discoveredinalj | Day Three - Opening Night in the West End by Heliophile

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Posting on behalf of heliophile_oxon - it's the third day of December, and perhaps it's...

Opening Night in the West End

Bodie, Ray decided, had been born to wear formal evening clothes. Just as the bastard had been born to wear fatigues, biking leathers, Saville Row, a wetsuit or full bloody body armour for that matter, he conceded as he studiously tweaked a corner of his own, less-than-crisp bow tie and (equally studiously) avoided watching Bodie put the finishing touches to perfection. Still, at least this evening’s tedium would have one compensation – bodyguarding at the Royal Opera House might permit a little uninterrupted and unobserved Bodie-watching, and a chance to appreciate the full glory of that charcoal suit and cream silk evening shirt. Actually buying his partner cufflinks might have been a bit beyond the pale, he thought as Bodie adjusted them approvingly, but I-went-to-art-school had certainly come in handy as an excuse to linger before imperiously commanding Bodie’s choice of new suit when that gentleman actually deigned to ask his opinion after a long-delayed pay-rise.

Ray ran an irritable finger round his collar. Not that he minded getting a bit gussied-up on occasion, but he always looked forward to at least getting the bloody tie undone at the earliest opportunity. Anyway, with hair like his (yeah, and the rest – Ray resisted the temptation to try, yet again, to smooth the unruly curls and his eye ran over the misshapen cheekbone in the mirror before he dismissed it from mind just like a million times before) … well, Bodie with his film-star looks was always going to outshine him. Which was just how Ray liked it these days. With all eyes on Bodie, there was less chance anyone was going to be gazing at him – at least not for long enough to notice that his eyes were on Bodie too… Ah, but not tonight though. This was work, albeit a sinecure of a job for once, and he was going to keep his eyes open for any potential threat to Mr. Filthy Rich and Influential rather than spend the evening star-gazing. Most of the time, at least.

Bodie, of course, was in his element. Always did have a bit of the peacock about him, Ray thought indulgently – used to get right up my nose way back when, when I thought he was all mouth and no trousers… ‘till I realised he really was good enough to have earned at least some of the attitude. ‘Spose you’re entitled to a bit of swanning about when you’ve proved under fire you can actually fly ... mm, got the trousers to go with the mouth, too. Ray grinned to himself as he cast a sidelong glance at the nicely filled garment in question. Which is when Bodie had to notice, naturally, but thank christ he always assumed Ray’s besetting sin was envy, not covetousness, and just preened a bit. And it was time to go.

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

Mr. F.R.I., otherwise known as Charles Francis Holden MSc MIT, had taken one of the Grand Tier boxes, of course – no. 36, the biggest and nearest the stage, exactly opposite the Royal Box where Ray was briefly amused to see their own soberly-clad counterparts standing almost invisibly behind Princess Margaret’s royal party. At least Bodie and he had no discreetly fluttering crowd of hangers-on and admirers to deal with; Holden was apparently a sincere and devoted lover of the ballet, making this the one and only break in a schedule otherwise packed with Ministers for Trade and Industry, nameless civil servants and Britain’s biggest military-industrial heavyweights.

Bodie seemed to think it faintly incongruous – perhaps even a little ridiculous – for the CEO of a company responsible for the US end of a joint venture in electronic control systems to be so taken with this particular art form, but after a few disparaging remarks had shrugged it off as being no concern of his; at least there would be a few athletic birds on stage. Contrary to his own earlier misgivings, Ray had privately applauded the choice and blinked when he saw the name on the billing. He’d be spoilt for choice, really – Bodie and Baryshnikov in one evening…

They had unobtrusively arranged matters so that Holden would be at least partially shielded from the auditorium by Bodie’s position at the front of the box, while Ray, at the back, commanded the doorway into the box as well as watching the auditorium and Holden himself. The fact that it allowed him to watch Bodie as well was purely coincidental, of course. There was a buzz of anticipation in the air, a sort of first night frisson compounded of perfumes, rustling silks, the whisper of pages turning as some of the more serious – or less sociable – patrons pored over glossy programmes; there were peacocks everywhere in the Grand Tier and the stalls – the men limited by propriety to diamond tie-tacks and the occasional daring foulard in a few flamboyant cases; the women resplendent in glowing satins and enough jewellery to make the whole place look like a display case at Garrards. A pickpocket’s dream, Ray thought, wondering idly if they were sharing the auditorium with any professionals of a different kind. He glanced up at the cheaper seats – the prices of even those with the poorest sight lines would be a wild extravagance in his opinion, but the house was packed. He caught sight of a little group climbing to the distant top row with a certain athleticism that made him wonder if they were ballet students themselves, come to worship at the altar of the greatest dancer of the age. Idly, he watched the last young man wriggle his way along the tightly packed row of seats to his place, could almost hear them laughing together, could imagine the flirtatious glances exchanged. Students, he reflected, especially in dance – or art – could get away with a lot that he had had to give up almost entirely since joining the Met. Consigning those pleasures largely to memory had been worth it – but that didn’t stop Ray from resenting the necessity sometimes. Especially lately.

