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discoveredinaljA fic written for the current challenge: ‘in the style of…’
I don’t think the style is too hard to identify.*g*
I presented the first draft to the Beta Central group on![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ci5hq and they had some brilliant suggestions. The remaining infelicities are all mine.
Also posted to AO3 here and to my journal.
There and back again.
They were all in the rest room and Bodie had made an excellent pot of tea. He had also sent Doyle out for biscuits and a swiss roll so the low coffee table was groaning with a spread of delights. There was a happy silence while inroads were made.
Slowly, the treats disappeared. Jax, relaxed and sleepy, yawned discreetly; Susan, serious behind her big glasses, watched everyone intently but kindly while she nibbled a pink wafer; Tommy, his blue jeans faded and thin, brushed a hand through his rough and greying hair, smoothing away, perhaps, earlier troubles of the afternoon. McCabe grinned at Lucas, who nodded back at some hidden joke or memory, while Stuart, his tweed jacket framing his mobile face, looked questioningly across at Murphy, who was sitting slightly apart from the others, tension evident in every line of his tall, lean body. Charlie brushed the crumbs of a digestive biscuit out of his moustache and took a final sip of his tea.
At last everyone sat back replete and Anson lit up a cigar, the smoke swirling gently up towards the ceiling and curling back down to stroke the shoulders of his colleagues.
“Didn’t want to wash this sweater this week,” muttered Doyle, but quietly so that only Bodie would hear.
Major Cowley coughed loudly, partly to let Anson know his displeasure and partly to make it clear that everyone was to listen. He looked pointedly at Murphy.
“Time to tell them all what you told me, lad,” he said, and Murphy, after a few false starts and backtracking to explain things (his colleagues were not mind-readers) unfolded an IRA conspiracy that was bigger and nastier than any they had yet dealt with. One that signalled conflict with America.
“Major Cowley sent me to Chertsey,” he said. “I stayed at the Coach and Horses on St. Anne’s Road, where the highway runs out towards the downs. It’s a nice inn and it does real ale so it wasn’t going to surprise anyone if a travelling salesman from Dublin propped up the bar in the evenings.” His eyes trailing Anson’s smoke signals, he seemed to be recalling the atmosphere in the pub with its fires and smoke and bonhomie. “The men I was tracking - Devlin and Fitzgerald - were living just a few doors away. They’re a good looking pair, smartly dressed, in their thirties, pillars of respectability. Devlin’s tall, with those smiling Irish eyes they talk about.” He glanced around with a smile of his own, as if inviting personal comments. None were forthcoming and he went on. “The neighbours, at least those I drank with, supposed them to be university lecturers on some kind of exchange. Devlin mentioned an obscure college and gave their origins as somewhere a long distance off and out of the way. He and his colleague were here for a short time, he said, and they’d rented a house from a couple who spend winter in the Caribbean. But there was an old boy in the pub, an ex-army type, a friend of the Major’s.” He darted a quick glance at Cowley, realising too late that he’d just called Cowley old. But the Major’s face was impassive and Murphy went on. “He happened to know the college and led them on a little. Devlin talked about some colleagues who are no longer around these parts, and Fitzgerald joined in, claiming to have met them that week. This Major Cracknell spotted the inconsistency and contacted Major Cowley, who gave me the assignment. Well, I didn’t query their credentials, of course.”
“Get on with it, lad,” Cowley interrupted. “We all know you know how to do an undercover job. What we want now is the information. You’ve told me, but I want the others to hear it first hand from you.”
