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discoveredinalj*shuffles onstage* So, many moons ago I blathered about Pros podfic.
Here’s a new fic, in texty version for you to read if you want. And here is also (*squeep*) the podfic version for you to listen to on your pooter or iPod/mp3 player if you want. Please note that this was not recorded with super-duper microphone surround sound blah, just straight into the poot. I have been playing with the garageband programme on my Mac ... The links take you to Mediafire and you can then download the temporary file. There will be a permanent link up soon I hope *is vague*. I find it weird listening to my own voice (who is that girly person??) so I have no idea how this will come across *g* Thanks muchly to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
callistosh65 for both beta-reading and beta-listening a gazillion years ago! PS it's not christmassy or in any way related to the prompt of Love Hearts, although the lads are, of course, love *g* It's a cuddly story related to my obsession with not being able to sleep.
Podfic of Into the Arms of Morpheus (mp3)
Podfic of Into the Arms of Morpheus (mp4)
And here is the text for those who don't like posh birds twittering in their ear:
Murphy left the others crashed in Bodie’s living room and went about sourcing a bottle of brandy.
He found it, eventually, in a high kitchen cupboard, along with the rest of Bodie’s emergency supplies. Sitting up there on the top shelf were half a bottle of Navy Rum, something that looked like a clump of moss in a folded envelope, and four packets of Marlboro. He spun the lid off the bottle, took a small sniff and then dolloped an approximation of two shots into a heavy-bottomed crystal glass.
Bodie flinched when the glass was thrust under his nose, and shook his head. Murphy swilled the liquid around a bit so the fumes would disperse more readily. He still held the glass in place, implacable.
Eventually, Bodie’s hand came up. He didn’t normally resort to strong spirits after assignments. Murphy knew he preferred the gentle slop of too much beer in some warm, bustling hostelry, surrounded by an inner ring of those who understood, and an outer ring of those who didn’t have a clue.
Murphy released the glass. “Close call.”
Bodie echoed him obediently. It was a toast they’d made too often and he let a mouthful of brandy slip rather quickly down both sides of his throat at once. It didn’t make him cough, though. Made of stern stuff was Bodie.
“But we’re all still breathing.” Murphy rambled on, determined to lift the mood. “Look at us. Miracles of physiology ... more healthy lungs than you can shake a stick at.”
Bodie took another swallow and peered over the rim of the glass at Jax, slumped in the Mastermind chair.
Anson came wandering itchily out of the hall, where he’d been on the phone.
“How’s our boy?”
Bodie let Murphy answer for him. “Got his eyes closed.”
“Asleep?”
“Hard to tell.”
“You not taking him down to casualty?”
“No.” Murphy was still in charge of speaking.
“Bodie?” Anson made his tone more penetrating, more demanding of an answer.
“Listen, lads ...” Bodie seemed to find his voice, dredged up a faux casual tone that may have fooled Jax and Anson but didn’t do much to convince Murphy. “I think I’ve got it covered. If he gets out of hand I’ll take him down, but I don’t want to disturb him now. Know what I mean?”
Murphy and Anson looked at each other.
Jax slowly sat up straight. “Let’s go, I’ve had enough of this week.”
“You all right then, mate?” Murphy pursued.
Bodie normally led the way in bouncing back, smiling and cracking jokes long before the rest of them were up to it. He looked quite a way from that at present. In fact, he looked like he was dwelling; and dwelling, as he so often said himself, would lead to no good.
--------------
It was true that it had been a grim week.
None of them had really expected to find Doyle upright, unrestrained and apparently unmarked -- not after seven days in the hands of the four men now buried under concrete. In the car his eyes wouldn’t close, although his body had slumped helplessly against the seat in front.
He’d got out something about not having been to sleep. At first it sounded like a guilty conscience talking after being caught snoozing on a stakeout. Then, as he went on muttering splenetically against the seat-back, it sounded like what it was.
Somehow Bodie had ended up in the passenger seat, while Anson and Murphy sat behind with Doyle wedged between them. All Bodie had wanted was to get back there and get his arms round the poor sod. He kept getting this flashback, of concrete and metal billowing down, a stretching silence of unimaginable pain, and then Anson yelling that Doyle wasn’t inside, that they’d got him out in time.