The orchestra finished tuning, the lights went down … and Bodie, for all his ostensible disdain, was obviously enthralled. World-weary he might be, but Bodie still had an incongruous love of pomp; Ray had known he would revel in the finery and gorgeous setting of the Royal Opera House, had enjoyed watching him catch surreptitious glances at his own reflection every time they passed a mirror, even as he kept a watchful eye on their charge and on the moneyed patrons they passed in the corridor. The music was passable, if not altogether to Ray’s taste – he’d been expecting something more classical – but Bodie was clearly enjoying himself more than he had expected; in the glow of the stagelights, Ray could see his eyes light up every time he recognised an allusion to a traditional folk tune – and when at one point the stage was filled with the corps de ballet uniformly clad in kilts, in the guise of a Scottish regiment, their eyes met and both were hard put to it not to convulse with laughter.

Baryshnikov’s pas de deux was completely unlike anything Ray might have been expecting, too – it was comedic, almost played for laughs, and even this stiff-necked crowd managed a few polite ripples of amusement. He glanced at Bodie again to see how he was taking the whole ballet-for-fun idea, and there was that look of total concentration again – concentration, surprise and delight, like a kid unpacking a brand-new construction set on christmas morning. He looked more beautiful than ever, Ray thought suddenly, and he almost had to force his own attention back to the stage, to Holden, and to take a quick, routine glance around the auditorium since Bodie had clearly forgotten all about it. Baryshnikov was unbelievable – such strength beneath the grace, you almost didn’t expect him to come back down when he was momentarily airborne, and he looked as if he could lift his partner without even noticing he’d done it. Bodie had strength and a kind of grace of his own, sometimes, Ray thought – nothing like this, but sometimes when he put all his weight behind a blow, or sighted on a target there was a precision and focus about his movements that was almost graceful… Ray laughed inwardly at the thought of Bodie’s probable opinion of any such comparison, and settled back in his seat to watch his own partner watching the stage.

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

Holden was a patron of the New York City Ballet, and easily generous enough with his cheques to get an obsequious invite backstage after the performance – the ROH would probably love to get their hands on some of that money too, Ray thought, as they were ushered through the discreet dividing door to envious glances from other members of the audience. Bodie was back in work mode now, he noticed, as they automatically took up position on either side of Holden and a little behind him, where they could scan the eddying crowd of stage hands, lighting riggers, dressers, scene shifters, members of the corps de ballet and assorted theatre staff.

Holden strolled calmly through the crowd as if he owned them – which to an extent he probably did, considering how much his patronage was worth – and grudgingly accepted their insistence on a quick glance inside the dressing-room before leaving Ray and Bodie at the door while he paid his compliments to principal dancer Patricia McBride. It was then that it happened. Baryshnikov passed them in the corridor, still in costume and evidently on his way to his own dressing-room to change. He paused for a second to glance in through the doorway and raise a hand in salute to his Costermonger Queen, who was graciously accepting Holden’s homage, and raised a quizzical eyebrow at the two incongruously non-balletic figures guarding the door. His eye flickered over Bodie’s parade rest stance and lingered for an instant on the slight bulge of the shoulder holster.

“Not a ballet lover, perhaps?” His tone might have been humorous, might have been dismissive. Ray bridled, but before he could open his mouth to utter a terse “on duty” Baryshnikov was already turning away, their presence forgotten. Bodie answered, though, almost stumbling over the words in his haste, and Ray was astonished to see an open enthusiasm on his face normally reserved for a groaning table – or new armaments on the firing range.

“No, sir. But you were – “ Baryshnikov glanced back over his shoulder. Bodie, for once, was actually tongue-tied and obviously embarrassed about it but determined to retain some semblance of cool and press on regardless. “Wonderful. It was amazing to watch.” Baryshnikov said nothing, but inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement before disappearing off down the corridor. Ray, meanwhile, was left gaping at his partner and struggling to suppress a fit of laughter at his discomfiture. “Never thought I’d see the day, mate. Cart-horse like you, a ballet fan? Priceless, that is.”

