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discoveredinalj2010-01-04 07:12 am
magenta-blue.livejournal.com) wrote in discoveredinalj2010-01-04 07:12 am
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Discovered in a Christmas Stocking - 4th January
Hello, made it to my day after all, with fic... and a challenge! My prompt was Shoot football magazine - it's in there somewhere. Enjoy!
Season’s Greetings
It would take a very discerning eye indeed to spot signs of Christmas within a certain unremarkable building in Whitehall. The casual visitor – a minister or such like - would not find a Christmas tree in the foyer, or tinsel lining the security desk. To outward appearances it was business as usual at CI5 Headquarters.
A closer look, however, would reveal quite a different story. A mince pie might be glimpsed next to the Head of Security’s mug of milky tea. A careful listen outside Betty’s door after hours would reveal Christmas songs playing at a discreet volume. Charlie the caretaker had a piece of tinsel tied around his broom handle. And on Cowley’s desk there was a neat but large pile of boxed Christmas cards waiting to be written – something Bodie and Doyle were currently staring at in dismay.
“I can’t believe we’ve been lumbered with this job,” said Bodie. “Why us?”
“It’s your bloody copperplate handwriting on reports. Just shows the Cow takes note of everything even when he's sick, the wily old so-and-so,” Doyle said, sitting on the desk. He counted the boxes of cards and whistled. “We’ll be here ‘til next Christmas. And there’s more on his chair.”
Bodie peered over and groaned. “I need a drink. If he’s locked his cabinet again then Maggie can just go without her signed card from George.”
Luckily the cabinet was open, and Bodie quickly fetched the bottle of malt whisky and two glass tumblers. He set them down on the desk, nearly caused a small avalanche of boxes, and proceeded to pour two hefty measures.
“Cheers,” said Bodie, chinking glasses with Doyle. “To your forgery skills.”
“To your private education!” retorted Doyle. They drank.
“He doesn’t expect us to get his signature right, does he? Bollocks to that. He could have called in a professional…” Doyle continued, still perched on the desk.
“Trouble is, we’re the only ones with clearance. Cowley’s Christmas card list is a top secret affair – heads of state, royalty…”
“Be a great knock list.”
“Exactly! And speaking of which…” Bodie said, patting his jacket pocket, “where did I put it?”
Doyle grinned, and then took another sip. “You lost it?”
“Err…” Bodie was now trying to wiggle both hands into his trouser pockets, not a mean feat in his corduroys.
“Need a hand?” Doyle asked, his eyes gleaming wickedly.
Bodie stopped wiggling and stared at Doyle suspiciously. “Did you…?”
Doyle pulled the list from his pocket with a nonchalant air.
“I thought that was my Christmas treat! And all along you just wanted to get your thieving mitts on that list when I was distracted.”
“Not just on the list, I seem to recall…” Doyle murmured, and they exchanged a grin, recent memories being rather pleasant.
“I’ll have to keep my eye on you,” said Bodie happily. He sat beside Doyle on the desk, and peered over his shoulder.
The list was neatly typed on both sides, split into different sections. Bodie hadn’t been joking when he mentioned royalty – everyone was represented – government, the opposition, embassies, MI6, Chief of Police, Army, Navy, Annie Irving…
Bodie tapped her name with his finger. “Still carrying a torch, do you reckon?”
“Shall we sign that one 'Georgie'?”
Bodie laughed and stood up, restless already. “C’mon, let’s make a start. Quicker we get scribbling, quicker we can go home and carry on what you started.”
“And there was me thinking you’d finished!” Doyle walked around Cowley’s desk, shifting the boxes from the chair to the floor.
“Just warming up, that’s all.” He frowned at his partner, now sprawled in Cowley’s chair. “Comfy?”
“I could do with another drink,” said Doyle, opening the first box. He then turned the box cover over. “’Ere, these are all marked. This is Maggie’s lot.”
Bodie dragged over another chair, and reached for a box. He read the cover out-loud. “MI6.”
Doyle looked up at the grin he had heard in his voice.
“Hand it over,” he said, beckoning for it. “The Cow won’t thank you for doing Willis’ card.”
Bodie gave him the box. “I thought a nice, simple message would do it. ‘Fuck off, love CI5’, was what I was going to go for. Short but to the point.”
“Oh I agree it’s the card he deserves,” said Doyle. He opened the box and pulled a face at the card design. “Who picks these cards? They’ve got crap taste.”
“Betty.”
“No wonder!” Doyle shook his head at the cheerful snowmen.
“She’s got very good taste – she went out with me,” said Bodie, casting about the desk for a pen. He looked up at Doyle, grinning, waiting for it.
Doyle held his gaze for a full five seconds. “I can’t dispute that now, can I?” he said, eventually.
