Discovered in the Fairylights-December 18th--new Story 2/2

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

And To You Good Wassail, Too
By Dawnwind
Part two of two

Pulling out his r/t, Bodie was just about to mash the talk button when Cowley's voice blared through the speaker. "3.7, come in!"

Just as startled the second time around, Bodie shook his head with a grim smile. "Here, sir. Any more news?"

"The second bomb went off at Fortnum and Mason," Cowley announced solemnly. "The store had been evacuated, but the bomb squad had not yet ascertained which car held the explosives, and one technician was close enough to the vehicle when it went off to be injured, but luckily, he was wearing his bomb disposal gear."

"Bloody hell," Bodie said softly, leaning against the rough brick of a building. Passers by glanced warily at him talking into his r/t, but none approached him.

"CI5, Metropolitan Police and the London Times all got a call at precisely the same time that the bomb detonated," Cowley explained. The reception was far better on the r/t than previously. Bodie would have sworn Cowley was only a few feet away instead of miles. "He predicted more bombs in the London area throughout the day, and rang off."

"Any information on the caller? Did he specify where the bombs would be?"

"The male voice was distorted by some sort of electronic apparatus, but he used an IRA codeword…"

Bodie's heart sank. Damn, the IRA had targeted far too many popular London sites in the past. At least there was no possibility that this was just an assault on the Mills family.

"The call lasted less than a minute, and Rogers tried for a trace but it was far too short a time to get a good location." Cowley harrumphed loudly through the speaker. "We can only assume, from the two previous devices, that the group—assumably the IRA—is targeting popular shopping districts."

"Should we put a warning out on the radio and the BBC to avoid Oxford Street and Piccadilly, places like that?" Bodie asked, checking out the peaceful street where he stood. There was tinsel wrapped around lamp posts and a jolly inflatable Father Christmas in the window of a children's clothing shop.

"In the works, 3.7. Och, what a tragedy at Christmas time. What were these bully boys thinking?"

"Thinking that they'd get our notice, sir," Bodie answered grimly. "And they did."

"Undeniably."

A police car slowed down just opposite Bodie and pulled up to the post box where Susan had parked before. Bodie spotted a very familiar head of curls in the passenger seat.

"Sir, Doyle's back. We'll be in touch—and ready to report to the next bomb site, if necessary."

"While I pray that the danger is behind us, I fear that we have more unpleasantness in the hours ahead."

Bodie switched off, watching Doyle climb out of the car. He didn't have a long coat to swing out and reveal his legs, although, in Bodie's estimation, Doyle's were equal or better to Susan's. He did have a very tight bum which was nicely framed by his woollen jacket.

"You get nicked?" Bodie tucked the r/t in his coat pocket and raised his eyebrows as the police car drove away.

Doyle waved goodbye to the officer. "An old mate from the force. Where's me cuppa?"

"Haven't got it yet, have I?" Bodie held out his empty hands. "Talking to Father. Bomb at Fortnum and Mason went off, but luckily, Joe public was well out of the way. A chap from the bomb squad just missed having his bollocks blown off."

Doyle's pained expression said it all. "We have to report in just now?"

"I take it you're still hungry." Bodie laughed, because he was the one who was usually poking about for comestibles.

"Don't know why." Doyle rubbed his belly, leading the way to a cheerful, homely shop that sold tea and sandwiches. "The death toll is enough to put anyone off his grub."

"How many?" Bodie asked soberly.

"Dozens injured. Three constables killed," Doyle said, his voice thick with sadness, but the expression on his face looked more like he wanted to bust a few heads. "One was a lovely bird named Jasmine. I've met her, just after she came on the force a few years ago. Then, you saw the police dog. And some civilians dead, as well—including a gent from the States. This is international already."

"Cowley says the caller gave an IRA codeword." Bodie glanced around the restaurant. Not too crowded, no-one close enough to overhear them, and the food looked edible.

"Waterhouse said much the same," Doyle agreed, selecting a table against the wall and sitting down. A busy waitress with a white tea towel tucked into her skirt nodded to them while serving another customer. "Although, getting that out of him was like pulling teeth. Inter-departmental cooperation does not appear to be his byword."

"He's always up on his high horse. Everyone knows he's in charge, and that's how it will remain."

"Touche." Doyle elbowed him and grinned at Bodie.

Bodie could never resist that off-kilter smile and grinned back at him.

"Don't fancy the possibility of another bomb goin' off, though," Doyle added, glancing at the hand printed menu on the table.

