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discoveredinaljSo, festive family stuff is all done and dusted, and finally I can turn my attention to the internet. Hope your Christmases have been festive and jolly and everything you could wish for! My prompt, which just about manages to squeeze its way in, was a chocolate tree decoration. Here goes!
Doyle and Bodie don’t do Christmas presents. Not for each other, anyway – they’re not suicidal enough to try the same strategy with family or birds. But they’re both blokes, and like most blokes they’re not big fans of shoving their way through hordes of harassed mothers or aggressive old ladies. Especially the latter – they’ve both got enough life experience to know that nobody in their right minds tries to come between a female in a headscarf and anything she might have set her mind on. Seriously, IRA terrorists – piece of cake. Little old dears – bloody terrifying.
They did have a go, the first year they were partnered up. Bodie got Doyle a gold-plated tie clip with a rather intricate-looking R engraved on it in a looping sort of script. Doyle, in return, gave Bodie a pair of silver cufflinks in the shape of little pistols. Since neither of them wears formal shirts more than once in a blue moon, or even ties all that often unless they’re forced to suit up for a court appearance or some such, these presents were not destined to see much of the light of day.
(Actually, it worked out all right. Doyle has a paternal cousin called Robert that he never sees from one year to the next, and the tie clip seemed a good enough present, so he was pretty grateful to have one less bit of shopping to do. Bodie secretly really likes the cufflinks, since they’re a) guns and b) shiny, and he takes them out surprisingly often just to have a look, ruthlessly squashing down any hint of sentiment about the giver.)
By the second Christmas as partners, they’d been through enough trauma, terror and general heart-stopping (and occasionally heart-breaking) moments that they were both relieved to admit that what they really wanted from each other was time. A chance to relax, just have a bit of fun and unwind together away from the job. So it’s become a bit of a tradition, as soon after Christmas as possible, to spend a day together away from London. As often as not, this involves taking the bikes (Doyle has his own, Bodie has enough dirt on Anson to more than cover a once-a-year loan of his pride and joy, and the look of mingled sorrow and horror on the other agent’s face as Bodie deliberately over-revs and speeds off around the corner has come to be another of Bodie’s favourite festive traditions) and bombing out of the capital to some random rural village that looks like it was purely put together to feature on the front of Christmas cards.
They tend to go for a bit of a hike through woods or across moorland, occasionally along cliff tops, munching on turkey sarnies (made and packed by Doyle, sometimes adorned with a bit of stuffing) and mince pies (usually made by whoever Bodie’s seeing at the time); desultorily chatting, shop talk usually but nothing dramatic, and from time to time just stopping, silent, to do nothing more than breathe.
Then, when they both feel ready to edge back towards the company of other humans, it’s back to the village to seek out the best pub on offer. Settled in front of a roaring open fire, surrounded by colourful decorations which combine gaudy paper chains and baubles with more pagan accoutrements (holly, sometimes mistletoe, and yes Bodie may once have seized the opportunity and grabbed Doyle’s arse under a handily placed mistletoe sprig, but it turned out his partner’s reflexes were still fully operational, thank you very much, and the punishing kidney blow that resulted firmly put him off ever trying that particular move again) they sink into a couple of pints of the local brewery’s winter warmer, with a bowl or two of chips as a chaser. Conversation tends to be sparse but easy, as they let the fire thaw away the effects of the chilly hike, carefully ignoring the slightly wary side-glances of the other patrons. They know what they look like to others, no matter how relaxed they may be feeling – alert, dangerous, trouble waiting to happen – but they can’t help that, and they won’t let it spoil the day. This is the time that makes the whole rest of the year worthwhile.
But this year it looks like the tradition is going to be broken. Comprehensively shattered to pieces, in fact, which was pretty much what had happened to Doyle. What happened was this: on Christmas Eve, an informant (who was highly reliable and had brought them all the information he knew, as Bodie kept reminding himself in order to force himself not to just storm out of the hospital, find the grass and bash his head in on principle) had come to them with the location of the operational base of an organised criminal they had been unsuccessfully targeting for the past five months or so. He had two other titbits to offer – first, that the base would be all but unguarded on that particular day, and secondly (less welcome but extremely useful, although incomplete as it turned out) that the front entrance was booby-trapped.
