck changing?"

"Nothing to do with that. Look, I'm not interested in anything that isn't mutual."

Doyle stared at him, slowly digesting.

Bodie stayed very still, intently waiting for the crucial next words.

"I've never been with a bloke," Doyle said eventually.

"You want to?"

Doyle sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. "I've always..." He turned away, aimlessly pacing to the window and back.

Bodie decided to go for broke. Guts, don't fail me now! "I love you, you know." Doyle froze. "Doesn't matter if we never go to bed. Just so you know."

Doyle faced him, slowly moving closer. Closer. Almost touching. Dreamlike slowness, raising his hands to cup Bodie's face. "When you got stabbed that time..."

A kiss. Tentative. Firmer. Assertive. Arms holding, bodies pressing, crushing. Hardening response. Separating to gasp for breath, to smile into each other's eyes in sudden joyful complicity.

"Better get your ugly sleep here tonight, then," Doyle said at last. "There's fresh sawdust on the bed, too."

"What about my lasagne?"

"Tomorrow, if there's time. You won, after all."

"We both won," Bodie replied with deep contentment, and pulled him into a new embrace.



Marge took a last look into her crystal.

"Well, that explains it," she murmured. "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, boys!"



Title: How He Won Him
Author: The Hag
Slash/Gen: Slash
Archive at Proslib/Circuit: Ok
Disclaimer: Not mine
Word count: 3630 words

Comments

[przed.livejournal.com]

Just lovely! I love your Bodie, looking out for his Doyle. And I got a kick out of the snatches of conversation you gave us from the other agents.

I have to admit I have a soft spot for Marge, and you used her perfectly.

Thank you!

[hagsrus.livejournal.com]

Marge is wonderful fun to write! So pleased you enjoyed it. I'm looking forward to reading yours over the weekend.