"What's this then?" The waitress, who was old enough to be Bodie's mother if she was a day, bustled over to their table. "You 'eard about 'arrods bein' bombed? Shame, that is! I don't have a tup'ence t'shop there, but it does draw in the tourists—who often need a cuppa tea for afters, don't they? And then where do they come?"

"Here?" Bodie put in, because he knew he was supposed to. "May we get two teas, and I'd like a chicken sandwich."

"Savoury cheese for me," Doyle said, loosening his scarf.

"Yeah, all right." She bobbed her head. "Tea'll only be a mo, and the sandwiches a minute longer. Nelly Coats doesn't let two young blokes like yourselves go wanting."

"Thank you, my lady Nelly," Bodie said graciously, giving a little bow.

"Bless, aren't you fancy!" she exclaimed with a twinkle that said she was on to him.

"Another admirer." Doyle kicked him under the table. "The older ones always love young William."

"Where does that put you?" Bodie asked, raising his eyebrow.

"In a category all by myself, as always."

"Glad you said it and not me," Bodie purred, low and sensual. It was the wrong place and the wrong time, but for some reason, he didn't want to let Doyle out of his sight. He wasn't about to waste a single moment while they were together.

"There you go, loves." Nelly placed two steaming cups of strong, dark tea in front of them. "And you, sunshine." She pointed at Doyle. "Put some of that full cream milk in yours, you're thin as a whippet, you are. Liken to blow away in a breeze."

"Yes, ma'am," he answered with a cheeky grin. "Just like having me mum here, all over again."

Nelly winked and hurried back to her kitchen.

Bodie grabbed the milk pitcher first, to hide his foreboding at the image of Doyle blowing away in a breeze.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Alpha One to 3.7," Cowley called over the r/t.

"Just make it back to the car in time to be summoned," Doyle groused, jerking open the car door.

"Take this since I'm driving." Bodie handed over the r/t and turned the key in the ignition of the Capri. He would have liked to go up to his flat and maybe change clothes from the suit he has worn to go to Harrods. Most probably, he'd get covered in dirt and grime, maybe even oil, which was impossible to get out of good wool. But, when Father called, they jumped—or paid the price. Which in his case might be a new suit.

"4.5, here," Doyle responded, bracing himself when Bodie swung the car around in the narrow road. "D'you have word of another threat, sir?"

"The terrorists just called in a bomb at the C&A on Oxford Street," Cowley said grimly. "Metropolitan police are on their way, but I want the two of you there to coordinate with them in the search for the explosive device. The bomb squad is stretched thin with so many sites across the city, and both of you have had training in bomb disposal."

Sharp teeth bit into Bodie's chest at the very thought of having to defuse another bomb. The memory of tension, his muscles straining to maintain a frozen position while Doyle cautiously explored the workings of his telephone gripped him, robbing him of breath. Happy that he now had a destination, Bodie concentrated on getting across London to Oxford Street in the midst of a busy shopping day one week before Christmas.

"On our way, sir." Doyle clicked off with a bilious twist of his mouth. "Bloody IRA—Not enough to stir up trouble in Belfast, they have to endanger untold numbers here, when the most damage can be done."

"You've said that once already today," Bodie pointed out, glancing over at his partner.

"Yeah, well!" Doyle smacked the dashboard savagely. "Ain't right, depriving small children of…wonder, fantasy. They've unleashed their violence on something special."

"Didn't take you for a sentimentalist, Raymond." Bodie was impressed. "Where's the three year old cynic who didn't believe in jolly old St. Nicholas?"

"It's all right for me," Doyle said defensively, hunching his shoulders. "But Charlie and…" He obviously couldn’t come up with the names of any other children off the top of his head.

"She told me this was her first time alone at Harrods," Bodie said quietly.

"Ought to be practicing for the Nativity play and going skating on the local pond 'stead of being tucked up in the Old Man's office worrying about what's happened to her mum," Doyle said viciously.

"And what would you know about the Nativity play?"

"Got four older sisters, haven't I?" Doyle held up the corresponding number of fingers. He looked relieved to be talking about something other than explosions and death. "Each one of them keen to be Mary, mother of the babe. Which cast me as a shepherd or a wise man every year, and once Joseph himself, paired with my next older sister Kathleen."

"That I'd have liked to see!" Bodie slapped the steering wheel with glee. "In a striped dressing gown with a tea towel tied around your head with a cord."

"Spot on. No photographs survive of my illustrious career on the boards." Doyle rolled his eyes. "Me Da was not pleased to find his favourite attire conscripted into the production. He didn't hold with the C of E."

"Oh?"

"He was one of them evil Papists, as my mum used to say," Doyle recounted.

"And yet she married him anyway."