Doyle and Bodie were happy enough to take a back seat as a team of bomb-disposal experts took care of the explosives for them, using the time to move into their own positions – Bodie heading a team at the front, Doyle doing the same at the side entrance which was the only other way in or out. When the explosive guys finally retreated, giving the all clear to Bodie, he signalled Doyle and simultaneously they stormed the building.
It must have been about thirty seconds later that Bodie was knocked off his feet by the unanticipated force of an explosion that shook the building. Thirty seconds more, and Bodie was back on his knees, frantically scrabbling at the wood and bricks that all but covered his unmoving, unconscious and heavily bleeding partner. Other agents, having checked the building and arrested the two occupants, came to lend a hand, but even with all of them working together it took what felt like an eternity to clear away the rubble. Even then, Doyle was clearly too badly injured to risk moving, so Bodie was forced to wait beside him, unashamedly clinging to his hand while the ambulance took forever to arrive.
It took the best part of a day for the doctors to piece Doyle back together to a satisfactory level, and another two before he was awake in any meaningful sense of the word. The list of injuries made for impressive reading, but the consultant seemed increasingly convinced that a full and complete recovery was likely. “It will take time, Mr Bodie, and patience,” he pronounced, his pointed tone reasonable given the amount of pestering and haranguing Bodie had been unable to prevent himself engaging in until Cowley had stepped in and threatened to ban him from the hospital altogether.
So here he is, beside Doyle’s bed, practising patience as he waits for his partner to wake up so he can give him his Christmas present. And yes, he knows they don’t do presents, but he’s making an exception just this once. Not that he’s had time to go shopping – he’s making do, and the package he has waiting is small, messy and hastily wrapped in newspaper.
His patience is wearing out now, and he’s progressed from gentle taps that could be passed off as accidental to outright prodding when Doyle finally stirs.
“Bloody hell, Bodie, give over, would you?” he mumbles, glaring at Bodie out of his good eye.
Bodie’s answering smile is broad, beatific and deliberately calculated to irritate. “And good morning to you too, sunshine. And what a beautiful day it is.”
Doyle’s comeback would undoubtedly have been appropriately scathing, but it is abandoned as Doyle gets a good look at his partner.
“Christ, mate, you look like something the cat would turn its nose up at dragging in. Have you slept at all?”
Bodie rolls his eyes. “I’m fine. And you’re hardly the fairest of them all yourself. Anyway, bit late, but happy Christmas.”
Proudly he holds out the little newsprint-encased bundle. Doyle arches an eyebrow – possibly two, it’s hard to say with bandages obscuring half his face. “I thought we didn’t do this. I haven’t got you anything, you know.”
Oh, you really, really have, Bodie doesn’t say, opting instead for, “Yeah yeah. You going to open it or just fiddle with it?”
He is rewarded with a smile that he genuinely feared he would never see again, and that’s really all he was hoping for. Doyle carelessly shreds the newspaper to reveal a small chocolate snowman with a perky green hat, and a folded sheet of notepaper. He holds up the snowman, takes a good look before shifting his gaze to Bodie.
“You nicked this off the tree in the rest room, didn’t you?” he says, his tone somewhere between accusation and amusement. Bodie draws himself up, mock-offended.
“I’ll have you know, Raymond, that I...” He sags back, grinning shamelessly. “Oh all right, it’s a fair cop. Haven’t had much time, to be fair, what with one thing and another, so you’re just going to have to put up with it. Anyway, that’s not all.”
Doyle is already unfolding the piece of paper. He reads silently, for far longer than the few words could possibly take to digest, before he looks at his partner again, and this time his gaze is solemn.
“ ‘IOU one trip wherever you want, as soon as you’re well enough to get out of this dump and enjoy it.’ That’s - Bodie, I...” He breaks off, clears his throat. “Wherever I want? Really?”
