discoveredinalj | Discovered in a Christmas Tree - December 23

Okay! Story #2 for the day! (Being in England=being prolific.*g*)

Um. Don't lynch me…. *g* This is a complete story, and nobody dies or anything. But…it might be that you will want a sequel. And, good news!, a sequel is in the works! Bad news, it won't be posted today. (I have started it, but today ended up being wonderfully social, what with meeting a Pros friend (yay!), Skyping with my brother (all is well), and going out for a celebration dinner.)

My plan is to somehow write the story late tonight and early on Christmas Eve and post it on Christmas. We all know about the best laid plans, however, right? Still, I shall do my best. Of course, one might argue that the story is best as it is, no sequel required.

You'll just have to read the story and decide for yourself! *g*

There Is No Rest
By PFL

Take out the perimeter guards, Cowley had said. But they’d had no intel on numbers or locations. Quietly, Cowley had said. Doyle finished stuffing a sock into the mouth of the man he’d put down and handcuffed. He rolled the man under a bush, then paused to listen. His heart was beating rapidly. Where the fuck was Bodie? Night was closing in, casting the wood in deep shadow.

He heard a twig snap, and he dived and rolled, regaining his feet just in time to block a blow to his head. He wrenched the man’s arm back and flipped him on his hip, then kicked the man full in the face when he tried to get up from the ground. Doyle breathed heavily, and stared at the man’s still form. Two men. They’d thought there’d by three at the most. He heard another sound, like a cry choked off. Bodie? Or — ?

Doyle moved quickly but quietly in the direction of the cry. He nearly tripped on a body, recovered his balance and saw two men grappling with one another. The men were silent, almost still as they struggled, and then there was a gasp and one of the men fell in a twist to the ground. Doyle ran to them, already certain it was Bodie on the ground, although there had been nothing but that gasp to identify him. There was a flash of light on metal as the man on his feet raised his hand. No. Doyle hit the man low and hard, taking him down, forcing the man’s arm under his body. He heard a muffled explosion, and the man in his arms jerked, then went limp. Doyle breathed out, then cautiously rose to his feet, eyes on the man he’d put down. Killed?

“Ray!”

Doyle reacted instantly to Bodie’s hoarse cry, turning and spinning away, registering another man rushing at him. Off-balance, Doyle tripped and landed on one knee. When he looked up again, Bodie had an arm-lock around the neck of the man. Bodie jerked, twisted, and dropped the man’s body to the ground.

Christ. Doyle closed his eyes for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet. He checked the man he had tackled, found him dead and took his gun. Bodie touched him on the shoulder and he followed Bodie to the edge of the woods overlooking the back of the farm house. Doyle took out his R/T, saw Bodie nod, and sent the pre-arranged signal to Cowley: clear. He settled on the ground beside Bodie. Their orders had been to take out the men in the woods, then wait for Cowley’s signal.

Bodie’s shoulder pressed against his, and for once Doyle welcomed the contact from his partner. Two years, three months. He’d told Cowley that not long ago. I’ve watched his back, he’s watched mine. The adrenaline was still flowing through his body, his senses were alert, but even so he relaxed next to Bodie. They’d survived when others hadn’t. He thought briefly of Tommy, who had put them on to Franks in the first place.

The early sunset on a winter’s day had worked in their favour. Cowley had ordered them in while he continued negotiating on the telephone with Franks in the farmhouse. But they were running out of time. The bombing plot Anson had uncovered might already be unfolding — probably was. Franks wouldn’t talk, but if they could get inside the house they might find some clues. Anson might know the details. If Anson was still alive in there.

Dammit! Unable to move forward, his mind circled back to the fight in the woods. He had secured the first man he’d taken out, but not the second. It had to have been that man who’d attacked him at the end. He was certain Bodie had killed his first man — that was the body he’d stumbled over. Doyle hadn’t checked his second man before he’d responded to Bodie’s cry. If he had killed him instead, as Bodie would have done… But he wasn’t Bodie. They had met four men in the woods. Matheson and King were on the opposite side of the farm house — were they waiting as well? How many men did Franks have? Was Anson alive? Would they be able to stop the bombing? What if — ?

“Come on.” Bodie’s voice was barely a whisper under his breath — frustration rather than a signal to move.

“Wait.” Oddly, saying the word calmed him. Or perhaps it was his instinctive reaction to Bodie’s impatience.

Bodie sighed, and Doyle felt it against his arm. He nudged Bodie in a gesture of sympathy. They were like chalk and cheese, as Cowley often said, but they understood one another. They needed to act, but they’d wait, still and ready, like the dogs of war they were. At least they were safe for now.