He didn’t know how to tell them what that moment had felt like.
And once they’d got back to Bodie’s flat, after an unscientifically-formulated straw poll about whether or not they should take Doyle to a hospital, he’d been unable to get to him then either. Murphy helped walk him to the bedroom, spill him face down on the furry bedspread and remove his jacket, socks and shoes. Then he stood in the doorway chewing his lip while Bodie had sat on the bed with his hand on Doyle’s shoulder saying useless things like, “Steady on, mate,” and “Stop nattering and go to sleep.”
There was a collective intake of breath as the door buzzer sounded.
Bodie looked to the ceiling. “Oh please, don’t let it be some bird. Not now.”
Murphy trotted out into the hallway and they heard him mumbling into the intercom and then the click as he let someone in the downstairs door. He leant round the door-frame and said gloomily,
“Mr Cowley’s on his way up.”
“Fuck.” Anson thought he might be in trouble, because he always thought of himself first. Bodie just sat where he was with the glass still in his hands. He carried on sipping it defiantly while there was a conflab in the hallway.
Whisper, whisper, whisper.
“We’re off now.” Murphy came up close, nudged his knee.
Bodie looked up crookedly. He heard them all collecting their things - car-keys, jackets, holsters - and then shuffling out. Cowley came into the room and looked quickly around as if to say, “ah yes, 3.7. good taste in tribal artefacts, but I can’t say I care much for the artwork”.
“I need to ask Doyle some questions.” George Cowley eyed Bodie narrowly. He could smell the brandy and clearly didn’t think it was sufficient.
“You’ve got to be joking ... he probably won’t even know who you are he’s so far-gone,” Bodie snapped at him.
“I’m aware of what his condition is,” Cowley rejoined, “but there are some vital things I need to know.” He motioned in the direction of the shut bedroom door. “Can I?”
“No, stay here, I’ll get him.” Bodie was marching carelessly over the boundaries of what was and what wasn’t an acceptable way to speak to George Cowley, but he knew how much Doyle would hate to be unexpectedly confronted with their chief while in such a parlous state.
He let himself in the bedroom and shut the door behind him.
In the half-darkened room there was silence. Doyle was still face down on top of the bedcovers where Bodie and Murphy had left him, but off the pillow, as if he’d suddenly started scrabbling for the floor and then become unconscious, his head beginning to slide over the edge. His crumpled shirt was riding up around his waist. Bending down, Bodie could see his eyes were closed. He was unnaturally still, registering no discernible breathing movement, his mouth shut and turned down at the corners, even his facial muscles slumped. “I’m so sorry, mate,” Bodie said loudly, steeling himself. “I don’t want to do this.” He found a small space for his backside and then set about coaxing Doyle from his cave.
Insinuating one hand carefully between Doyle’s face and the mattress Bodie used the other to chafe encouragement across the chilly cheek turned towards him. The backs of his fingers stroking firmly up and down did nothing, but a clasp under the jaw and a decided shake broke through the brittle crust. Doyle’s eyes sprang open as a yelp of pained protest was dragged from his throat. Unintelligible words followed, a string of them in a hoarse voice, while he flailed one arm feebly in front of his face as if he were beating off flies.
“All right,” said Bodie, catching hold of the arm. “It’s all right, only me. Take it easy, no-one to kill.”
Doyle’s head came up and he twisted around, probably to see where he was. He had rolled off the bed and was on his feet before Bodie could stop him, staring wildly around the room, eyes on stalks. More sounds came out, choppy sentences cutting into each other, words falling over themselves and getting tangled up. Far from being crippled by exhaustion, he seemed frighteningly hyper-awake once again.
“Come on, mate, easy does it.” Bodie got carefully to his feet as if he was in the vicinity of a spooked horse. “Just need to know you’re somewhere in the world.” Doyle stopped trying to speak for a second as his upper body swayed alarmingly backwards and forwards. Bodie grasped a handful of shirt.
Doyle spoke nonsense at him.
“Listen, I’ve got the Cow out there. He needs a word, then you can go back to sleep.”
More odd sounds and stutters.