“You name it,” Bodie answers, resolutely ignoring the gleam that has appeared in Doyle’s eye. He’s seen that look before, knows it’ll end in trouble, but is too high on the mere fact of still having a partner to care. How bad can it be?
“You know,” Doyle says slowly, and Bodie begins to wonder whether it’s too late to rip the paper up after all, “I’ve always wanted to go to the ballet. I think you’d really like it too. That’s brilliant, mate, ta.”
Bodie groans, head dropping into his hands. “What?” Doyle asks, all innocence.
“Ballet? As in dancing?” He looks up, hoping to see a grin that might mean he’s off the hook, but Doyle is completely straight faced. “Bunch of posh birds and poufters prancing around in tutus. That’s – I mean, if that’s what you really want, but...”
“Poufters, Bodie? Athletes, more like. Those blokes are fitter than us on a good day.”
“Yeah, and every single one of them batting for the other team. I do read, Raymond.”
“Well, I dread to think what you’re reading if that’s what it’s telling you. Anyway, even if it was true, which it clearly isn’t, it wouldn’t make them bad people, would it?”
“No. No, it wouldn’t.” Bodie pauses, takes a deep breath. Lets it out, tries again. “Listen, Doyle, I...” He looks at his partner, alive and recovering although still battered nearly out of recognition, half-smiling in this kind of knowing way as if he’s privy to secrets he couldn’t possibly be aware of. Bodie’s seen him use exactly the same tactic to shattering effect in interviews, seen hardened criminals crumble to nothing under the weight of that smile, and suddenly he can understand why.
He shakes his head. “Never mind. Ballet it is, then, I suppose.”
Doyle’s smile kicks up a few notches. “Thanks, mate. And happy Christmas.”
And finally, Bodie realises, it actually is.
----------------------
Title: What Really Matters
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bistokids
Slash/Gen: Eh. Read it how you choose to. :)
Archive: Yes please
Words: Nearly 2000! I don't know what came over me.
Disclaimer: Don't own, not real, blah blah.
Doyle and Bodie don’t do Christmas presents. Not for each other, anyway – they’re not suicidal enough to try the same strategy with family or birds. But they’re both blokes, and like most blokes they’re not big fans of shoving their way through hordes of harassed mothers or aggressive old ladies. Especially the latter – they’ve both got enough life experience to know that nobody in their right minds tries to come between a female in a headscarf and anything she might have set her mind on. Seriously, IRA terrorists – piece of cake. Little old dears – bloody terrifying.
They did have a go, the first year they were partnered up. Bodie got Doyle a gold-plated tie clip with a rather intricate-looking R engraved on it in a looping sort of script. Doyle, in return, gave Bodie a pair of silver cufflinks in the shape of little pistols. Since neither of them wears formal shirts more than once in a blue moon, or even ties all that often unless they’re forced to suit up for a court appearance or some such, these presents were not destined to see much of the light of day.
(Actually, it worked out all right. Doyle has a paternal cousin called Robert that he never sees from one year to the next, and the tie clip seemed a good enough present, so he was pretty grateful to have one less bit of shopping to do. Bodie secretly really likes the cufflinks, since they’re a) guns and b) shiny, and he takes them out surprisingly often just to have a look, ruthlessly squashing down any hint of sentiment about the giver.)
By the second Christmas as partners, they’d been through enough trauma, terror and general heart-stopping (and occasionally heart-breaking) moments that they were both relieved to admit that what they really wanted from each other was time. A chance to relax, just have a bit of fun and unwind together away from the job. So it’s become a bit of a tradition, as soon after Christmas as possible, to spend a day together away from London. As often as not, this involves taking the bikes (Doyle has his own, Bodie has enough dirt on Anson to more than cover a once-a-year loan of his pride and joy, and the look of mingled sorrow and horror on the other agent’s face as Bodie deliberately over-revs and speeds off around the corner has come to be another of Bodie’s favourite festive traditions) and bombing out of the capital to some random rural village that looks like it was purely put together to feature on the front of Christmas cards.