"Doyle men are known for our rakish good looks." Doyle stretched his mouth into a parody of a grin that emphasised his chipped tooth and misaligned cheekbone. "He believed more in a pint of Guinness than the Holy Word on a Sunday morning."

"And here we are…" Bodie pulled onto Oxford Street at Marble Arch, and ground to a halt. Cars, taxi and even a red double-decker bus were all crammed bumper to bumper in a sea of vehicles. It was obvious that the street up ahead was cordoned off, and getting there would prove dicey, if not downright impossible. Many motorists were holding down their horns, creating a horrible racket.

"Damn—we could sit here and admire the Christmas lights, I suppose." The famous Oxford Street display was spectacular. Every shop and building was bedecked with twinkling bulbs. Selfridges was straight out of a fairy tale, all glimmer and gold. Bodie glanced over at Doyle. His partner was stewing again. "Did you see the actress from Coronation Street turn the lights on this year?"

"My telly only gets footie and American films, not the pabulum of the masses." Doyle settled his tartan scarf around his neck. "I propose we get out and walk."

"Nowhere to leave the car, Admiral Byrd."

"Hold on, there's a traffic warden." Doyle swung the door open and hopped out into the swarm of shoppers and cars disrupted in their Christmas present buying.

Bodie didn't have a chance to yell after him, but kept his eye on Raymond whilst inching the car forward. The Capri was already touching the bumper of the Range Rover in front when he was forced to stop again.

Several police constables were trying to divert the cars onto another street to the right because of the bomb threat, but that had only exacerbated the massive snarl. Bodie saw Doyle hold his identification in front of a pretty, dark haired traffic warden with a dimple in her cheek. She gave him a dazzling smile, beckoned to one of her colleagues and followed Doyle back to the Capri. Bodie had only moved about ten feet in the short time.

"Bodie!" Doyle called through the open car window. "Meet Police Constable Ruby Stewart. She's going to drive the car to a car park whilst we take to the pavement to get to C&A."

"Hello! Glad to be of service to CI5," Ruby said brightly, taking off her cap. "It'd be impossible to drive any closer, but you've only got three streets to go."

"And not much time, I expect." Bodie reluctantly gave over the steering wheel to the young woman. Either he was getting far older than he'd realised, or the police force was hiring teens straight out of high school. "Steady on the gear lever, she sticks in reverse."

"Then I won't back up." Ruby dimpled at him and slid into the car.

"Come on!" Doyle was already loping up the street, dodging between two lorries because the pavement was just as congested with pedestrians. "Bo-die!"

Bodie had the longer legs but Doyle was running flat out, and it took all of Bodie's stamina to catch up with him. He still carried a ball of fear in his belly for Doyle. There was no reason to have such foreboding—they'd been in many dangerous situations, before, and after, they came together as more than just simple partners. He was used to tucking aside any worry for Doyle's safety, but today, it would not leave.

Was it because Doyle had been shot a year earlier? Or something more ominous? Bodie refused to believe in premonitions and other such superstitious beliefs. There was no such thing as precognition, just as there was no real Santa Claus. That was all hype from the Americans, who seemed to thrive on the biggest, best and most outrageous when it came to Christmas.

He would have laughed at that if he'd had any wind left. The Americans also seemed to think that Victorian England had invented Christmas, not to mention fairy stories.

C&A appeared to be trying to foster that belief. As Bodie got closer, he could see the store was decorated like a giant old fashioned Christmas card — and ringed with a dozen coppers and hundreds of shoppers. Fairy manikins fluttered around the ground floor store windows, sprinkling scenes of Christmas morning with glittery dust.

"Clear the area!" A portly police constable called through an megaphone, directing the mass of people to walk quickly down the west side of the street and away from the store.

"B-bloody hell, Doyle!" Bodie pushed past a clump of civilians to catch up with his partner. "You must be putting in extra time running Macklin's obstacle course."

"He thinks the bullets decreased my speed," Doyle said grimly, watching as the bomb disposal unit wheeled a robot out from a small van. He was breathing heavily and wiped his forehead with the end of his scarf. "Had to prove him wrong, didn't I?"

"That robot supposed to suss out which car has the bomb?" Bodie wondered aloud. He started to duck under a streamer of tape barricading the street but several police turned around to bar their way.

"What make was the one parked alongside Harrods?" Doyle asked, flipping his identification at a man with a bristly mustache. "We're CI5," he said, looking at Bodie instead of the Detective Inspector.

"Bodie." Bodie tapped his chest. "And Doyle. George Cowley sent us over."