“Yeah, I told him you weren’t up to much, but he says it’s important.”
Doyle began to sink into the quicksand and Bodie grabbed a second handful of shirt, hauling him upright, his muscles trembling with the effort.
“Yeah it’s lousy ... I know,” he said through his teeth, “so ... let’s get it ... over with.”
He got both of them through the door somehow and found Cowley standing with his back to the hearth, hands in pockets. He had the good grace to wince slightly as he saw the condition of his man. “I’m sorry, Doyle. Sorry. But I need some information. We’ve identified the men who died, but ... was Zerchenkov there at all? Did you see him?”
Bodie knew Doyle wasn’t going to whimper in front of George Cowley. He was allowing himself to be supported, which would be humiliating enough, and now showed just about enough wits to resist what was undoubtedly an extreme temptation to wail an answer.
“N-,” he managed, although Bodie was pretty sure it wasn’t actually a negative he was meaning to express. He felt Doyle pinch his thigh desperately.
“I think he means yes, sir.”
“He needs to go to hospital,” Cowley said absently and then his voice became steely again. “Are you sure, lad? Zerchenkov? I need to know and it can’t wait.”
Doyle’s response, a jumble of consonants, seemed to confirm it.
“That’s good,” Cowley said. “Very good.”
“Not dead then.” Bodie was caustic.
“No, Bodie, not dead. That’s good. Right, well ... I’ll leave you to it.” The Controller of CI5 suddenly seemed to have forgotten the notion of hospital, but Bodie was glad about that. “I’ll let myself out. Good work, Bodie. You shouldn’t be so concerned about the outcome. It doesn’t mean the operation was in vain ... not at all. Not now we know Zerchenko’s still alive.”
“Why would I be concerned about the outcome, sir?” Bodie said. Did Bloody Cowley think that the fate of the four men under the concrete dragged at him so hard? And why was he so sure that they were the reason he was gargling Remy Martin, rather than the state of the man under whose weight he was beginning to stagger?
Cowley clearly acknowledged the questions reflected in Bodie’s face, but he appeared to have neither time nor inclination to address them now. When he had left, Bodie finally allowed Doyle to buckle. His muscles had been burning with the strain of keeping him on his feet, but now he let go.
Doyle gave him a look, his chin tipping up slightly, his head weaving gracefully from side to side as he staggered forward. Bodie made sure he didn’t go face down into the side of the table, but there was a crash as his knee caught the empty brandy glass and tipped it sideways. The noise seemed to attract his attention briefly but then he turned and made for the kitchen door.
“Ray, you need to lie down or you’re going to hurt yourself.”
Doyle turned around again at the commanding tone. He tried to lift a hand to make some sort of sign. Acquiescence perhaps. Or two fingers. Bodie shadowed him across the carpet and back into the bedroom, watching Doyle reach to steady himself on the bathrobe hung on the back of the door, miss it completely and end up on his knees.
“Tut.” Bodie made a grab for an elbow. Somehow he got Doyle across the last bit of carpet and up on to the bed, where he sat, arms dangling, body askew, but head perversely upright. His eyes looked alarmingly focused, like they were seeing something approaching at speed just over Bodie’s shoulder. Bodie gave him a little push to get him to lie down but it didn’t work, so he dropped in front of him on the carpet and got hold of both his wrists.
“You want to sleep, mate, you really do. You need to sleep, Raymond, you need to ... if you don’t do it here then it’ll be hospital and drugs.”
The focus of the eyes changed dramatically. Whatever he had seen before, all Bodie could read there now was .... well, it was just pain. With a grumble, Doyle pitched forward, managing to haul one of his nerveless arms up and plop it over Bodie’s shoulder. The other one remained dangling, causing a slow-motion sideways collapse. His cheek made brief contact with Bodie’s breastbone and he carried on down. Bodie just about cushioned the side of his head as it made land-fall. There was no going back from there.
When he hauled the bedspread and pillows off the bed and went back down to floor-level, Bodie was expecting to see him out of it again. But Doyle was awake, his eyes flickering towards oblivion, prevented by the onset of a harsh twitching. Every time he got near unconsciousness, something jerked him wide awake again, as if it had been programmed into his system.