They tend to go for a bit of a hike through woods or across moorland, occasionally along cliff tops, munching on turkey sarnies (made and packed by Doyle, sometimes adorned with a bit of stuffing) and mince pies (usually made by whoever Bodie’s seeing at the time); desultorily chatting, shop talk usually but nothing dramatic, and from time to time just stopping, silent, to do nothing more than breathe.
Then, when they both feel ready to edge back towards the company of other humans, it’s back to the village to seek out the best pub on offer. Settled in front of a roaring open fire, surrounded by colourful decorations which combine gaudy paper chains and baubles with more pagan accoutrements (holly, sometimes mistletoe, and yes Bodie may once have seized the opportunity and grabbed Doyle’s arse under a handily placed mistletoe sprig, but it turned out his partner’s reflexes were still fully operational, thank you very much, and the punishing kidney blow that resulted firmly put him off ever trying that particular move again) they sink into a couple of pints of the local brewery’s winter warmer, with a bowl or two of chips as a chaser. Conversation tends to be sparse but easy, as they let the fire thaw away the effects of the chilly hike, carefully ignoring the slightly wary side-glances of the other patrons. They know what they look like to others, no matter how relaxed they may be feeling – alert, dangerous, trouble waiting to happen – but they can’t help that, and they won’t let it spoil the day. This is the time that makes the whole rest of the year worthwhile.
But this year it looks like the tradition is going to be broken. Comprehensively shattered to pieces, in fact, which was pretty much what had happened to Doyle. What happened was this: on Christmas Eve, an informant (who was highly reliable and had brought them all the information he knew, as Bodie kept reminding himself in order to force himself not to just storm out of the hospital, find the grass and bash his head in on principle) had come to them with the location of the operational base of an organised criminal they had been unsuccessfully targeting for the past five months or so. He had two other titbits to offer – first, that the base would be all but unguarded on that particular day, and secondly (less welcome but extremely useful, although incomplete as it turned out) that the front entrance was booby-trapped.
Doyle and Bodie were happy enough to take a back seat as a team of bomb-disposal experts took care of the explosives for them, using the time to move into their own positions – Bodie heading a team at the front, Doyle doing the same at the side entrance which was the only other way in or out. When the explosive guys finally retreated, giving the all clear to Bodie, he signalled Doyle and simultaneously they stormed the building.
It must have been about thirty seconds later that Bodie was knocked off his feet by the unanticipated force of an explosion that shook the building. Thirty seconds more, and Bodie was back on his knees, frantically scrabbling at the wood and bricks that all but covered his unmoving, unconscious and heavily bleeding partner. Other agents, having checked the building and arrested the two occupants, came to lend a hand, but even with all of them working together it took what felt like an eternity to clear away the rubble. Even then, Doyle was clearly too badly injured to risk moving, so Bodie was forced to wait beside him, unashamedly clinging to his hand while the ambulance took forever to arrive.
It took the best part of a day for the doctors to piece Doyle back together to a satisfactory level, and another two before he was awake in any meaningful sense of the word. The list of injuries made for impressive reading, but the consultant seemed increasingly convinced that a full and complete recovery was likely. “It will take time, Mr Bodie, and patience,” he pronounced, his pointed tone reasonable given the amount of pestering and haranguing Bodie had been unable to prevent himself engaging in until Cowley had stepped in and threatened to ban him from the hospital altogether.
So here he is, beside Doyle’s bed, practising patience as he waits for his partner to wake up so he can give him his Christmas present. And yes, he knows they don’t do presents, but he’s making an exception just this once. Not that he’s had time to go shopping – he’s making do, and the package he has waiting is small, messy and hastily wrapped in newspaper.
His patience is wearing out now, and he’s progressed from gentle taps that could be passed off as accidental to outright prodding when Doyle finally stirs.
“Bloody hell, Bodie, give over, would you?” he mumbles, glaring at Bodie out of his good eye.
Bodie’s answering smile is broad, beatific and deliberately calculated to irritate. “And good morning to you too, sunshine. And what a beautiful day it is.”
Doyle’s comeback would undoubtedly have been appropriately scathing, but it is abandoned as Doyle gets a good look at his partner.