"Good!" Mustache sighed with relief. "At least we got the robot over from Fortnum and Mason more quickly than anticipated because of the explo…" he broke off, obviously flustered. The tips of his nose and ears were red but the rest of his face was pale with the strain. "D.I. Matthew Collins. This is my first bomb threat."

It showed. "I'd never know," Bodie said, clapping the man's shoulder. "Can K9 there detect an explosive device before it goes off? Or does it just take pictures and some poor bloke in a quilted Michelin man suit goes in to cut the red wire?"

"No sonic screwdriver," Doyle said low and sardonic.

"The red wire?" Collins gasped. He swung around to watch the yellow robot roll slowly over to a line of cars parked by the kerb yards from the front entrance to C&A. Christmas lights traced the letters of the store's name, already illuminated in the rapidly dimming daylight. C blinked on in red and A blinked off in green, continuously.

"That's his poor attempt at levity," Doyle said dryly. "We'll need to contact our superior. Could you fetch the head of the bomb unit over?"

"I'll have you know that I'm considered quite humourous," Bodie said loftily after Collins had hurried off. The undulating tones of an ambulance echoed off the walls of the buildings and cut off abruptly when the ambulance breached the snarl of traffic and parked on one side of the cleared street. Bodie hated seeing evidence that injuries and casualties were expected.

Most of the civilians had evacuated, leaving only the ranks of police monitoring the robot, but it was clear that no-one was quite sure what they should be looking at. Was the bomb planted in a car as the first two had been?

"You know I broke my humerus when we were looking after Annie," Doyle said with a hint of a defiant smile. He blew on his hands, the temperature was dropping as twilight approached, and it was cold.

"Puns in the face of adversity, Raymond?" Bodie growled, but he needed the joking to dispel the doom and gloom. He hauled out the r/t and finally got to speak before Cowley did. "3.7 to Alpha one!"

There was the usual squawks and popping hisses before the old man came on. "Go ahead, 3.7."

"What make of car was used at the other sites?" Bodie asked.

Collins came back, followed by a short gentleman with a heavy fire brigade helmet on his head. "This is Unit Commander Lieutenant Kluger."

"I'd like an overview of what's been done so far," Doyle said, drawing Kluger aside so he wouldn't overhear Bodie on the r/t.

"Who was that, 3.7?" Cowley barked.

"4.5's gone to speak with the bomb squad, sir," Bodie related. "We have a robot examining the cars in front of the store, but no luck so far." He tracked the robot's infinitely slow progress as it ran a long arm with a camera under the carriage of each vehicle and then over the bonnet and boot. This was going to take forever, and his gut told him they didn't have much more than a quarter of an hour, if that. Luckily, most of the other officers and technicians were well away from the front of C&A.

Bodie's heart did a little flip when he realized that Doyle and Kluger were in deep conversation, walking around the far end of the parked cars to the front windows of the store. They were on the complete opposite end of the row from the robot, but still closer than anyone else to the threat of the bomb. "Sir? The make of the car that exploded at Harrods? And at Fortnum and Mason," he repeated.

"Aye, was a 1972 blue Austin GT four door, at Harrods," Cowley said after a pause and a faint rustling of papers. "The car at F&M was an even older model, a black 1970 Citroen CV."

"No similarities," Bodie groaned, disheartened, He'd hoped that he could recognise the bomb car by some sense of what had been used before. Or maybe even that mysterious premonition. But no—most of the cars he could see were late models, made after 1975. He counted the vehicles, ten in all, and the robot was still on the third one, taking its precious time examining every inch of the underside for bomb paraphernalia.

One of the experts called out, pointing to something on his screen, and several of his colleagues ran over to check whatever he had seen.

"Sir, we may have found something," Bodie announced into the r/t.

"Keep me informed, 3.7," Cowley said tersely. "Oh, and your young lass is settling in nicely and her mother's already called in on the phone line, but we have yet to meet her."

Your young lass. Bodie nodded to himself, glad something had gone right on this disastrous day. Trotting over to the van equipped with all the monitors and controls for the robot, he sought out Doyle. Kluger had come back to the van, scrutinising the video monitor. Ray was still on the pavement, now conferring with the bomb squad member kitted up in his padded bomb protection. Both watched the robot with a frown. Doyle looked narrow and breakable next to the bomb guy's roly-poly suit.

"Doyle!" Bodie yelled, "Move your arse!"

Doyle raised his head, nodded in Bodie's direction, and continued talking to the other man, although they did start walking past the huge display windows of C&A. The fairy manikins appeared to be anointing Doyle's curls with pixie dust.

"Only a shadow," the bomb tech in the van said in frustration, tapping his finger on his hazy gray screen. He let out a breath and flicked a switch to reanimate the frozen robot. It came to life with a jerk, trundling on to the next car in the row, a sleek red Jaguar.