“Bastards. Bloody bastards.” Bodie had kicked off his shoes by this time. He lifted Doyle’s head and jammed a pillow underneath it, then left a hand briefly pressed to his forehead. He dropped the second pillow next to it, lay down and threw the bedspread over both of them. It was a relief to finally give in to his instincts and wrap both arms around the unquiet body.
Doyle’s teeth ground together. He had his eyes shut, his forehead pressed into Bodie’s collarbone, tense and resisting.
“Settle down, you’re OK now. Bloody hell, Ray, just .... settle down. You can sleep. You have to sleep. I’ve got you.”
Bodie felt Doyle’s front teeth scrape against his shirt and heard him stutter a few times.
“Let you alone? You must be joking. I’ll sing you a bleedin lullaby if I have to.”
Doyle mumbled. He rubbed his forehead backwards and forwards across Bodie’s chest, breathing restlessly.
“You let go, I’ll hold on, all right?” Bodie shifted carefully so his hip wasn’t grinding into the hard floor. “Yeah. Sounds like a bloody good plan to me.”
He tightened his arms as his mind jumped back to that moment when he’d thought .....
Jesus fucking Christ.
Consciously forcing himself to level out his own breathing and not crush Doyle to death in his relief at having a living, breathing pile of limbs in his grasp, he stroked a slow hand down the line of Doyle’s spine and left it lying against the small of his partner’s back, steady, holding them together.
Doyle gripped feebly with his elbows, his hands scrunching folds of Bodie’s shirt. After a bit he inhaled a staccato lungful. His chin pressed into the open V under Bodie’s throat.
“Sshhh.”
Doyle’s shoulders drooped and he sighed. Bodie felt the breath, warm and damp, ripple right across his bare skin.
Nearly there, nearly there ...
A kiss, skimming Doyle’s ear and timed to perfection, sent him gently over the edge.
Title: Into the Arms of Morpheus
Author: JoJo
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at Proslib: Please
Disclaimer: Not. No. Never.
Summary: “Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, the baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, the poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release, th’indifferent judge between the high and low ..” (Sir Philip Sidney)
Happy Holidays!
Here’s a new fic, in texty version for you to read if you want. And here is also (*squeep*) the podfic version for you to listen to on your pooter or iPod/mp3 player if you want. Please note that this was not recorded with super-duper microphone surround sound blah, just straight into the poot. I have been playing with the garageband programme on my Mac ... The links take you to Mediafire and you can then download the temporary file. There will be a permanent link up soon I hope *is vague*. I find it weird listening to my own voice (who is that girly person??) so I have no idea how this will come across *g* Thanks muchly to
callistosh65 for both beta-reading and beta-listening a gazillion years ago! PS it's not christmassy or in any way related to the prompt of Love Hearts, although the lads are, of course, love *g* It's a cuddly story related to my obsession with Podfic of Into the Arms of Morpheus (mp3)
Podfic of Into the Arms of Morpheus (mp4)
And here is the text for those who don't like posh birds twittering in their ear:
Murphy left the others crashed in Bodie’s living room and went about sourcing a bottle of brandy.
He found it, eventually, in a high kitchen cupboard, along with the rest of Bodie’s emergency supplies. Sitting up there on the top shelf were half a bottle of Navy Rum, something that looked like a clump of moss in a folded envelope, and four packets of Marlboro. He spun the lid off the bottle, took a small sniff and then dolloped an approximation of two shots into a heavy-bottomed crystal glass.
Bodie flinched when the glass was thrust under his nose, and shook his head. Murphy swilled the liquid around a bit so the fumes would disperse more readily. He still held the glass in place, implacable.
Eventually, Bodie’s hand came up. He didn’t normally resort to strong spirits after assignments. Murphy knew he preferred the gentle slop of too much beer in some warm, bustling hostelry, surrounded by an inner ring of those who understood, and an outer ring of those who didn’t have a clue.
Murphy released the glass. “Close call.”
Bodie echoed him obediently. It was a toast they’d made too often and he let a mouthful of brandy slip rather quickly down both sides of his throat at once. It didn’t make him cough, though. Made of stern stuff was Bodie.