“Not anymore!” Bodie winked at him, and then continued scouring the desk for a pen. He found the whisky bottle instead, and poured them another healthy measure.
Doyle accepted the glass, and sipped thoughtfully. “That’s a whole topic of conversation that’s off-limits. I used to enjoy teasing you about Betty.”
“What’s off-limits? You can ask me anything you like. Not that there’s much to tell about Betty. We copped off after Tulliver’s party. All I know was I woke up wearing her bra around my head.”
Tulliver’s New Year party was four years ago, but it was still talked about in reverential tones.
Doyle laughed, having to put down his drink when a few splashes made it onto the cards destined for MI6. “What size?”
Bodie sat back and considered. “Handful, I’d say.”
“The debauched life you led until I came along,” said Doyle, opening Cowley’s desk drawer. “Where’s his bleedin’ pens?”
“Hoi!” Bodie said, not letting Doyle get away with that one. “I didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘til I met you. Who came up with that little trick the other night?”
Doyle grinned, and looked slightly smug.
“Exactly,” said Bodie, feeling his point was well made. “Did you find a pen?”
“Nope. I found his pack of Polo’s though,” Doyle said, holding them up.
“He counts them y’know,” Bodie said, watching him.
Doyle ferreted further. “Why doesn’t he have a stamp?”
“Don’t need stamps, these will all go Internal,” said Bodie, puzzled.
“An ink stamp! So he can just print his cards with his name! Much easier than hand-signing all these bloody things.”
“Not that we’ve actually managed one, yet,” said Bodie.
“What’s this?” Doyle pulled out a magazine. He held it up to Bodie with a puzzled look on his face. “Why would the Cow have Shoot magazine? He’s not into football, is he?” he asked.
Bodie took it from him and flicked through. It was a few months out of date. He held it open at a double page spread and gave it back at Doyle. “It’s got a special on St Mirren. That’s his home team.”
“Ah. You mean to say the Cow was feeling sentimental? Wonders will never cease,” he said, stuffing it back in the drawer. “Ah-ha!”
He surfaced with two pens. “Here you go,” he said, chucking one over. Bodie caught it adroitly.
“Dear Maggie…” Bodie said, opening the first card. He paused. “Did he say just sign it, or…?”
“Just sign it,” Doyle said. He scribbled Cowley’s signature with a flourish and stuffed the card in its envelope. “Oh hang on… ‘m not licking all these.”
Aware that he had an interested audience, he continued. “I’ll lick a lot of things, but not envelopes.”
“Hasn’t he got a little wet sponge?”
“I wouldn’t like to ask,” replied Doyle primly. He tucked the flap inside the envelope instead. “There, that’ll do it.”
Bodie was still giggling. “Now all I can think about is Cowley’s little wet sponge.”
Doyle looked at him, and then burst out laughing. “Stop it,” he said, when he got himself back under control. “How many have you done?”
“Three,” Bodie said. He took another sip of whisky.
“Bloody hell, we are going to be here all night. We should get a system going,” said Doyle, laboriously writing the address Mr T. Willis, SIS PO Box 1300, London, SE1 1BD.
“Four,” said Bodie, laying another card aside.
Doyle grunted. He scrawled a scribble beginning with G and tucked the card into its envelope.
“Five.”
“You’re not doing the envelopes,” Doyle said accusingly, peering at the list and writing the next address.
“My system is ‘do them last’. Besides they're nearly all for Number Ten. In fact I could stick them all in one large envelope and address it to the Director of Political and Government relations and let him deal with it.”
“’m gonna do them first, get them out of the way.”
“No one is going to give you a gold star for this, Raymond. Were you like that with your homework?”
“Well,” Doyle said, putting down his pen. “Depended what it was. And who had asked for it,” he finished with a grin.
“Oh don’t tell me. You fancied your Art teacher.”
“She weren’t bad,” Doyle conceded. He sat back in his chair. “Her assistant was nicer.”
“No wonder you took Art,” Bodie said, adding a flourish to the ‘y’ of Cowley. “That’s Maggie’s,” he said to Doyle’s look.
“He does like strong women… look at Annie! A lady PM might melt his heart,” he mused, and then sat up. “Go on, put a kiss, I dare you!”
Bodie looked levelly at him. “Alright,” he said, and Doyle quickly stayed his hand. “No, you can’t – he’ll kill us,” he said, grinning. “I just said it to see what you’d do.”
“I always win at dares – it’s why I was so good in the SAS,” Bodie said, returning Doyle’s grin. “When I was training in Wales…”
Doyle slumped over the sprawled cards on the desk and snored.
“Okay, okay I get the message. Hand me that list will you?”
Doyle sat up and handed it over. “You done the whole box?”
“Well it’s only writing two words, it’s not rocket science.” Bodie peered at the list, and sighed as he pulled the first envelope towards him.