A hurt expression disappeared almost before Ray could be sure he’d seen it, and Bodie adjusted his tie a fraction as the colour faded from his cheeks again. Then his patented look of superiority reasserted itself and he took it in good part; “Just because I’m not a philistine like you. Swan Lake or nothing, I suppose’d be about your limit – some of us, Raymond, are capable of appreciating the finer things – ”

“Your idea of the finer things, mate, doesn’t go further than a decent pint or real custard instead of instant. Come off it, Bodie, when’ve you ever even seen a ballet if it wasn’t to impress some bird at christmas? Never mind Swan Lake, if you’ve ever even seen the Nutcracker I’d be bloody surprised. Weren’t exactly keen to come along this evening, were you?”

“Thought it was gonna be all poncing around in tights,” Bodie admitted. “Never expected to get a laugh out of it, did I? Thought Barry what’s-‘is-name was good, though.” Privately, Ray agreed. And reminded himself, yet again, that Bodie had never actually been the lout it always amused him to pretend to be.

The highlights of the evening, as it turned out, didn’t extend only to the performance on stage. As they were shepherding Holden towards the Stage Door exit a rugby-player-sized bloke with a nondescript, verging-on-ugly face that didn’t match the photo on his theatre press pass loomed up in front of them, stammering something about warmongers – and brandishing a tiny revolver in shaking hands. Apparently someone who didn’t like Holden’s line of business had managed to get hold of his itinerary after all…

Acting almost as one, with no time to exchange as much as a glance, Ray thrust Holden roughly behind them and drew his weapon as Bodie stepped forward and into their assailant with a kick to his gun hand that made up in power for whatever it may have lacked in elegance. The little handgun flew into the air; the rugby-player bellowed and swung a heavy punch that Bodie avoided by the simple expedient of letting his momentum carry him right into the man’s arms and – with no room to use his own fists now – nutting him full in the face. There was a resounding crack and the faux member of the press went to his knees, clutching a bleeding nose while Bodie – dazed and swearing – seized him by one hand and spun him half round, twisting the captured arm behind his back. He looked up at Doyle, unaware of the small trickle of blood from his own nose. “What, no cuffs? What kind of a boy scout do you call that, then?”

“The kind who has to put up with you and your Glasgow kiss technique – look at the state of your shirt, mate, you’ll never get the blood out – ” Ray was casting around for something to restrain Holden's attacker – “and I wish you luck trying to claiming that on expenses. Price you paid for it, the Cow’ll have a fit, you see if he doesn’t.” As he spoke, Ray latched onto a stunned and disbelieving stagehand whom he relieved of a roll of gaffer tape. Between them, they hauled the deflated behemoth to his feet and let him wipe his face on a paper towel timidly offered by one of the sceneshifters before Ray stooped to collect the handgun from the floor and they taped his hands securely behind his back, preparing to escort their charge from the premises. Despite the shock experienced by all those who had seen the gun being waved around, the situation was under control so quickly that only a few people in the immediate vicinity were aware anything had happened at all. As they passed an open dressing-room door, however, Ray noticed a pair of expressive blue eyes taking in Bodie’s newly dishevelled appearance. Bodie himself, staunching his own nose with a handkerchief as he focussed on Holden, their captive and their exit, didn’t see a thing.

Holden’s chauffeur for the evening was Anson, who had been mightily displeased at having been left stuck in the discreetly armoured Bentley while Bodie and Doyle enjoyed “all the fun of the fair”. He was quick to call in Ray’s succinct summary of events, though, while Bodie apologised to Holden for the need to wait for backup to take charge of his attacker before they could return him to his hotel. It was only moments before two uniformed officers despatched from Agar Street Police Station were able to take the big man off their hands, to be questioned later that night or whenever Cowley decreed.

Holden, at least, was quietly impressed by the efficiency with which Ray had protected him while Bodie dealt with the threat and even went so far as to express the hope that he had not suffered unduly from clashing skulls with their attacker. “Nah,” Ray interrupted, “no harm done – he’s only got two brain cells, and he keeps them safely under wraps in case he wants to use ‘em some day.” Bodie crossed his eyes obligingly and aimed a sideways kick at Ray’s shoes, but his face was paler than usual and Ray silently promised himself to make sure the daft bugger made the right choice between aspirin and whisky after they knocked off for the night. Anson, thank goodness, had to return the Bentley to HQ anyway after handing their charge off to the night shift at the hotel; they would take his car, Ray decided, and he’d get at least some cheese on toast into his mad partner. Nutting a bloke – brilliant idea. Nothing like being hungry as well, on top of a splitting headache.

It was coming up to midnight when they finally got back to Bodie’s flat with Ray at the wheel. With Holden safely tucked away and a short (very short) initial report left on Cowley’s desk, Bodie had slumped in the passenger seat the moment they left HQ. He spent most of the trip with his eyes closed, rousing only when Ray pulled up at the kerb.