“But we’re all still breathing.” Murphy rambled on, determined to lift the mood. “Look at us. Miracles of physiology ... more healthy lungs than you can shake a stick at.”
Bodie took another swallow and peered over the rim of the glass at Jax, slumped in the Mastermind chair.
Anson came wandering itchily out of the hall, where he’d been on the phone.
“How’s our boy?”
Bodie let Murphy answer for him. “Got his eyes closed.”
“Asleep?”
“Hard to tell.”
“You not taking him down to casualty?”
“No.” Murphy was still in charge of speaking.
“Bodie?” Anson made his tone more penetrating, more demanding of an answer.
“Listen, lads ...” Bodie seemed to find his voice, dredged up a faux casual tone that may have fooled Jax and Anson but didn’t do much to convince Murphy. “I think I’ve got it covered. If he gets out of hand I’ll take him down, but I don’t want to disturb him now. Know what I mean?”
Murphy and Anson looked at each other.
Jax slowly sat up straight. “Let’s go, I’ve had enough of this week.”
“You all right then, mate?” Murphy pursued.
Bodie normally led the way in bouncing back, smiling and cracking jokes long before the rest of them were up to it. He looked quite a way from that at present. In fact, he looked like he was dwelling; and dwelling, as he so often said himself, would lead to no good.
--------------
It was true that it had been a grim week.
None of them had really expected to find Doyle upright, unrestrained and apparently unmarked -- not after seven days in the hands of the four men now buried under concrete. In the car his eyes wouldn’t close, although his body had slumped helplessly against the seat in front.
He’d got out something about not having been to sleep. At first it sounded like a guilty conscience talking after being caught snoozing on a stakeout. Then, as he went on muttering splenetically against the seat-back, it sounded like what it was.
Somehow Bodie had ended up in the passenger seat, while Anson and Murphy sat behind with Doyle wedged between them. All Bodie had wanted was to get back there and get his arms round the poor sod. He kept getting this flashback, of concrete and metal billowing down, a stretching silence of unimaginable pain, and then Anson yelling that Doyle wasn’t inside, that they’d got him out in time.
He didn’t know how to tell them what that moment had felt like.
And once they’d got back to Bodie’s flat, after an unscientifically-formulated straw poll about whether or not they should take Doyle to a hospital, he’d been unable to get to him then either. Murphy helped walk him to the bedroom, spill him face down on the furry bedspread and remove his jacket, socks and shoes. Then he stood in the doorway chewing his lip while Bodie had sat on the bed with his hand on Doyle’s shoulder saying useless things like, “Steady on, mate,” and “Stop nattering and go to sleep.”
There was a collective intake of breath as the door buzzer sounded.
Bodie looked to the ceiling. “Oh please, don’t let it be some bird. Not now.”
Murphy trotted out into the hallway and they heard him mumbling into the intercom and then the click as he let someone in the downstairs door. He leant round the door-frame and said gloomily,
“Mr Cowley’s on his way up.”
“Fuck.” Anson thought he might be in trouble, because he always thought of himself first. Bodie just sat where he was with the glass still in his hands. He carried on sipping it defiantly while there was a conflab in the hallway.
Whisper, whisper, whisper.
“We’re off now.” Murphy came up close, nudged his knee.
Bodie looked up crookedly. He heard them all collecting their things - car-keys, jackets, holsters - and then shuffling out. Cowley came into the room and looked quickly around as if to say, “ah yes, 3.7. good taste in tribal artefacts, but I can’t say I care much for the artwork”.
“I need to ask Doyle some questions.” George Cowley eyed Bodie narrowly. He could smell the brandy and clearly didn’t think it was sufficient.
“You’ve got to be joking ... he probably won’t even know who you are he’s so far-gone,” Bodie snapped at him.
“I’m aware of what his condition is,” Cowley rejoined, “but there are some vital things I need to know.” He motioned in the direction of the shut bedroom door. “Can I?”
“No, stay here, I’ll get him.” Bodie was marching carelessly over the boundaries of what was and what wasn’t an acceptable way to speak to George Cowley, but he knew how much Doyle would hate to be unexpectedly confronted with their chief while in such a parlous state.