“Christ, mate, you look like something the cat would turn its nose up at dragging in. Have you slept at all?”
Bodie rolls his eyes. “I’m fine. And you’re hardly the fairest of them all yourself. Anyway, bit late, but happy Christmas.”
Proudly he holds out the little newsprint-encased bundle. Doyle arches an eyebrow – possibly two, it’s hard to say with bandages obscuring half his face. “I thought we didn’t do this. I haven’t got you anything, you know.”
Oh, you really, really have, Bodie doesn’t say, opting instead for, “Yeah yeah. You going to open it or just fiddle with it?”
He is rewarded with a smile that he genuinely feared he would never see again, and that’s really all he was hoping for. Doyle carelessly shreds the newspaper to reveal a small chocolate snowman with a perky green hat, and a folded sheet of notepaper. He holds up the snowman, takes a good look before shifting his gaze to Bodie.
“You nicked this off the tree in the rest room, didn’t you?” he says, his tone somewhere between accusation and amusement. Bodie draws himself up, mock-offended.
“I’ll have you know, Raymond, that I...” He sags back, grinning shamelessly. “Oh all right, it’s a fair cop. Haven’t had much time, to be fair, what with one thing and another, so you’re just going to have to put up with it. Anyway, that’s not all.”
Doyle is already unfolding the piece of paper. He reads silently, for far longer than the few words could possibly take to digest, before he looks at his partner again, and this time his gaze is solemn.
“ ‘IOU one trip wherever you want, as soon as you’re well enough to get out of this dump and enjoy it.’ That’s - Bodie, I...” He breaks off, clears his throat. “Wherever I want? Really?”
“You name it,” Bodie answers, resolutely ignoring the gleam that has appeared in Doyle’s eye. He’s seen that look before, knows it’ll end in trouble, but is too high on the mere fact of still having a partner to care. How bad can it be?
“You know,” Doyle says slowly, and Bodie begins to wonder whether it’s too late to rip the paper up after all, “I’ve always wanted to go to the ballet. I think you’d really like it too. That’s brilliant, mate, ta.”
Bodie groans, head dropping into his hands. “What?” Doyle asks, all innocence.
“Ballet? As in dancing?” He looks up, hoping to see a grin that might mean he’s off the hook, but Doyle is completely straight faced. “Bunch of posh birds and poufters prancing around in tutus. That’s – I mean, if that’s what you really want, but...”
“Poufters, Bodie? Athletes, more like. Those blokes are fitter than us on a good day.”
“Yeah, and every single one of them batting for the other team. I do read, Raymond.”
“Well, I dread to think what you’re reading if that’s what it’s telling you. Anyway, even if it was true, which it clearly isn’t, it wouldn’t make them bad people, would it?”
“No. No, it wouldn’t.” Bodie pauses, takes a deep breath. Lets it out, tries again. “Listen, Doyle, I...” He looks at his partner, alive and recovering although still battered nearly out of recognition, half-smiling in this kind of knowing way as if he’s privy to secrets he couldn’t possibly be aware of. Bodie’s seen him use exactly the same tactic to shattering effect in interviews, seen hardened criminals crumble to nothing under the weight of that smile, and suddenly he can understand why.
He shakes his head. “Never mind. Ballet it is, then, I suppose.”
Doyle’s smile kicks up a few notches. “Thanks, mate. And happy Christmas.”
And finally, Bodie realises, it actually is.
----------------------
Title: What Really Matters
Author:
bistokidsSlash/Gen: Eh. Read it how you choose to. :)
Archive: Yes please
Words: Nearly 2000! I don't know what came over me.