“I bet the Cow hates doing this every year. No wonder he had that happy gleam in his eye when he told us to do it.” Doyle hastily scribbled a few more signatures. “Still, do him good to get some rest; it’s about time that doctor of his put his foot down.”
“He won’t be resting. I bet good money that he’s still making calls,” said Bodie.
“You’d lose. That convalescent home is under strict instructions – absolute rest for two weeks, the doctor said. No papers, no telephones.”
“He’ll be plotting, then. The old goat will come back fit as a fiddle, you wait and see. The first thing he’ll say is that refresher course with Macklin.”
“Ah…” Doyle said, sitting back.
“What?”
Doyle scratched his chin. “I spoke to Mack yesterday. I’ve booked us in for January fourth.”
“You what?” Bodie looked astounded.
“Well, everyone has to do it! Besides, last year we were due in on New Year’s Day, remember that? At least this way I’ve given us some down-time. Got plans for New Year’s, I have,” Doyle said, “and none of them involve tender loving care from Macklin.”
“After a bit of TLC are you?” asked Bodie, warming to the idea already.
“Nice hot bath, good food, crap telly. A nice foot rub,” Doyle mused. “Want to test out that video recorder, and I haven’t even had a chance to listen to the new Pink Floyd album yet. I’ve only got as far as side one. It’s pretty good though.”
“A foot rub? If I’d have known manipulating your size nines was the way to your heart I'd've taken advantage on stake out years ago.”
“Don’t think the bowling alley would have been too keen. Although it might have saved a few years dallying around with strange women.”
“And men.”
“Well, exactly!”
They looked at each-other.
“Do we have to get into that conversation now?” asked Bodie, hoping they wouldn’t.
“Nah, it can keep. Plenty of years to dig deep into your nefarious past.”
“You’ve read my file anyway. It doesn’t come more nefarious than that,” said Bodie, embellishing his latest envelope with a scribbled sprig of holly. “Oops.”
“Bo-die! Who’s that one supposed to be to?”
“Um…” Bodie peered at it. “The Home Secretary. He’ll love it.”
“Yeah, I just bet he will.”
“Well, you’re not faring that much better. What does that card say?” Bodie asked, leaning over and staring at Doyle’s latest handiwork.
“George Cowley, what else?” answered Doyle.
“Germ Cowley, it looks like from here.”
“What?” Doyle stared at it. “That’s a ‘g’.”
“And what about this one?” Bodie held up another card. “George Coward.”
Doyle snatched it from him. “Nah,” he said finally. Still, he dropped the last card in the bin. “One of them can go without. It’s only a Christmas card.”
Bodie started on the second box. He glanced at the cover. Scotland Yard. “You can have your relations.”
“Eh? Oh,” said Doyle, seeing the cover. “Alright – you can do the Army.”
“Already have, sweetheart,” camped Bodie. He continued in a normal tone of voice, “I think I need another drink before I start on this one. I might add a few embellishments to Craine’s. That bloody assault course.”
The bottle chinked; the liquid glugged. A glass was nudged into Doyle’s hand. “Get that down you lad. Put hairs on your chest.”
“’m already nicely insulated. But ta,” replied Doyle.
They forged ahead for ten minutes. Bodie reached for another box. “Next year I’m going to give Murphy clearance. Who bloody cares about Christmas cards?”
Doyle didn’t reply, intent over his card.
“I mean, who bleedin’ wants a George Cowley Christmas card? It’s not going to make or break someone’s year, is it? Who cares about cards?”
Doyle finished what he was doing and gave it to Bodie. “Your Christmas card.”
“Ah, thanks!” said Bodie, pleased. He opened it, and tried not to look too soppy.
Dear Willy,
Want to see more of you!
Love Me x
“But ‘m here,” said Bodie.
“It’s not addressed to you, exactly,” replied Doyle.
“Gotcha. My turn,” said Bodie, pulling a card towards him. He hunched over it.
Dear you,
What can I do
Think I’m in love
With you
So let’s screw!
Love Me x
Doyle grinned as he read it. “I think both our cards are saying the same thing. Shall we finish this quick and go home?”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Bodie, upending a second box on the desk. He read the cover. Royalty.
Twenty minutes of industrious, if slightly ineligible, scribbling passed, broken only for sips of whisky.
“Damn, me pen’s run out,” said Doyle a few minutes later. He opened Cowley’s drawer again.
“Try the second one down,” said Bodie.
Doyle shut the top drawer and opened the second. “Got all the spare ID photos in here,” he said, pulling them out. “Susan looks a bit glamorous.”
Bodie leaned over, and tapped one. “Handsome lad.”
Doyle gave him a look. “And so modest!”
Bodie grinned and went back to tucking cards in envelopes. Doyle contemplated the photographs.