He let himself in the bedroom and shut the door behind him.
In the half-darkened room there was silence. Doyle was still face down on top of the bedcovers where Bodie and Murphy had left him, but off the pillow, as if he’d suddenly started scrabbling for the floor and then become unconscious, his head beginning to slide over the edge. His crumpled shirt was riding up around his waist. Bending down, Bodie could see his eyes were closed. He was unnaturally still, registering no discernible breathing movement, his mouth shut and turned down at the corners, even his facial muscles slumped. “I’m so sorry, mate,” Bodie said loudly, steeling himself. “I don’t want to do this.” He found a small space for his backside and then set about coaxing Doyle from his cave.
Insinuating one hand carefully between Doyle’s face and the mattress Bodie used the other to chafe encouragement across the chilly cheek turned towards him. The backs of his fingers stroking firmly up and down did nothing, but a clasp under the jaw and a decided shake broke through the brittle crust. Doyle’s eyes sprang open as a yelp of pained protest was dragged from his throat. Unintelligible words followed, a string of them in a hoarse voice, while he flailed one arm feebly in front of his face as if he were beating off flies.
“All right,” said Bodie, catching hold of the arm. “It’s all right, only me. Take it easy, no-one to kill.”
Doyle’s head came up and he twisted around, probably to see where he was. He had rolled off the bed and was on his feet before Bodie could stop him, staring wildly around the room, eyes on stalks. More sounds came out, choppy sentences cutting into each other, words falling over themselves and getting tangled up. Far from being crippled by exhaustion, he seemed frighteningly hyper-awake once again.
“Come on, mate, easy does it.” Bodie got carefully to his feet as if he was in the vicinity of a spooked horse. “Just need to know you’re somewhere in the world.” Doyle stopped trying to speak for a second as his upper body swayed alarmingly backwards and forwards. Bodie grasped a handful of shirt.
Doyle spoke nonsense at him.
“Listen, I’ve got the Cow out there. He needs a word, then you can go back to sleep.”
More odd sounds and stutters.
“Yeah, I told him you weren’t up to much, but he says it’s important.”
Doyle began to sink into the quicksand and Bodie grabbed a second handful of shirt, hauling him upright, his muscles trembling with the effort.
“Yeah it’s lousy ... I know,” he said through his teeth, “so ... let’s get it ... over with.”
He got both of them through the door somehow and found Cowley standing with his back to the hearth, hands in pockets. He had the good grace to wince slightly as he saw the condition of his man. “I’m sorry, Doyle. Sorry. But I need some information. We’ve identified the men who died, but ... was Zerchenkov there at all? Did you see him?”
Bodie knew Doyle wasn’t going to whimper in front of George Cowley. He was allowing himself to be supported, which would be humiliating enough, and now showed just about enough wits to resist what was undoubtedly an extreme temptation to wail an answer.
“N-,” he managed, although Bodie was pretty sure it wasn’t actually a negative he was meaning to express. He felt Doyle pinch his thigh desperately.
“I think he means yes, sir.”
“He needs to go to hospital,” Cowley said absently and then his voice became steely again. “Are you sure, lad? Zerchenkov? I need to know and it can’t wait.”
Doyle’s response, a jumble of consonants, seemed to confirm it.
“That’s good,” Cowley said. “Very good.”
“Not dead then.” Bodie was caustic.
“No, Bodie, not dead. That’s good. Right, well ... I’ll leave you to it.” The Controller of CI5 suddenly seemed to have forgotten the notion of hospital, but Bodie was glad about that. “I’ll let myself out. Good work, Bodie. You shouldn’t be so concerned about the outcome. It doesn’t mean the operation was in vain ... not at all. Not now we know Zerchenko’s still alive.”
“Why would I be concerned about the outcome, sir?” Bodie said. Did Bloody Cowley think that the fate of the four men under the concrete dragged at him so hard? And why was he so sure that they were the reason he was gargling Remy Martin, rather than the state of the man under whose weight he was beginning to stagger?
Cowley clearly acknowledged the questions reflected in Bodie’s face, but he appeared to have neither time nor inclination to address them now. When he had left, Bodie finally allowed Doyle to buckle. His muscles had been burning with the strain of keeping him on his feet, but now he let go.