Disclaimer: Don't own, not real, blah blah.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-12-27 08:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-27 10:08 pm (UTC)P.S. two very similar icons in the comments - must have something to do with your story *g*.
no subject
Date: 2011-12-27 10:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-28 12:08 am (UTC)quotes (we'll see what fits, LOL)
bikes (Doyle has his own, Bodie has enough dirt on Anson to more than cover a once-a-year loan of his pride and joy, and the look of mingled sorrow and horror on the other agent’s face as Bodie deliberately over-revs and speeds off around the corner has come to be another of Bodie’s favourite festive traditions)
(holly, sometimes mistletoe, and yes Bodie may once have seized the opportunity and grabbed Doyle’s arse under a handily placed mistletoe sprig, but it turned out his partner’s reflexes were still fully operational, thank you very much, and the punishing kidney blow that resulted firmly put him off ever trying that particular move again)
They know what they look like to others, no matter how relaxed they may be feeling – alert, dangerous, trouble waiting to happen – but they can’t help that, and they won’t let it spoil the day. This is the time that makes the whole rest of the year worthwhile.
Other agents, having checked the building and arrested the two occupants, came to lend a hand, but even with all of them working together it took what felt like an eternity to clear away the rubble. Even then, Doyle was clearly too badly injured to risk moving, so Bodie was forced to wait beside him, unashamedly clinging to his hand while the ambulance took forever to arrive.
So here he is, beside Doyle’s bed, practising patience as he waits for his partner to wake up so he can give him his Christmas present. And yes, he knows they don’t do presents, but he’s making an exception just this once. Not that he’s had time to go shopping – he’s making do, and the package he has waiting is small, messy and hastily wrapped in newspaper.
His patience is wearing out now, and he’s progressed from gentle taps that could be passed off as accidental to outright prodding when Doyle finally stirs.
Proudly he holds out the little newsprint-encased bundle. Doyle arches an eyebrow – possibly two, it’s hard to say with bandages obscuring half his face. “I thought we didn’t do this. I haven’t got you anything, you know.”
Oh, you really, really have, Bodie doesn’t say, opting instead for, “Yeah yeah. You going to open it or just fiddle with it?”
“You nicked this off the tree in the rest room, didn’t you?” he says, his tone somewhere between accusation and amusement. Bodie draws himself up, mock-offended.
“I’ll have you know, Raymond, that I...” He sags back, grinning shamelessly. “Oh all right, it’s a fair cop. Haven’t had much time, to be fair, what with one thing and another, so you’re just going to have to put up with it. Anyway, that’s not all.”
“No. No, it wouldn’t.” Bodie pauses, takes a deep breath. Lets it out, tries again. “Listen, Doyle, I...” He looks at his partner, alive and recovering although still battered nearly out of recognition, half-smiling in this kind of knowing way as if he’s privy to secrets he couldn’t possibly be aware of. Bodie’s seen him use exactly the same tactic to shattering effect in interviews, seen hardened criminals crumble to nothing under the weight of that smile, and suddenly he can understand why.
He shakes his head. “Never mind. Ballet it is, then, I suppose.”
Doyle’s smile kicks up a few notches. “Thanks, mate. And happy Christmas.”
And finally, Bodie realises, it actually is.
And now my question is, does Ray really want to see ballet or does he just want to see if Bodie REALLY means it? :D
Anyway, <3 and thanks!
no subject
Date: 2011-12-28 05:45 am (UTC)(Bodie "pinching" Anson´s bike) and the trip to the ballet is just a very happy, funny idea!
no subject
Date: 2011-12-28 06:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-28 11:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-28 11:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-28 01:26 pm (UTC)Oh look! - you went and wrote the perfect Christmas story *g* I love it, thank you! For some reason the bit that had me grinning the most was Bodie liking the cufflinks because they were guns and shiny. :D And he'll even go to the ballet for Doyle... awwwww!
no subject
Date: 2011-12-28 08:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-28 08:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-28 08:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-28 08:52 pm (UTC)Thank you so much - I'm pretty sure I've never been quoted so extensively in a comment, and I'm really quite touched by it. As far as the ballet is concerned, I'd say it's definitely more about seeing how far Bodie will go, and my guess would be he'll hold Bodie to it but make it up to him later! :D
no subject
Date: 2011-12-28 08:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-28 09:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-29 02:07 am (UTC)Thanks so much for the information about the ballet. *has fun imagining that* :D :D :D
no subject
Date: 2011-12-30 04:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-31 12:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-31 12:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-31 01:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-31 01:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-08 05:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-29 10:07 am (UTC)