"Fine motor. Be a shame to have that 'un blow sky high," Collins commented, leaning against the van with his arms crossed. "Kluger, any news?"

"Nothing more from HQ," Kluger said. "The original caller didn't give an actual time when the bomb would be detonated, which only makes our work harder. Don't know when the damned thing is set to go off."

"Could be minutes?" Collins asked.

"The first two went off at sixteen minutes to the hour. Harrods at 12:44 and Fortnum's at 1:44," Bodie put in, scanning the pavement. He flicked his eyes over Doyle, examined the window displays, and came back to Doyle again. The constriction in his chest lessened, his partner was finally on the move, striding past the cars toward the corner.

"They must have changed their strategy. We've passed that." Kluger held up his left wrist to show a complicated Swiss watch. "It's bang on three o'clock."

Something caught in Bodie's throat, and it wasn't the sight of Doyle's well rounded arse. He scanned the store front from left to right once again, forcing himself to see the smallest details. The fairies suspended above each window, their arms outstretched as if unfurling magic on the manikin children below. The multitudes of white lights outlining every window frame and doorway—each bulb a potential weapon if even one blew. The different toys and gifts on display.

The first window portrayed a family at a dinner table, the goose cooked to perfection and two small manikin children laughing with joy as they pulled their poppers. The other plate glass window, on the far side of the main entrance, had a wintery, outdoor scene. Snow fairies cavorted in the air directly above manikin children collecting skis from the roof of a small car; a festive red Cooper mini—the only car small enough to fit in the store display.

"Fuck!" Bodie shouted, his eyes frozen on his partner. He started running without realising that his feet were moving. "The car in the window! Doyle!"

"Stop!" someone behind him yelled.

The plate glass suddenly swelled outward as if the whole thing had turned to gel, and there was a huge noise that shoved in on Bodie's eardrums. With a sickening whoosh as if all the available air was abruptly sucked out, fire exploded from the display, shattering the panes in each window and every single light bulb on the building.

Bodie hit the pavement hard, on his hands and knees. He saw Doyle's body suspended, like Superman flying, for one impossible second before he disappeared below the line of the now burning cars. The robot and the Jaguar were engulfed in flames.

Everything seemed to freeze and then start up in slow motion, with almost no sound. Bodie staggered to his feet, trousers shredded, knees skinned and stinging, but he didn't care. He shoved aside a man in front of him, plowing through the jumble of fire fighters and debris to get to his partner. There was no other goal.

He'd failed.

He'd known all day that something dire was in the air. He had not heeded the warnings, and this was the result. No matter that so many civilians had been saved at the cost of his partner.

Noises reverberated inside his head, his hearing alternating between near deafness and a weird hollowness that distorted all sound. Every person shouting at him could have been miles away, on a badly tuned transistor radio. Bodie ran, leaping over water hoses and smoldering masonry, feeling like the short distance between himself and Doyle had stretched to unfathomable lengths.

Doyle lay unmoving, with his head in the gutter, blood slicking his misaligned cheek, and his hands were curled under him as if he had tried to break his fall. The bomb disposal guy was just lurching to his knees, his padding askew and ripped, no protection at all against the fury of plastique.

"Ray!" Bodie shouted, the acrid smoke coating his throat. He could barely hear himself, and knew that the ambient noise level was incredible—the thunder of the flames, the pounding water hitting the fire, the frantic yells and calls from the other emergency personnel all combined into one massive dissonance. Doyle probably couldn't hear him, either. "Angelfish!" he hollered.

Somehow, that roused Doyle. He raised his head, orienting toward his partner. Doyle groaned, but Bodie was elated. Nothing a few plasters and paracetamol wouldn't fix—that, and some hot buttered rum once he was tucked up in bed.

"Hey, hey, what're you doing lying here on the kerb like some Dickensian character?" Bodie hooked one arm under Doyle's. This close to C&A, the heat from the fire was hellish. Bodie could feel the hairs on his arm—under his shirt and jacket—singe, and his mouth dried to dust in seconds, making it hard to talk. "Time to get out!"

"Bo—" Doyle cried out in pain, but Bodie wasn't taking no for an answer. He hauled his partner up and propelled him away from the blast zone just as flames erupted from the Christmas supper window display. One of the fairy manikins burned merrily, a Christmassy Guy Fawkes, bright sparks bursting around her like festive fireworks.

"Chester?" Doyle said into Bodie's ear, coughing when they landed in a heap near the van.