“Devlin and Fitzgerald are the hub of the operation - the new suave look of the IRA. There are ten men altogether, all similarly respectable-looking; all strangers to the area; all with the excuse of visiting Devlin and Fitzgerald. One or two of the younger ones are passing, according to the pub regulars, as postgrad students. Heathrow’s just down the road and the arms deliveries are expected there. They trusted me because of my name, I think,” (at which Cowley and one or two of the others sighed), “but of course they didn’t say what was in the shipments, just talked as if they were businessmen, in itself odd, given their academic claims. We’ve pieced it all together now. It’s a consignment of guns, without a doubt, sent by friends in America to help arm Irish ‘freedom fighters’.” He gave more details, enough to bore the others to sleep or stimulate them to go out to catch the terrorists, depending on how the mood took them.
“So you see,” he said at last, “we need to stop them at the outset. Whether that many guns reach Belfast and fuel the troubles or whether they remain in London, if they get into Devlin’s hands we can look forward to mayhem. Especially when you think where they’ve come from.”
The shipments were coming from New York, and it hadn’t taken too much research to find that the gun sellers had Mafia links though why Irish Americans and Italian Americans would have joined forces was not quite clear. Simply profit, perhaps. MI6 or Interpol should probably be brought in but it would be good if CI5 could make sure of detailed information and names first.
There was a little discussion, but not much. They all knew something would have to be done. Cowley assigned roles to each of them and then rose, bidding the assembled men a good night. “For we’ll be needing to make an early start,” he said. And then, with a frown, “I hope you’re going to tidy up in here before you go.” With that, he left, closing the door behind him. They could hear his distinctive footsteps on the stairs.
Suddenly the group melted, flowed through the door like liquid, until only Bodie and Doyle were left, with a wisp of Anson’s smoke to keep them company. Bodie sighed and efficiently stacked the cups in the sink while Doyle threw the biscuit and cake wrappings into the bin. The crumbs, he left. The cleaners needed something to do, he thought.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if we got mice in here,” said Bodie.
“Nah.” Doyle shook his head. “Not enough crumbs to feed one mouse, let alone a family. They’d starve. We’re a greedy lot.” He grinned at his partner.
“Growing lads,” said Bodie, grinning back. And they followed their colleagues out into the night.
************************************************************************
Weary, they were; too tired to do anything but hold each other tight through the darkness. There’d been a full day before the meeting with a stake-out near Wembley followed by shootings and arrests and reports to write; then the meeting, and now there would be a full day ahead. Someone forgot to set an alarm and dawn was still late at that time of the year. They woke to the shrill of the RT - someone’s, anyone’s - and raced in a tangle of arms and legs to reach it. Bodie won; but it was Ray’s RT.
“At least you’re already at his place to pick him up.” The stentorian tones of Cowley’s voice barked into the flat. “You should have been here ten minutes ago. What’s keeping you?”
Ray was half-dressed already, mouthing possible excuses at his partner. Bodie muttered something about car problems into the handset and grabbed his trousers from the floor.
“Speak up, lad.” Cowley’s patience was wearing thin.
“We need...” Bodie didn’t get a chance to finish.
“No time. You should be on your way.”
“But...”
“No time for that, either. Murphy’s already set off. I expect you to catch up with him.” And with that, Cowley signed off.
“Cowley expects,” said Bodie, and Ray nodded.
And so they rushed out barely dressed, guns and RTs the only certainties, without even a bite for breakfast, without even so much as an old used lighter or a packet of tissues.
************************************************************************
It was a slow journey, hampered by heavy traffic. They followed the Thames out past familiar landmarks and then less everyday ones. The river flowed eastwards faster than the cars could travel west; they crawled past chattering Chelsea and on towards the ancient glories of Hampton Court. Then, still following upstream, they plunged into the darker, wilder areas of the Surrey landscape, away from the city, into the outer reaches of suburbia, and the fringes of the countryside. Bodie kept wishing they’d had time to grab a chocolate bar or two. Adventures, he thought, needed sustenance.