“You know,” he said, with an air of proclaiming something important, “it’s a shame the Cow won’t be getting a Christmas card this year.”
“He’ll have hundreds to come back to – he gets Betty to go through them,” said Bodie, not looking up.
“But he should get a card while he is convalescing – something to show how much we miss him.”
Bodie now looked up. “What devilish deed is going through your mind, Raymond Doyle?”
“Was just thinking, these spare ID photographs – we could stick some on a card and send it to him, as a reminder of the squad!”
“Ah – but security won’t have it,” reminded Bodie. “Identification would be a security risk.”
Doyle was rummaging through the desk drawer again. “Not,” he said, “if you use a black marker pen to block everyone out,” he said, straightening with one in his hand. “Then not only are we sending the Cow a card, we are giving him a little puzzle to do as well. Exercise his mind. Come on – he’s always said he knows his agents inside and out. Let’s see who he recognises.”
“He’ll recognise us, that’s for sure – without even seeing our ID pictures! He’ll know this is our handiwork.”
“Give him a giggle,” said Doyle stoically, already colouring in one of the small photographs. “I’m bored sick of these cards.”
“Okay – you create the Cow’s special, and I’ll finish the cards off. Only got two boxes left – at least mine won’t be signed off ‘George Custard’, or some other variation.”
“Anyway,” continued Bodie, ten minutes later, “must be getting near the end now. These are all CI5 cards.”
Doyle had a small stack of blacked out ID photographs in front of him. He looked up from colouring in the last one, and noticed the desk looked rather tidy. “Have you put them all back in their boxes?”
“Yup. While you were revisiting your artistic side, I was getting on with the job. All sealed in their envelopes. Just this last box to do.”
“Give us a card,” said Doyle, beckoning for one.
“Here you go, Anson can go without,” replied Bodie, handing it over.
Doyle reached for the glue and started sticking pictures down on the card. He looked highly pleased with his work, and when he had finished sticking them, he opened it and wrote 'Merry Christmas! Guess Who!'
Bodie looked over at it. “He’ll think Bodie and Doyle, at his whisky.”
“He likes us anyway,” said Doyle, writing the address on the envelope. He stuffed the card inside. “I’ll get Betty to send it first thing tomorrow. Are we done?”
The desk was stacked with neat piles of boxes. “All signed, sealed, and with their relevant unit. Internal can now be the good Christmas elf and deliver them, we’ve done enough!”
“Thank gawd for that. Let’s go. I want to make good our Christmas wishes,” said Doyle, resting his hand on Bodie’s shoulder, squeezing it gently as he stood.
Bodie patted his hand. “Good point,” he said, and then stood still. “Fuck!”
“Just what I had in mind,” said Doyle in a deep voice, leaning close.
“No! The cards!” Bodie was staring in anguish at the neat stacks.
Doyle followed his gaze. “Looks fine to me, all in the right boxes…”
“Exactly! And just where is the card I wrote to you with the poem? Or the one you wrote to me, or rather my cock?”
Doyle’s hand stilled on Bodie’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he echoed. “Could be anywhere. Royalty, Maggie…”
They both stared at each other, and then Bodie started laughing. “I suppose the good thing is that we didn’t sign our names…”
“True…” Doyle said, and chuckled. “Ah sod it. It’s Christmas after all. Let’s get out of here!”
sSs
And so it came to pass that George Cowley, sitting up in his bed, received a card to let him know his squad was thinking of him (and drinking his whisky). It made him smile when no one else was looking.
Although the main puzzle for him, after he recovered and returned to duty, was why his presence seemed to cause slight hilarity at Buckingham Palace. Or why the Queen blushed.
The End
This is the card that George Cowley received while on convalescence. He knows his squad like the back of his hand, so he knew exactly who was in the greeting card. But can you do as well as the Cow?
Double click the picture to make it bigger (oo-er). All answers will be open, no comments screened – take a guess, debate amongst yourselves! My work doesn't let me check LJ (meanies) so I won't be around during the day to reply, sorry! The final answers will be revealed on this post on January 7th to give you some more guessing time. And if you guess which eps the pictures are taken from as well then consider yourself on George Cowley’s Christmas card list!
Good luck, have fun, and a very happy New Year to you all. May 2010 shine brighter for all of us.
CLUES
1. The fic is set a week before Christmas, 1979. All the CI5 agents/personnel depicted are therefore from episodes that aired before December 25th, 1979.
2. Number 4 is large only as I think it is a tough one to guess! There is no special importance attached to the person depicted.
3. Doyle naturally included himself and his modest partner.
4. Number 5 is not wearing a hat!
EDIT - Answers can now be found on this post. *g*
sSs
Title of Fic: Season's Greetings
Author: Magenta Blue
Genre: Slash
Archive: Yes please
Disclaimer: Purely for pleasure my son, purely for pleasure
Thank you: To BySlantedLight for the story beta!