Not sure which one was Chester, Bodie shook his head, but Doyle pointed wearily at the bomb disposal guy coming to a stop nearby. His buddies rushed over to aid him, so Bodie turned back to his own. Doyle's eyebrows were gone, and a nasty red flash burn highlighted the right side of his face. Blood from a scalp wound dripped down over the burn, and he held his right arm awkwardly—but damn, he was alive.

"You were too fucking close to the building With no protection! What'd you go do that for?" Bodie shouted, feeling incredibly protective.

"Bloody…" Doyle coughed, wincing with every inhalation, his gory face murderous. "Shit, shit, shit…bloody IRA."

"I'll tell 'em you said so." Bodie pulled Doyle close and gave him a rough hug.

"Get off! My shoulder's dislocated, you cack-handed oaf!" Doyle yelled, but he stayed against Bodie, his face buried in Bodie's neck. He coughed, panting with the effort. "Think this'll get us a Christmas bonus?

Bodie laughed in spite of everything, grateful, just as the medics descended on them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Lucas and McCabe led a raid on a known IRA stronghold and nicked six men," Bodie announced, coming in from the cold like Father Christmas with a pack over his shoulder.

"What took you so long?" Doyle said peevishly from the couch. He hated being side-lined when there was work to be done. Even though the brass at CI5 considered a dislocated shoulder, concussion and burns expected work related injuries, he was still on medical leave until after Christmas. With the increased IRA activity, he wanted to be chasing down suspects to work off some of his anger and grief over the dead and wounded.

"Shopping, wasn't I?" Bodie shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair. "I'll have to sneak back to Harrods to get some scent for me nan another day. The store has already announced that they will reopen by Tuesday, and Fortnum and Mason sustained so little damage to the actual building that they will be serving tea and scones to all comers on Monday. C&A, I'm afraid, is out for a fortnight, at least. Luckily, you and young Chester were the only ones injured in that explosion." He placed the holdall on the coffee table.

"And you," Doyle added savagely.

Bodie shrugged, holding up a scraped palm.

"Six people dead at Harrods, four injured at Fortnum and Mason. It's barbaric." Doyle shifted the sling on his right arm and eyed the mysterious bag, the raw anger in his chest thrumming in time with his aching head. "Did we get the men responsible, or just the odd journeymen eager to be included in the IRA's publicity?"

"Only time—and The Cow's interrogation techniques—will tell." Bodie unpacked the bag with a distracted air, taking out grapes, a bottle of rum, a Roses assortment decorated with a huge red plastic bow, and several Chinese take-away containers.

"I'm assuming the grapes are for the invalid." Doyle pointed at himself and popped a few grapes into his mouth left-handed. "And the choccies are for you, but who ordered Chinese?"

"We are celebrating, my good man." Bodie winked at Doyle with a smirk.

"Oh?" Doyle lay back against the pillows, taking in his partner's long legs and handsome face.

Bodie had dark circles under his eyes and there was still the odd smear of possibly soot behind his left ear. He'd changed out of the ripped trousers into the pair he kept in his locker at headquarters. His right palm was raw and glistening with antibiotic cream and the left one sported white gauze wrapped twice around. Bodie looked beyond tired after the exhausting day, but surprisingly ebullient.

"With you on the sidelines, there'll be no stake-outs or other unwanted duty around the hols," Bodie said over his shoulder, going into Doyle's kitchen. "We have Christmas and Boxing Day free."

"You watch yourself, with an attitude like that," Doyle warned, investigating the first food container. Holding it awkwardly with his injured arm, he folded back the lid. One sniff told him it was sweet and sour pork for Bodie. The next one yielded fried rice for him. The last box held several won tons that they could both share. "The old man gets wind of such optimism, he will find something for you to do faster than you can say Jack Robinson."

"Shut your gob," Bodie said mildly. "And where's the butter?"

"Where it ought to be—in the butter dish," Doyle said. "And bring us a fork, too."

"I was thinking that we could drive down to Little-Wesley-on-Mersey to bring Nan her gift properly." Bodie came back to dump forks and a bowl beside Doyle and pick up the bottle of rum. He filched a won ton, too. "We could stop by Derby, watch one of your nieces in the Christmas play. How many do you have by now?"

Truly touched by Bodie's suggestion, Doyle pretended that it didn't mean a great deal to him. He stabbed one of the won tons with a fork. "Six girls between the four sisters, and three sons."

"Could have an entire nativity scene with just Doyle-y offspring." Bodie went back into the kitchen, humming snatches of the Wassailing song.

"Except for Mary Margaret and her brood, long since emigrated to Australia." Doyle ate some Chinese wondering what the hell Bodie was doing banging about in the cupboards, clanging pots and mixing bowls together. He wasn't sure he should ask. His face stung fiercely but he ignored that, too, concentrating on finding a bit of peace on this awful day. "You have faith that Cowley will give us leave to go up north on Christmas Eve."