In the centre of Chertsey they gathered in The Crown, milling around with drinks and snacks (to Bodie’s relief), waiting for word to come through. The landlord eyed them dourly, no doubt wanting such a large group to explain itself, or to order lunches, but Murphy had warned them against eating there. The helpings, he told them, were on the small side, and they’d do better with sandwiches. He wasn’t with them but was watching from the smaller Coach and Horses, able to see when Devlin and Fitzgerald left their house. Cowley sipped a pure malt and looked down his nose at the assorted bitters, pale ales and lagers (for the women – Sally had joined Susan). Then his RT crackled and it was Murphy with the codeword.
“Allons, mes amis,” he said, (a phrase from another tongue that translated as ‘Come, friends’) and with that simple announcement they were off.
They split into two parties. Half of them followed Devlin onto the new M25, expecting to leave at Junction 14 for the airport’s public approach. Murphy was with them. He was convinced Devlin would meet his American friends in the airport concourse. The Major had telephoned ahead and found out which terminal they should approach. The motorway was fast, despite public jokes about it being the world’s biggest carpark, and it was easy to stay anonymous without losing sight of Devlin’s car.
The rest, Doyle, Bodie and Cowley with Anson and Jax, headed for Staines and beyond, following Fitzgerald at a respectable distance through narrowish lanes that meandered through small communities and between gentle hedgerows. At least they knew where he was going. They would approach the airport from the rear, and hopefully find the warehouse where the shipment of guns would be stashed. Collection would happen when Devlin had handed over the money. There must be some kind of signal arranged; perhaps a telephone call or perhaps a messenger.
“I suppose they funded it through bank robberies,” said Bodie and nobody disagreed with him. Then he contradicted himself. “The Americans probably helped - gave them a good deal.”
“But why are the Americans interested?” Jax had evidently been half asleep during Murphy’s account.
“The Irish Americans deal with the IRA,” Doyle reminded him. “They don’t understand the ‘troubles’, they just want to show solidarity. So the really eager ones team up with criminal elements to provide arms, or they help fund the transaction...”
“Aye,” said Cowley. “And maybe we should be thankful for that. It reduced the number of bank robberies, after all. But it could give those gangsters a toehold here and that’s something nobody wants.”
“So, these arms…” Bodie was driving and his voice tailed off as he negotiated a tricky corner. “Meant for more robberies, are they, or for Belfast?”
“Belfast,” said Cowley, his voice definite. “But a few might make their way into our fair capital. They’re ours to stop, either way.”
************************************************************************
They reached the warehouse and at first it seemed easy. Fitzgerald went inside, apparently oblivious of his ‘tail’, and there was no-one else about. Yet there were enough cars and vans for them to park unobtrusively and wait. At last Cowley had them out of the car then around the perimeter of the massive building they were watching. They stationed themselves at strategic points, all just within sight of each other, and watched. That was all they had to do unless Cowley directed otherwise. Watch, and witness.
Nothing happened for a long time. The building sat solid and grey and the doors remained closed. But there were shadows that lengthened more than the amount of daylight should have warranted and there were odd calls echoing down the cul-de-sac where the warehouse lay. And there was a sense of the watchers being watched. Bodie shivered, premonitions of dark things to come, of disasters that lay in wait and the end of their world, pinched and prodded at his imagination.
Then the main doors opened with an ominous creak and a group of men appeared, Fitzgerald leading them, carrying long and apparently heavy boxes, the kind that were used to transport guns. They matched Murphy’s description of the men who had been visiting Devlin and Fitzgerald, young, smart, even intellectual-looking. There was nothing specific to mark them as Irish except their features which somehow reminded the CI5 agents of every IRA spokesman they’d seen on television. The little party was heading for a footbridge that linked the main building to a private carpark. Beneath it lay basement windows and a kind of concrete moat, empty but menacing.