Season’s Greetings
It would take a very discerning eye indeed to spot signs of Christmas within a certain unremarkable building in Whitehall. The casual visitor – a minister or such like - would not find a Christmas tree in the foyer, or tinsel lining the security desk. To outward appearances it was business as usual at CI5 Headquarters.
A closer look, however, would reveal quite a different story. A mince pie might be glimpsed next to the Head of Security’s mug of milky tea. A careful listen outside Betty’s door after hours would reveal Christmas songs playing at a discreet volume. Charlie the caretaker had a piece of tinsel tied around his broom handle. And on Cowley’s desk there was a neat but large pile of boxed Christmas cards waiting to be written – something Bodie and Doyle were currently staring at in dismay.
“I can’t believe we’ve been lumbered with this job,” said Bodie. “Why us?”
“It’s your bloody copperplate handwriting on reports. Just shows the Cow takes note of everything even when he's sick, the wily old so-and-so,” Doyle said, sitting on the desk. He counted the boxes of cards and whistled. “We’ll be here ‘til next Christmas. And there’s more on his chair.”
Bodie peered over and groaned. “I need a drink. If he’s locked his cabinet again then Maggie can just go without her signed card from George.”
Luckily the cabinet was open, and Bodie quickly fetched the bottle of malt whisky and two glass tumblers. He set them down on the desk, nearly caused a small avalanche of boxes, and proceeded to pour two hefty measures.
“Cheers,” said Bodie, chinking glasses with Doyle. “To your forgery skills.”
“To your private education!” retorted Doyle. They drank.
“He doesn’t expect us to get his signature right, does he? Bollocks to that. He could have called in a professional…” Doyle continued, still perched on the desk.
“Trouble is, we’re the only ones with clearance. Cowley’s Christmas card list is a top secret affair – heads of state, royalty…”
“Be a great knock list.”
“Exactly! And speaking of which…” Bodie said, patting his jacket pocket, “where did I put it?”
Doyle grinned, and then took another sip. “You lost it?”
“Err…” Bodie was now trying to wiggle both hands into his trouser pockets, not a mean feat in his corduroys.
“Need a hand?” Doyle asked, his eyes gleaming wickedly.
Bodie stopped wiggling and stared at Doyle suspiciously. “Did you…?”
Doyle pulled the list from his pocket with a nonchalant air.
“I thought that was my Christmas treat! And all along you just wanted to get your thieving mitts on that list when I was distracted.”
“Not just on the list, I seem to recall…” Doyle murmured, and they exchanged a grin, recent memories being rather pleasant.
“I’ll have to keep my eye on you,” said Bodie happily. He sat beside Doyle on the desk, and peered over his shoulder.
The list was neatly typed on both sides, split into different sections. Bodie hadn’t been joking when he mentioned royalty – everyone was represented – government, the opposition, embassies, MI6, Chief of Police, Army, Navy, Annie Irving…
Bodie tapped her name with his finger. “Still carrying a torch, do you reckon?”
“Shall we sign that one 'Georgie'?”
Bodie laughed and stood up, restless already. “C’mon, let’s make a start. Quicker we get scribbling, quicker we can go home and carry on what you started.”
“And there was me thinking you’d finished!” Doyle walked around Cowley’s desk, shifting the boxes from the chair to the floor.
“Just warming up, that’s all.” He frowned at his partner, now sprawled in Cowley’s chair. “Comfy?”
“I could do with another drink,” said Doyle, opening the first box. He then turned the box cover over. “’Ere, these are all marked. This is Maggie’s lot.”
Bodie dragged over another chair, and reached for a box. He read the cover out-loud. “MI6.”
Doyle looked up at the grin he had heard in his voice.
“Hand it over,” he said, beckoning for it. “The Cow won’t thank you for doing Willis’ card.”
Bodie gave him the box. “I thought a nice, simple message would do it. ‘Fuck off, love CI5’, was what I was going to go for. Short but to the point.”
“Oh I agree it’s the card he deserves,” said Doyle. He opened the box and pulled a face at the card design. “Who picks these cards? They’ve got crap taste.”
“Betty.”
“No wonder!” Doyle shook his head at the cheerful snowmen.
“She’s got very good taste – she went out with me,” said Bodie, casting about the desk for a pen. He looked up at Doyle, grinning, waiting for it.
Doyle held his gaze for a full five seconds. “I can’t dispute that now, can I?” he said, eventually.
“Not anymore!” Bodie winked at him, and then continued scouring the desk for a pen. He found the whisky bottle instead, and poured them another healthy measure.