Doyle’s breathing eased, his heart slowed to normal speed, and a strange sort of…contentment stole over him. He felt it even though he’d killed tonight. It wasn’t his first kill, and it wouldn’t be his last. He’d signed on with CI5 in full knowledge of what he’d do, and what it might do to him. He knew there was a part of him that took a sort of pleasure in — Not the killing itself, but in the release of anger. He’d learnt to control that part of himself long ago. He’d done it through shame and will combined — the twin voices in his head that sometimes left him hollow-eyed and sick, at war with himself. Disgusted with himself. He was afraid of what would happen if he didn’t listen to the voices.

And yet. The voices were softened tonight — calm rather than excoriating. He’d killed out of necessity. He’d channelled anger and skill for the benefit of others. He’d protected his partner. And when the command came for him to kill again, he’d go with Bodie at his side. That thought — as insane as it was in these circumstances — put him at ease. He was all right as long as Bodie was with him, calming him with a touch, balancing him. Somehow, after two years and four months, Bodie was his. Christ, he must be mad. Doyle smiled, then felt something soft and wet on his face, and realised as he looked up that it was snowing lightly, silently — as quiet as they were in a moment of rest.

Could men of violence have peace as well? His heart had slowed, but he could feel a heavy beat in his stomach. And something that felt like light flashed through him, leaving clarity behind. War and peace. Chalk and cheese. It was a balance they lived and made livable — precarious, perhaps, but it was theirs. Bodie’s and his.

His R/T bleeped twice. They moved at the same time, swift and low like wolves on the hunt. And the violence was quick and extreme as they took out Franks and his men, joined in the fight by Matheson and King, Williams and Lake, and Turner. In the middle of the firefight, with his ears ringing and his blood singing, Doyle caught a grin from Bodie. He gave it back to him, saw an eyebrow go up, and laughed as he fired another round. They found Anson, damaged but alive. Their only other casualty was Williams, who suffered a deep bullet graze along his thigh.

After they’d won, Doyle supported Anson as he spoke into the R/T Bodie held to his mouth. “Two bombs, sir. Vans. Oxford Str— “ Anson gasped, then continued: “…and Regent Street. Closing…time….” Anson slumped against Doyle, eyes closed.

Bodie spoke into the R/T. “He’s out, sir.”

“It’s enough. Word’s gone out.” Cowley’s voice was brisk. “Bodie, you and Doyle — “

Anson lifted his head and a hand.

“Oh, wait sir.” Bodie held the R/T for Anson again. “Clint Eastwood has revived.”

“Bomb-maker…Luton….”

Doyle grabbed the R/T as Anson fainted again. “A blue Escort, sir — left about forty minutes ago. Biggs followed.”

“I’ll contact him. Bodie, Doyle, Turner, get to Luton. Find the bomb-maker. The rest of you clean up there. Ambulance is on its way.”

They left the farmhouse at a run, heading for their car parked a mile and a half away on the road. The cold air filled his lungs, and brought a rosy hue to Bodie’s cheeks, as he saw when they reached the car. Turner had fallen behind, and they were alone again. The world seemed to pause around them, in their isolation. The snow had stopped, leaving a little more than a dusting behind, and a scent in the air that promised more. Doyle brushed the snow from the rear windscreen as Bodie started the car.

Christmas was in a week. Perhaps… A yearning swept through Doyle, stripping away caution and sense. He wanted this peace, their own world. He leant on the open driver’s side door. “What are you doing for Christmas?” His voice was normal, but it felt like his heart was in his throat.

Bodie looked up at him, and there was a pause that froze Doyle’s breath. “Julia,” Bodie said. He urned his head away. “Remember?”

Doyle didn’t, and he would have. He forced himself to speak. “Trust you. Thought you said she was finished with you?” He was good at facing reality. He always had been.

“Yeah, well, the lack…”

“Of sense, yes.” Doyle nodded, then straightened. “Here’s Turner.”

“At bloody last.”

Doyle closed the driver’s door, hurried to the passenger side and slid into the car as Turner climbed into the back. Bodie took off in a squeal of tyres and they were on the chase again.

No rest. No break. He should have known. Julia. Chalk and cheese. Calm and disquiet. They lived on the edge. But he’d hold the tranquility he’d found in a frosted wood in his heart — a secret all his own. It had been a moment of peace in the madness, when the world had been theirs alone, and full of promise.

END
December 2011

Trailer
Title: There Is No Rest
Author: PFL
Slash or Gen: Slash (B/D)
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes (will send file)
Notes: No warnings needed!