“After them, men!” Cowley had evidently decided to make the arrests here and now, while the evidence was within their grasp. They surged forward, but a gun seemingly from nowhere spat a warning and battle was joined. The Irishmen looked hard and mean, despite their formal, respectable suits. Dark faces loomed and the set of broad shoulders threatened a hard fight. Early in the fray Fitzgerald crashed over the low bridge railings and they could hear him cursing and groaning below. Soon it was every man for himself as the fighting became fierce. Bodie found himself grappling with a youngish fellow who tried to bulldoze him with a box of guns. Moving backwards to avoid being tripped and trampled he saw Doyle smash a deceptively slim hand down on the bridge of a decidedly Irish nose and heard a squeal of pain. But then reinforcements arrived, IRA, not CI5, crossing from the airport fence and rushing the CI5 men from all sides.
The fight was a blur then they heard Cowley shouting.
“Devlin! Devlin’s here with a machine gun! Run! Idiots! Run for your lives.”
They could regroup and try again another day. They had witnesses and even hard evidence; Anson was already bearing a box back to the car. But as they left, running and stumbling in their haste, they heard a creaking, protesting noise. The little footbridge had never been intended for so much action; it gave way, sending Devlin and Cowley into the depths of the moat and this time there was no sound of injured men, and they heard no cries for help.
But still they ran, conditioned to obey their leader above everything, and in the car Bodie gunned the engine, making the wheels spin out of the street while Doyle gabbled over the RT asking for help and saying that Cowley was down.
************************************************************************
Back at HQ they waited for news, a sad little band of worried men. Then Murphy joined them, his face long and grave.
Murphy and his team had followed Devlin from the terminal concourse, and had seen the fight but arrived too late to participate fully. They had had to watch a laden van career out of the carpark and down the road. Most of the guns, said Murphy, were well on their way to Ireland by now. Cowley...
“Trouble is,” he said, “he fell on his bad knee. The shock or the pain... He isn’t young. The ambulance was pretty quick but…”
There was a silence. This time the shadows were in their minds, and the memories echoed and ricocheted. They had little idea, yet, what would happen, but Cowley would have wanted them to go on, at the bridge, and now. Their kingdom and their capital needed them.
Bodie looked down at his jacket, most buttons missing, a final one hanging by a thread. The fabric where the buttons had been was torn, and a pocket hung limply from one last line of stitching. No physical hurts, but his ruined coat seemed to sum up the day.
************************************************************************
Bodie and Ray went back to Ray’s flat, the one they had left so precipitately that morning. They didn’t talk because somehow there was nothing to say. Bodie took off his gun holster and noted in a daze that the bedroom floor was still littered with socks and T-shirts. He placed his RT and Ray’s on the chest of drawers. When would they use them again? What would tomorrow bring? But he still had Ray, and the thought sustained him.
He glanced at the unmade bed but left it; they would be in it again soon enough, he hoped. A kind of sexual imperative followed death and destruction, an instinct rooted no doubt in a need to procreate but still strong in their less conventional relationship. They would couple fiercely tonight.
He headed for the living area to be with his partner, and as he did he smiled. The world held small comforts after all; from the small kitchen, a step down from the main room, the scent of bacon was rising.
End
Title: There and back again.
Author: moth2fic
Fandom: the Professionals
Category/rating: slash/PG13 (nothing explicit)
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Wordcount: 2900
Warnings: death fic (but not the lads)
Notes: written for thediscoveredinalj challenge ‘Discovered in the style of...’ (February 2012)
Thanks toci5hq Beta Central for the beta.
I don’t think the style is too hard to identify.*g*
I presented the first draft to the Beta Central group on
ci5hq and they had some brilliant suggestions. The remaining infelicities are all mine.Also posted to AO3 here and to my journal.
There and back again.
They were all in the rest room and Bodie had made an excellent pot of tea. He had also sent Doyle out for biscuits and a swiss roll so the low coffee table was groaning with a spread of delights. There was a happy silence while inroads were made.