Doyle accepted the glass, and sipped thoughtfully. “That’s a whole topic of conversation that’s off-limits. I used to enjoy teasing you about Betty.”
“What’s off-limits? You can ask me anything you like. Not that there’s much to tell about Betty. We copped off after Tulliver’s party. All I know was I woke up wearing her bra around my head.”
Tulliver’s New Year party was four years ago, but it was still talked about in reverential tones.
Doyle laughed, having to put down his drink when a few splashes made it onto the cards destined for MI6. “What size?”
Bodie sat back and considered. “Handful, I’d say.”
“The debauched life you led until I came along,” said Doyle, opening Cowley’s desk drawer. “Where’s his bleedin’ pens?”
“Hoi!” Bodie said, not letting Doyle get away with that one. “I didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘til I met you. Who came up with that little trick the other night?”
Doyle grinned, and looked slightly smug.
“Exactly,” said Bodie, feeling his point was well made. “Did you find a pen?”
“Nope. I found his pack of Polo’s though,” Doyle said, holding them up.
“He counts them y’know,” Bodie said, watching him.
Doyle ferreted further. “Why doesn’t he have a stamp?”
“Don’t need stamps, these will all go Internal,” said Bodie, puzzled.
“An ink stamp! So he can just print his cards with his name! Much easier than hand-signing all these bloody things.”
“Not that we’ve actually managed one, yet,” said Bodie.
“What’s this?” Doyle pulled out a magazine. He held it up to Bodie with a puzzled look on his face. “Why would the Cow have Shoot magazine? He’s not into football, is he?” he asked.
Bodie took it from him and flicked through. It was a few months out of date. He held it open at a double page spread and gave it back at Doyle. “It’s got a special on St Mirren. That’s his home team.”
“Ah. You mean to say the Cow was feeling sentimental? Wonders will never cease,” he said, stuffing it back in the drawer. “Ah-ha!”
He surfaced with two pens. “Here you go,” he said, chucking one over. Bodie caught it adroitly.
“Dear Maggie…” Bodie said, opening the first card. He paused. “Did he say just sign it, or…?”
“Just sign it,” Doyle said. He scribbled Cowley’s signature with a flourish and stuffed the card in its envelope. “Oh hang on… ‘m not licking all these.”
Aware that he had an interested audience, he continued. “I’ll lick a lot of things, but not envelopes.”
“Hasn’t he got a little wet sponge?”
“I wouldn’t like to ask,” replied Doyle primly. He tucked the flap inside the envelope instead. “There, that’ll do it.”
Bodie was still giggling. “Now all I can think about is Cowley’s little wet sponge.”
Doyle looked at him, and then burst out laughing. “Stop it,” he said, when he got himself back under control. “How many have you done?”
“Three,” Bodie said. He took another sip of whisky.
“Bloody hell, we are going to be here all night. We should get a system going,” said Doyle, laboriously writing the address Mr T. Willis, SIS PO Box 1300, London, SE1 1BD.
“Four,” said Bodie, laying another card aside.
Doyle grunted. He scrawled a scribble beginning with G and tucked the card into its envelope.
“Five.”
“You’re not doing the envelopes,” Doyle said accusingly, peering at the list and writing the next address.
“My system is ‘do them last’. Besides they're nearly all for Number Ten. In fact I could stick them all in one large envelope and address it to the Director of Political and Government relations and let him deal with it.”
“’m gonna do them first, get them out of the way.”
“No one is going to give you a gold star for this, Raymond. Were you like that with your homework?”
“Well,” Doyle said, putting down his pen. “Depended what it was. And who had asked for it,” he finished with a grin.
“Oh don’t tell me. You fancied your Art teacher.”
“She weren’t bad,” Doyle conceded. He sat back in his chair. “Her assistant was nicer.”
“No wonder you took Art,” Bodie said, adding a flourish to the ‘y’ of Cowley. “That’s Maggie’s,” he said to Doyle’s look.
“He does like strong women… look at Annie! A lady PM might melt his heart,” he mused, and then sat up. “Go on, put a kiss, I dare you!”
Bodie looked levelly at him. “Alright,” he said, and Doyle quickly stayed his hand. “No, you can’t – he’ll kill us,” he said, grinning. “I just said it to see what you’d do.”
“I always win at dares – it’s why I was so good in the SAS,” Bodie said, returning Doyle’s grin. “When I was training in Wales…”
Doyle slumped over the sprawled cards on the desk and snored.
“Okay, okay I get the message. Hand me that list will you?”
Doyle sat up and handed it over. “You done the whole box?”
“Well it’s only writing two words, it’s not rocket science.” Bodie peered at the list, and sighed as he pulled the first envelope towards him.
“I bet the Cow hates doing this every year. No wonder he had that happy gleam in his eye when he told us to do it.” Doyle hastily scribbled a few more signatures. “Still, do him good to get some rest; it’s about time that doctor of his put his foot down.”