"He's not Ebenezer Scrooge," Bodie said, looking over at him with such an unexpected expression of near loss and need that Doyle was momentarily humbled. "He's well aware that you could have died."

For the second year in a row hung in the air between them.

"I didn't," Doyle whispered, despair for what he had unknowingly put Bodie through weighing heavily. He knew that fear, had felt it in his own heart more than once when they were facing danger. He flashed on Bodie lying on a stretcher, stabbed and bleeding, and shuddered. Ducking over the fried rice, he hid the fear once more, just as he knew Bodie was doing in the kitchen. Over the aroma of rice, prawns and peas, he caught the redolence of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves. What was Bodie making?

"Yeah." Bodie breathed out slowly, stirring something in a pot. "Would have put quite a damper on the lighting of Nan's Christmas pud if you had."

Doyle laughed abruptly which made his head hurt worse, but eased the knot of anger in his chest. "There I'd be, not yet cold in the grave, and you're tucking into the figgy pudding and hard sauce?"

"Cannot break with tradition, Raymond," Bodie said loftily, taking down large china mugs. One had Big Ben on the side, and the other said "Pull my cracker" decorated with a red and gold Christmas cracker. Bodie's gift to Doyle from last year. He poured the fragrant mixture he'd prepared into each cup, and carried them on a tray into the lounge, still humming the old English Christmas song. "Cheers, mate!"

"Mmm." Doyle abandoned the take-away because he only had one hand, and sniffed the heavenly brew. The fumes from the hot buttered rum were enough to make his aching head swim, and he took a careful sip. Brilliant. Lovely warmth eased down his throat, smoothing away the worst of his grief. "Here and I thought you didn't know your way around a cooker."

"Every young man should know how to make two things to impress." Bodie clinked his cup to Doyle's and drank deeply.

Amused, Doyle took another drink, savouring the harmony of rum, spices and butter. "And that would be?"

Giving him a look that clearly said he should already know, Bodie licked his bottom lip. "Beans on toast and hot buttered rum."

"I am impressed."

"Thought you might be." Bodie grinned wolfishly. "And the choccies are not for me, Doctor Who." He tugged on the tartan scarf Doyle still wore around his neck because it was cold in his flat. "They are for Miss Charlotte Mills and her mum who will be coming 'round tomorrow to say their thanks before collecting Sir Robert from Heathrow." He took long swallow of rum and peered into his cup as if surprised to find it empty. "I already have my pressie."

"What would that be?" Doyle asked, even though he was certain he already knew. Just as he was more than satisfied with the gift of the man sitting smack up against him.

"A slightly concussed golly with a broken wing and his eyebrows burned off. Looks like a fledgling that fell from the nest." Bodie moved the scant inches between them and kissed Doyle.

"Not broken," Doyle retorted after returning the kiss with interest, wistful for more, but just turning his head to meet Bodie's mouth hurt. "When exactly are Charlie and her mother coming by?"

"Half past eleven." Bodie eased a gentle hand around Doyle's good shoulder, obviously about to do a little more than simply kiss, but he winced instead.

"There won't be any cardio workouts in the bed, will there?"

Bodie gently touched the bandage on Doyle's brow with an unreadable expression. "Not bloody likely."

"Then lay with me, William Andrew Phillip Bodie," Doyle said softly, unable to say what it was he really wanted to say. Don't ever leave. Be mine always. I love you more than life. Those were too much and not at all enough to begin to cover how he felt. This was just one day in a line that would stretch through their lives—it had been horrible, but there would be other good ones to outweigh the bad. They had survived.

As long as they were together, nothing else mattered as much.

"Planned on it, mate. All night and all morning." Bodie kissed him again, tasting of rum and sweetness. "Happy Christmas, Ray."

"And to you."

FIN

Love and joy come to you, and to you your wassail, too, and God send you a happy new year….

Comments

[liriel1810.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for such a gripping story! You paint such a vivid picture of the chaos there must have been and I can tell the memory of seeing the bomb explode is still very clear for you. That sort of thing really does last, doesn't it?

Like Bodie, I kept expecting, almost waiting, for Doyle to get caught in one of the blasts. Very relieved when he was finally caught in a blast and the injuries he sustained were relatively minor, all things considered. No wonder Bodie calls him the Bionic Golly, with all the injuries he's survived!

Very glad the plucky Charlie got reunited with her mum too.

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much! Funnily, when I started writing, I realized that I really remember very little of the day--but seeing the window bow in was quite vivid!