Slowly, the treats disappeared. Jax, relaxed and sleepy, yawned discreetly; Susan, serious behind her big glasses, watched everyone intently but kindly while she nibbled a pink wafer; Tommy, his blue jeans faded and thin, brushed a hand through his rough and greying hair, smoothing away, perhaps, earlier troubles of the afternoon. McCabe grinned at Lucas, who nodded back at some hidden joke or memory, while Stuart, his tweed jacket framing his mobile face, looked questioningly across at Murphy, who was sitting slightly apart from the others, tension evident in every line of his tall, lean body. Charlie brushed the crumbs of a digestive biscuit out of his moustache and took a final sip of his tea.
At last everyone sat back replete and Anson lit up a cigar, the smoke swirling gently up towards the ceiling and curling back down to stroke the shoulders of his colleagues.
“Didn’t want to wash this sweater this week,” muttered Doyle, but quietly so that only Bodie would hear.
Major Cowley coughed loudly, partly to let Anson know his displeasure and partly to make it clear that everyone was to listen. He looked pointedly at Murphy.
“Time to tell them all what you told me, lad,” he said, and Murphy, after a few false starts and backtracking to explain things (his colleagues were not mind-readers) unfolded an IRA conspiracy that was bigger and nastier than any they had yet dealt with. One that signalled conflict with America.
“Major Cowley sent me to Chertsey,” he said. “I stayed at the Coach and Horses on St. Anne’s Road, where the highway runs out towards the downs. It’s a nice inn and it does real ale so it wasn’t going to surprise anyone if a travelling salesman from Dublin propped up the bar in the evenings.” His eyes trailing Anson’s smoke signals, he seemed to be recalling the atmosphere in the pub with its fires and smoke and bonhomie. “The men I was tracking - Devlin and Fitzgerald - were living just a few doors away. They’re a good looking pair, smartly dressed, in their thirties, pillars of respectability. Devlin’s tall, with those smiling Irish eyes they talk about.” He glanced around with a smile of his own, as if inviting personal comments. None were forthcoming and he went on. “The neighbours, at least those I drank with, supposed them to be university lecturers on some kind of exchange. Devlin mentioned an obscure college and gave their origins as somewhere a long distance off and out of the way. He and his colleague were here for a short time, he said, and they’d rented a house from a couple who spend winter in the Caribbean. But there was an old boy in the pub, an ex-army type, a friend of the Major’s.” He darted a quick glance at Cowley, realising too late that he’d just called Cowley old. But the Major’s face was impassive and Murphy went on. “He happened to know the college and led them on a little. Devlin talked about some colleagues who are no longer around these parts, and Fitzgerald joined in, claiming to have met them that week. This Major Cracknell spotted the inconsistency and contacted Major Cowley, who gave me the assignment. Well, I didn’t query their credentials, of course.”
“Get on with it, lad,” Cowley interrupted. “We all know you know how to do an undercover job. What we want now is the information. You’ve told me, but I want the others to hear it first hand from you.”
“Devlin and Fitzgerald are the hub of the operation - the new suave look of the IRA. There are ten men altogether, all similarly respectable-looking; all strangers to the area; all with the excuse of visiting Devlin and Fitzgerald. One or two of the younger ones are passing, according to the pub regulars, as postgrad students. Heathrow’s just down the road and the arms deliveries are expected there. They trusted me because of my name, I think,” (at which Cowley and one or two of the others sighed), “but of course they didn’t say what was in the shipments, just talked as if they were businessmen, in itself odd, given their academic claims. We’ve pieced it all together now. It’s a consignment of guns, without a doubt, sent by friends in America to help arm Irish ‘freedom fighters’.” He gave more details, enough to bore the others to sleep or stimulate them to go out to catch the terrorists, depending on how the mood took them.
“So you see,” he said at last, “we need to stop them at the outset. Whether that many guns reach Belfast and fuel the troubles or whether they remain in London, if they get into Devlin’s hands we can look forward to mayhem. Especially when you think where they’ve come from.”