“He won’t be resting. I bet good money that he’s still making calls,” said Bodie.
“You’d lose. That convalescent home is under strict instructions – absolute rest for two weeks, the doctor said. No papers, no telephones.”
“He’ll be plotting, then. The old goat will come back fit as a fiddle, you wait and see. The first thing he’ll say is that refresher course with Macklin.”
“Ah…” Doyle said, sitting back.
“What?”
Doyle scratched his chin. “I spoke to Mack yesterday. I’ve booked us in for January fourth.”
“You what?” Bodie looked astounded.
“Well, everyone has to do it! Besides, last year we were due in on New Year’s Day, remember that? At least this way I’ve given us some down-time. Got plans for New Year’s, I have,” Doyle said, “and none of them involve tender loving care from Macklin.”
“After a bit of TLC are you?” asked Bodie, warming to the idea already.
“Nice hot bath, good food, crap telly. A nice foot rub,” Doyle mused. “Want to test out that video recorder, and I haven’t even had a chance to listen to the new Pink Floyd album yet. I’ve only got as far as side one. It’s pretty good though.”
“A foot rub? If I’d have known manipulating your size nines was the way to your heart I'd've taken advantage on stake out years ago.”
“Don’t think the bowling alley would have been too keen. Although it might have saved a few years dallying around with strange women.”
“And men.”
“Well, exactly!”
They looked at each-other.
“Do we have to get into that conversation now?” asked Bodie, hoping they wouldn’t.
“Nah, it can keep. Plenty of years to dig deep into your nefarious past.”
“You’ve read my file anyway. It doesn’t come more nefarious than that,” said Bodie, embellishing his latest envelope with a scribbled sprig of holly. “Oops.”
“Bo-die! Who’s that one supposed to be to?”
“Um…” Bodie peered at it. “The Home Secretary. He’ll love it.”
“Yeah, I just bet he will.”
“Well, you’re not faring that much better. What does that card say?” Bodie asked, leaning over and staring at Doyle’s latest handiwork.
“George Cowley, what else?” answered Doyle.
“Germ Cowley, it looks like from here.”
“What?” Doyle stared at it. “That’s a ‘g’.”
“And what about this one?” Bodie held up another card. “George Coward.”
Doyle snatched it from him. “Nah,” he said finally. Still, he dropped the last card in the bin. “One of them can go without. It’s only a Christmas card.”
Bodie started on the second box. He glanced at the cover. Scotland Yard. “You can have your relations.”
“Eh? Oh,” said Doyle, seeing the cover. “Alright – you can do the Army.”
“Already have, sweetheart,” camped Bodie. He continued in a normal tone of voice, “I think I need another drink before I start on this one. I might add a few embellishments to Craine’s. That bloody assault course.”
The bottle chinked; the liquid glugged. A glass was nudged into Doyle’s hand. “Get that down you lad. Put hairs on your chest.”
“’m already nicely insulated. But ta,” replied Doyle.
They forged ahead for ten minutes. Bodie reached for another box. “Next year I’m going to give Murphy clearance. Who bloody cares about Christmas cards?”
Doyle didn’t reply, intent over his card.
“I mean, who bleedin’ wants a George Cowley Christmas card? It’s not going to make or break someone’s year, is it? Who cares about cards?”
Doyle finished what he was doing and gave it to Bodie. “Your Christmas card.”
“Ah, thanks!” said Bodie, pleased. He opened it, and tried not to look too soppy.
Dear Willy,
Want to see more of you!
Love Me x
“But ‘m here,” said Bodie.
“It’s not addressed to you, exactly,” replied Doyle.
“Gotcha. My turn,” said Bodie, pulling a card towards him. He hunched over it.
Dear you,
What can I do
Think I’m in love
With you
So let’s screw!
Love Me x
Doyle grinned as he read it. “I think both our cards are saying the same thing. Shall we finish this quick and go home?”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Bodie, upending a second box on the desk. He read the cover. Royalty.
Twenty minutes of industrious, if slightly ineligible, scribbling passed, broken only for sips of whisky.
“Damn, me pen’s run out,” said Doyle a few minutes later. He opened Cowley’s drawer again.
“Try the second one down,” said Bodie.
Doyle shut the top drawer and opened the second. “Got all the spare ID photos in here,” he said, pulling them out. “Susan looks a bit glamorous.”
Bodie leaned over, and tapped one. “Handsome lad.”
Doyle gave him a look. “And so modest!”
Bodie grinned and went back to tucking cards in envelopes. Doyle contemplated the photographs.
“You know,” he said, with an air of proclaiming something important, “it’s a shame the Cow won’t be getting a Christmas card this year.”