I just had to bang Doyle up--it's a tradition in my stories. ;-)

[liriel1810.livejournal.com]

I just had to bang Doyle up--it's a tradition in my stories. ;-)

You'll get no complaints from me about that! I do love a banged up Doyle - he makes such delicious hurty noises, and it gives Bodie the perfect opportunity to take care of him! ;)

need more coffee obviously - can't spell for shit this early in the morning!

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

You do have the perfect icon there! Could almost be Doyle lying in the gutter like a Dickinsian character.

[msmoat.livejournal.com]

A day in their lives--danger and risk, with potential heartbreak the worst of all. But they got through this one, and they know how to appreciate what they have. *g*

Nicely vivid details and characters. Thank you!

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

Thanks, sweetie--so glad you enjoyed the read. Yep, sometimes don't you wonder how they get through a day?

[hagsrus.livejournal.com]

I couldn't spot an archive header - is this available for Proslib?

Frances
Proslib business: proslib at gmail dot com
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/proslib
http://www.livejournal.com/users/hagsrus/

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

Oh, yes, please! That would be great.

[hagsrus.livejournal.com]

I don't think we've had anything from you before - is there any contact e-mail you'd like to include? You can drop me a note at proslib at gmail dot com

[hagsrus.livejournal.com]

Oh, I'm sorry - yes, of course we have. I was looking at your LJ name rather than the author name. Senior moments abound!

[bistokidsfan77.livejournal.com]

Very nice. It's a wonder that you can take such an awful experience and turn it into a glorious story like this. I love the Lads in stories of them being *toegether* whether domestic or working. Charlotte was fun, too :D

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

Time heals all wounds, as they say. Now I think of it as my 15 seconds of history! lol. Yes, I like stories with the lads together in all things, too. No splitting up, it just leads to chaos.

Thank you so much for reading.

[merentha13.livejournal.com]

What a wonderful story! An exciting plot, the lad's usual banter, Ray injured (one of my own favorite bits) and the love they have for each other - this had it all!

"Then lay with me, William Andrew Phillip Bodie," Doyle said softly, unable to say what it was he really wanted to say. Don't ever leave. Be mine always. I love you more than life. Those were too much and not at all enough to begin to cover how he felt."

Beautiful! Thank you for sharing this!

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

Thank you for reading! We have much in common, since I do like to hurt Doyle--well, and Bodie got scraped up, too.

[roven75.livejournal.com]

Very intense! Somehow, knowing the story is based on a real event that you actually experienced makes the whole thing more... terrifying. Real. I found I had a different... mental approach reading it. Hard to explain!

Anyhow, very well done, thank you for sharing this!

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

Aw, thanks! Luckily, the bomb at Harrods was the only one that detonated. Apparently, there was a threat at C&A, but it wasn't real. F&M's bomb was fictitious simply because I had to add in one of my favourite places in London to the story.

[saintvic.livejournal.com]

I really like the way you show Bodie and Doyle's partnership and relationship and the way you move them instantly into action when the bombs go off. This all felt very immediate and I gor caught up in the chaos and how they were trying to find out what happened and stop other attacks. Thank you.

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

Oh, good! Glad you were caught up in the action. Gives me happy inside.

Ta ever so.

[gritsinmisery.livejournal.com]

This was wonderful -- poignant and sweet and scary in turns. Great melding of case story and love story.

I'm afraid I got most of the news about the bombs after the fact; I got married Dec. 17, 1983. I'm very sorry you had to witness such a horrible event, and quite glad you suffered no physical harm.

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

You have a reason to remember that date, too--but a much more lovely afternoon, I hope! Happy anniversary.

Thanks for reading.

[sc-fossil.livejournal.com]

Well done, Dawn! I enjoyed this very much. The bombing is terrible. It's hard to even imagine what it would be like in the midst of it. Thank you, sweetie.

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

Thanks! All I recall once we got out of Harrods was lots of jostling and chaos--I don't even specifically recall the burning cars in Hans Crescent.

Isn't it useful to have things in life we can turn into stories? ;-D

[hambelandjemima.livejournal.com]

That was a lovely read. Thank you :)

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

You're welcome, I'm so happy you enjoyed it. Merry Christmas.

[snailbones.livejournal.com]

That was a fabulous read, thank you. I love that you've been able to take what must have been a horrible and frightening experience, and turn it into such a powerful and ultimately positive piece of writing. Thanks for sharing it with us.

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

Thanks for reading! It's been so long, I no longer remember any fear, just the novelty of being one in the crowd that day. Had to put Bodie and Doyle in the midst, didn't I?