The shipments were coming from New York, and it hadn’t taken too much research to find that the gun sellers had Mafia links though why Irish Americans and Italian Americans would have joined forces was not quite clear. Simply profit, perhaps. MI6 or Interpol should probably be brought in but it would be good if CI5 could make sure of detailed information and names first.
There was a little discussion, but not much. They all knew something would have to be done. Cowley assigned roles to each of them and then rose, bidding the assembled men a good night. “For we’ll be needing to make an early start,” he said. And then, with a frown, “I hope you’re going to tidy up in here before you go.” With that, he left, closing the door behind him. They could hear his distinctive footsteps on the stairs.
Suddenly the group melted, flowed through the door like liquid, until only Bodie and Doyle were left, with a wisp of Anson’s smoke to keep them company. Bodie sighed and efficiently stacked the cups in the sink while Doyle threw the biscuit and cake wrappings into the bin. The crumbs, he left. The cleaners needed something to do, he thought.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if we got mice in here,” said Bodie.
“Nah.” Doyle shook his head. “Not enough crumbs to feed one mouse, let alone a family. They’d starve. We’re a greedy lot.” He grinned at his partner.
“Growing lads,” said Bodie, grinning back. And they followed their colleagues out into the night.
************************************************************************
Weary, they were; too tired to do anything but hold each other tight through the darkness. There’d been a full day before the meeting with a stake-out near Wembley followed by shootings and arrests and reports to write; then the meeting, and now there would be a full day ahead. Someone forgot to set an alarm and dawn was still late at that time of the year. They woke to the shrill of the RT - someone’s, anyone’s - and raced in a tangle of arms and legs to reach it. Bodie won; but it was Ray’s RT.
“At least you’re already at his place to pick him up.” The stentorian tones of Cowley’s voice barked into the flat. “You should have been here ten minutes ago. What’s keeping you?”
Ray was half-dressed already, mouthing possible excuses at his partner. Bodie muttered something about car problems into the handset and grabbed his trousers from the floor.
“Speak up, lad.” Cowley’s patience was wearing thin.
“We need...” Bodie didn’t get a chance to finish.
“No time. You should be on your way.”
“But...”
“No time for that, either. Murphy’s already set off. I expect you to catch up with him.” And with that, Cowley signed off.
“Cowley expects,” said Bodie, and Ray nodded.
And so they rushed out barely dressed, guns and RTs the only certainties, without even a bite for breakfast, without even so much as an old used lighter or a packet of tissues.
************************************************************************
It was a slow journey, hampered by heavy traffic. They followed the Thames out past familiar landmarks and then less everyday ones. The river flowed eastwards faster than the cars could travel west; they crawled past chattering Chelsea and on towards the ancient glories of Hampton Court. Then, still following upstream, they plunged into the darker, wilder areas of the Surrey landscape, away from the city, into the outer reaches of suburbia, and the fringes of the countryside. Bodie kept wishing they’d had time to grab a chocolate bar or two. Adventures, he thought, needed sustenance.
In the centre of Chertsey they gathered in The Crown, milling around with drinks and snacks (to Bodie’s relief), waiting for word to come through. The landlord eyed them dourly, no doubt wanting such a large group to explain itself, or to order lunches, but Murphy had warned them against eating there. The helpings, he told them, were on the small side, and they’d do better with sandwiches. He wasn’t with them but was watching from the smaller Coach and Horses, able to see when Devlin and Fitzgerald left their house. Cowley sipped a pure malt and looked down his nose at the assorted bitters, pale ales and lagers (for the women – Sally had joined Susan). Then his RT crackled and it was Murphy with the codeword.
“Allons, mes amis,” he said, (a phrase from another tongue that translated as ‘Come, friends’) and with that simple announcement they were off.