“He’ll have hundreds to come back to – he gets Betty to go through them,” said Bodie, not looking up.
“But he should get a card while he is convalescing – something to show how much we miss him.”
Bodie now looked up. “What devilish deed is going through your mind, Raymond Doyle?”
“Was just thinking, these spare ID photographs – we could stick some on a card and send it to him, as a reminder of the squad!”
“Ah – but security won’t have it,” reminded Bodie. “Identification would be a security risk.”
Doyle was rummaging through the desk drawer again. “Not,” he said, “if you use a black marker pen to block everyone out,” he said, straightening with one in his hand. “Then not only are we sending the Cow a card, we are giving him a little puzzle to do as well. Exercise his mind. Come on – he’s always said he knows his agents inside and out. Let’s see who he recognises.”
“He’ll recognise us, that’s for sure – without even seeing our ID pictures! He’ll know this is our handiwork.”
“Give him a giggle,” said Doyle stoically, already colouring in one of the small photographs. “I’m bored sick of these cards.”
“Okay – you create the Cow’s special, and I’ll finish the cards off. Only got two boxes left – at least mine won’t be signed off ‘George Custard’, or some other variation.”
“Anyway,” continued Bodie, ten minutes later, “must be getting near the end now. These are all CI5 cards.”
Doyle had a small stack of blacked out ID photographs in front of him. He looked up from colouring in the last one, and noticed the desk looked rather tidy. “Have you put them all back in their boxes?”
“Yup. While you were revisiting your artistic side, I was getting on with the job. All sealed in their envelopes. Just this last box to do.”
“Give us a card,” said Doyle, beckoning for one.
“Here you go, Anson can go without,” replied Bodie, handing it over.
Doyle reached for the glue and started sticking pictures down on the card. He looked highly pleased with his work, and when he had finished sticking them, he opened it and wrote 'Merry Christmas! Guess Who!'
Bodie looked over at it. “He’ll think Bodie and Doyle, at his whisky.”
“He likes us anyway,” said Doyle, writing the address on the envelope. He stuffed the card inside. “I’ll get Betty to send it first thing tomorrow. Are we done?”
The desk was stacked with neat piles of boxes. “All signed, sealed, and with their relevant unit. Internal can now be the good Christmas elf and deliver them, we’ve done enough!”
“Thank gawd for that. Let’s go. I want to make good our Christmas wishes,” said Doyle, resting his hand on Bodie’s shoulder, squeezing it gently as he stood.
Bodie patted his hand. “Good point,” he said, and then stood still. “Fuck!”
“Just what I had in mind,” said Doyle in a deep voice, leaning close.
“No! The cards!” Bodie was staring in anguish at the neat stacks.
Doyle followed his gaze. “Looks fine to me, all in the right boxes…”
“Exactly! And just where is the card I wrote to you with the poem? Or the one you wrote to me, or rather my cock?”
Doyle’s hand stilled on Bodie’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he echoed. “Could be anywhere. Royalty, Maggie…”
They both stared at each other, and then Bodie started laughing. “I suppose the good thing is that we didn’t sign our names…”
“True…” Doyle said, and chuckled. “Ah sod it. It’s Christmas after all. Let’s get out of here!”
sSs
And so it came to pass that George Cowley, sitting up in his bed, received a card to let him know his squad was thinking of him (and drinking his whisky). It made him smile when no one else was looking.
Although the main puzzle for him, after he recovered and returned to duty, was why his presence seemed to cause slight hilarity at Buckingham Palace. Or why the Queen blushed.
The End
This is the card that George Cowley received while on convalescence. He knows his squad like the back of his hand, so he knew exactly who was in the greeting card. But can you do as well as the Cow?
Double click the picture to make it bigger (oo-er). All answers will be open, no comments screened – take a guess, debate amongst yourselves! My work doesn't let me check LJ (meanies) so I won't be around during the day to reply, sorry! The final answers will be revealed on this post on January 7th to give you some more guessing time. And if you guess which eps the pictures are taken from as well then consider yourself on George Cowley’s Christmas card list!
Good luck, have fun, and a very happy New Year to you all. May 2010 shine brighter for all of us.
CLUES
1. The fic is set a week before Christmas, 1979. All the CI5 agents/personnel depicted are therefore from episodes that aired before December 25th, 1979.
2. Number 4 is large only as I think it is a tough one to guess! There is no special importance attached to the person depicted.
3. Doyle naturally included himself and his modest partner.
4. Number 5 is not wearing a hat!
EDIT - Answers can now be found on this post. *g*
sSs
Title of Fic: Season's Greetings
Author: Magenta Blue
Genre: Slash
Archive: Yes please
Disclaimer: Purely for pleasure my son, purely for pleasure
Thank you: To BySlantedLight for the story beta!