Doyle gave him a look, his chin tipping up slightly, his head weaving gracefully from side to side as he staggered forward. Bodie made sure he didn’t go face down into the side of the table, but there was a crash as his knee caught the empty brandy glass and tipped it sideways. The noise seemed to attract his attention briefly but then he turned and made for the kitchen door.
“Ray, you need to lie down or you’re going to hurt yourself.”
Doyle turned around again at the commanding tone. He tried to lift a hand to make some sort of sign. Acquiescence perhaps. Or two fingers. Bodie shadowed him across the carpet and back into the bedroom, watching Doyle reach to steady himself on the bathrobe hung on the back of the door, miss it completely and end up on his knees.
“Tut.” Bodie made a grab for an elbow. Somehow he got Doyle across the last bit of carpet and up on to the bed, where he sat, arms dangling, body askew, but head perversely upright. His eyes looked alarmingly focused, like they were seeing something approaching at speed just over Bodie’s shoulder. Bodie gave him a little push to get him to lie down but it didn’t work, so he dropped in front of him on the carpet and got hold of both his wrists.
“You want to sleep, mate, you really do. You need to sleep, Raymond, you need to ... if you don’t do it here then it’ll be hospital and drugs.”
The focus of the eyes changed dramatically. Whatever he had seen before, all Bodie could read there now was .... well, it was just pain. With a grumble, Doyle pitched forward, managing to haul one of his nerveless arms up and plop it over Bodie’s shoulder. The other one remained dangling, causing a slow-motion sideways collapse. His cheek made brief contact with Bodie’s breastbone and he carried on down. Bodie just about cushioned the side of his head as it made land-fall. There was no going back from there.
When he hauled the bedspread and pillows off the bed and went back down to floor-level, Bodie was expecting to see him out of it again. But Doyle was awake, his eyes flickering towards oblivion, prevented by the onset of a harsh twitching. Every time he got near unconsciousness, something jerked him wide awake again, as if it had been programmed into his system.
“Bastards. Bloody bastards.” Bodie had kicked off his shoes by this time. He lifted Doyle’s head and jammed a pillow underneath it, then left a hand briefly pressed to his forehead. He dropped the second pillow next to it, lay down and threw the bedspread over both of them. It was a relief to finally give in to his instincts and wrap both arms around the unquiet body.
Doyle’s teeth ground together. He had his eyes shut, his forehead pressed into Bodie’s collarbone, tense and resisting.
“Settle down, you’re OK now. Bloody hell, Ray, just .... settle down. You can sleep. You have to sleep. I’ve got you.”
Bodie felt Doyle’s front teeth scrape against his shirt and heard him stutter a few times.
“Let you alone? You must be joking. I’ll sing you a bleedin lullaby if I have to.”
Doyle mumbled. He rubbed his forehead backwards and forwards across Bodie’s chest, breathing restlessly.
“You let go, I’ll hold on, all right?” Bodie shifted carefully so his hip wasn’t grinding into the hard floor. “Yeah. Sounds like a bloody good plan to me.”
He tightened his arms as his mind jumped back to that moment when he’d thought .....
Jesus fucking Christ.
Consciously forcing himself to level out his own breathing and not crush Doyle to death in his relief at having a living, breathing pile of limbs in his grasp, he stroked a slow hand down the line of Doyle’s spine and left it lying against the small of his partner’s back, steady, holding them together.
Doyle gripped feebly with his elbows, his hands scrunching folds of Bodie’s shirt. After a bit he inhaled a staccato lungful. His chin pressed into the open V under Bodie’s throat.
“Sshhh.”
Doyle’s shoulders drooped and he sighed. Bodie felt the breath, warm and damp, ripple right across his bare skin.
Nearly there, nearly there ...
A kiss, skimming Doyle’s ear and timed to perfection, sent him gently over the edge.
Title: Into the Arms of Morpheus
Author: JoJo
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at Proslib: Please
Disclaimer: Not. No. Never.
Summary: “Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, the baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, the poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release, th’indifferent judge between the high and low ..” (Sir Philip Sidney)
Happy Holidays!
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