They split into two parties. Half of them followed Devlin onto the new M25, expecting to leave at Junction 14 for the airport’s public approach. Murphy was with them. He was convinced Devlin would meet his American friends in the airport concourse. The Major had telephoned ahead and found out which terminal they should approach. The motorway was fast, despite public jokes about it being the world’s biggest carpark, and it was easy to stay anonymous without losing sight of Devlin’s car.
The rest, Doyle, Bodie and Cowley with Anson and Jax, headed for Staines and beyond, following Fitzgerald at a respectable distance through narrowish lanes that meandered through small communities and between gentle hedgerows. At least they knew where he was going. They would approach the airport from the rear, and hopefully find the warehouse where the shipment of guns would be stashed. Collection would happen when Devlin had handed over the money. There must be some kind of signal arranged; perhaps a telephone call or perhaps a messenger.
“I suppose they funded it through bank robberies,” said Bodie and nobody disagreed with him. Then he contradicted himself. “The Americans probably helped - gave them a good deal.”
“But why are the Americans interested?” Jax had evidently been half asleep during Murphy’s account.
“The Irish Americans deal with the IRA,” Doyle reminded him. “They don’t understand the ‘troubles’, they just want to show solidarity. So the really eager ones team up with criminal elements to provide arms, or they help fund the transaction...”
“Aye,” said Cowley. “And maybe we should be thankful for that. It reduced the number of bank robberies, after all. But it could give those gangsters a toehold here and that’s something nobody wants.”
“So, these arms…” Bodie was driving and his voice tailed off as he negotiated a tricky corner. “Meant for more robberies, are they, or for Belfast?”
“Belfast,” said Cowley, his voice definite. “But a few might make their way into our fair capital. They’re ours to stop, either way.”
************************************************************************
They reached the warehouse and at first it seemed easy. Fitzgerald went inside, apparently oblivious of his ‘tail’, and there was no-one else about. Yet there were enough cars and vans for them to park unobtrusively and wait. At last Cowley had them out of the car then around the perimeter of the massive building they were watching. They stationed themselves at strategic points, all just within sight of each other, and watched. That was all they had to do unless Cowley directed otherwise. Watch, and witness.
Nothing happened for a long time. The building sat solid and grey and the doors remained closed. But there were shadows that lengthened more than the amount of daylight should have warranted and there were odd calls echoing down the cul-de-sac where the warehouse lay. And there was a sense of the watchers being watched. Bodie shivered, premonitions of dark things to come, of disasters that lay in wait and the end of their world, pinched and prodded at his imagination.
Then the main doors opened with an ominous creak and a group of men appeared, Fitzgerald leading them, carrying long and apparently heavy boxes, the kind that were used to transport guns. They matched Murphy’s description of the men who had been visiting Devlin and Fitzgerald, young, smart, even intellectual-looking. There was nothing specific to mark them as Irish except their features which somehow reminded the CI5 agents of every IRA spokesman they’d seen on television. The little party was heading for a footbridge that linked the main building to a private carpark. Beneath it lay basement windows and a kind of concrete moat, empty but menacing.
“After them, men!” Cowley had evidently decided to make the arrests here and now, while the evidence was within their grasp. They surged forward, but a gun seemingly from nowhere spat a warning and battle was joined. The Irishmen looked hard and mean, despite their formal, respectable suits. Dark faces loomed and the set of broad shoulders threatened a hard fight. Early in the fray Fitzgerald crashed over the low bridge railings and they could hear him cursing and groaning below. Soon it was every man for himself as the fighting became fierce. Bodie found himself grappling with a youngish fellow who tried to bulldoze him with a box of guns. Moving backwards to avoid being tripped and trampled he saw Doyle smash a deceptively slim hand down on the bridge of a decidedly Irish nose and heard a squeal of pain. But then reinforcements arrived, IRA, not CI5, crossing from the airport fence and rushing the CI5 men from all sides.
The fight was a blur then they heard Cowley shouting.
“Devlin! Devlin’s here with a machine gun! Run! Idiots! Run for your lives.”
They could regroup and try again another day. They had witnesses and even hard evidence; Anson was already bearing a box back to the car. But as they left, running and stumbling in their haste, they heard a creaking, protesting noise. The little footbridge had never been intended for so much action; it gave way, sending Devlin and Cowley into the depths of the moat and this time there was no sound of injured men, and they heard no cries for help.
But still they ran, conditioned to obey their leader above everything, and in the car Bodie gunned the engine, making the wheels spin out of the street while Doyle gabbled over the RT asking for help and saying that Cowley was down.
************************************************************************
Back at HQ they waited for news, a sad little band of worried men. Then Murphy joined them, his face long and grave.
Murphy and his team had followed Devlin from the terminal concourse, and had seen the fight but arrived too late to participate fully. They had had to watch a laden van career out of the carpark and down the road. Most of the guns, said Murphy, were well on their way to Ireland by now. Cowley...
“Trouble is,” he said, “he fell on his bad knee. The shock or the pain... He isn’t young. The ambulance was pretty quick but…”
There was a silence. This time the shadows were in their minds, and the memories echoed and ricocheted. They had little idea, yet, what would happen, but Cowley would have wanted them to go on, at the bridge, and now. Their kingdom and their capital needed them.
Bodie looked down at his jacket, most buttons missing, a final one hanging by a thread. The fabric where the buttons had been was torn, and a pocket hung limply from one last line of stitching. No physical hurts, but his ruined coat seemed to sum up the day.
************************************************************************
Bodie and Ray went back to Ray’s flat, the one they had left so precipitately that morning. They didn’t talk because somehow there was nothing to say. Bodie took off his gun holster and noted in a daze that the bedroom floor was still littered with socks and T-shirts. He placed his RT and Ray’s on the chest of drawers. When would they use them again? What would tomorrow bring? But he still had Ray, and the thought sustained him.
He glanced at the unmade bed but left it; they would be in it again soon enough, he hoped. A kind of sexual imperative followed death and destruction, an instinct rooted no doubt in a need to procreate but still strong in their less conventional relationship. They would couple fiercely tonight.
He headed for the living area to be with his partner, and as he did he smiled. The world held small comforts after all; from the small kitchen, a step down from the main room, the scent of bacon was rising.
End
Title: There and back again.
Author: moth2fic
Fandom: the Professionals
Category/rating: slash/PG13 (nothing explicit)
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Wordcount: 2900
Warnings: death fic (but not the lads)
Notes: written for the
discoveredinalj challenge ‘Discovered in the style of...’ (February 2012)Thanks to
ci5hq Beta Central for the beta.
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no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 05:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 08:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 09:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 09:51 am (UTC)It was a fun exercise. Though I doubt if either of the lads have furry feet... *g*
Oddly, in LotR, Elijah Wood has always reminded me a little of MS. Looks, movement, acting style. Not that I was going with the film version here and of course I fused The Hobbit and LotR - just thought I'd throw in the observation!
no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 02:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 06:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 02:29 am (UTC)I like the changes you made based on the "Beta" exercise. It's quite the experience, having "beta by committee", yeah? *g*
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Date: 2012-02-09 08:01 am (UTC)I was really pleased with the suggested changes to this and feel they strengthened the piece considerably. Exactly what betas are for!!
I'm so glad you feel I 'got' the style - that was the original point of the exercise, after all! Though having embarked on 'write like Tolkien' I found Bodie and Doyle came along in my head and made the story all their own. *g*
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Date: 2012-02-09 07:57 am (UTC)And I still love the river and things getting wilder on the way.
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Date: 2012-02-09 08:07 am (UTC)I assume you can tell I'm familiar with Chertsey and the ways to and from it... (*mutters something about Devlin renting sister-in-law's house...*)I like to write about locations I know well, when possible, even though they still often require research. I suppose it's a bit like characterisation but to do with place.
Glad you enjoyed the final version!