“Pick us up tomorrow, all right?”

Ray shot him an exasperated look. “An’ who’s going to make sure you clean your teeth and tuck you up, then – no, don’t answer that. Even you haven’t got a bird squirrelled away tonight, ready to fetch your slippers – “

“What do you think I live in, a menagerie?”

“Belong in a zoo, don’t you. What did you think you were playing at back there – rutting stags?” Ray snorted, and Bodie managed half a smile. “Come on, Tarzan, get yourself sorted and I’ll fix us a bite to eat. Tea and toast do you?”

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

“Just what I wanted, breakfast at midnight,” Bodie muttered to himself as he headed off to inspect the damage. Might as well get himself out of the ruined dress shirt, at least – beautiful shirt that was, too. Ray had a decent eye for clothes when he wanted, even if he did throw on any old tat himself half the time. Bodie sighed. Just his bloody luck it was completely unsalvageable. At least the jacket and trousers had escaped unscathed, though – or if they had caught a fleck or two of blood, it didn’t show on the charcoal cloth. He set the suit aside carefully and pulled on tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt, adding a dressing-gown against the cold he seemed to be feeling more than usual. Must be tired. Dolefully he inspected his face in the mirror. Just a smudge of blood under his nose, but there was an undeniable hint of the incipient black eye. Not much consolation to think that the other bugger would be looking a hell of a lot worse – not that he’d been much to look at in the first place. His own looks, now – be a crime to spoil them. They did get him a bit of attention, after all, and most of it welcome. Even his partner, who could look bloody irresistible in anything – never had to make an effort, never bothered much and never needed to, with a body like that and the way he moved it – yeah, even Ray’d given him the occasional approving glance tonight.

Ray had also got a pot of tea on the table, together with two mismatched mugs and one big plate of cheese on toast – with slices of the last, lone tomato in the fridge on top and, Bodie discovered, of formerly cold, cooked sausage hidden underneath the cheese “because you’ve got no ham, no salad, nothing, it’s a wonder you’re still alive if the contents of that fridge are anything to go by”.

Bodie smiled. It felt good to be looked after once in a while – by Ray, at least. Got on his nerves soon enough if anyone else tried it, but then coming from anyone else it always felt invasive – like it was pretty much a prelude to trying to organise and tidy his flat, his gear, his life and the contents of his head. He knew this was overreacting, but still. People fussing around him got on his nerves – except for Ray. Ray was different, Ray got it, got the job, got his black jokes, just got him all over. Wished it went both ways, really – be nice to be able to get Ray too… in both senses of the word, yeah, he’d always thought that. Never dared think Ray might go for it, though – never knew what the sarky sod was thinking about half the time, in fact. Like now, really; it wasn’t as if he’d actually been hurt – apart from the bloody headache, which was starting to ease thanks to a liberal application of cheese-on-toast, aspirin and tea. Ray had forbidden him adding a whisky chaser after the aspirin, then cut the feet out from under his nascent indignation by not having one himself either.

Oddly, Ray was showing no signs of being ready to head back to his own place – and it wasn’t far off one in the morning, now. They didn’t have to be in until ten, but still…

“Right, mate, I’m knackered. You kipping here, then?”

Ray looked at the sofa, and grimaced. “Not on that, anyway – I still want to have a spine tomorrow you know.” He looked at Bodie appealingly. “Go an’ let us kip in with you, then, all right? Come on, you know I don’t snore and you’re bed’s just about big enough for three.”

The thought was appealing – too much so, and Bodie suppressed his own reaction as ruthlessly as ever.

“Three in a bed? You naughty lad, Raymond, whatever will you think of next. Been getting up to any high jinks I don’t know about?”

Bodie was only teasing on automatic, of course, but Ray felt a glow of warmth flush his cheeks at the thought of precisely what Bodie didn’t know about his sexual history – and present wishful thinking – and turned away to busy himself clearing their plate and mugs. Should have known better than to hope Bodie wouldn’t notice, though. “You have, haven’t you?” He sounded delighted at the prospect of worming some salacious details out of him. “When? Can’t be lately, no nights off for a week – you haven’t had the time! Oi, come on then, tell your uncle Bodie all about it – you’re thinking about it, aren’t you? When’ve you ever had two birds at once, then?”

Suddenly irritable, Ray swung round again. It had been – it had been good to come home together like this, good to look after the daft sod a bit, had felt – intimate in a way, warm, knowing Bodie would let him in even when he wasn’t at his best, when he wouldn’t let anyone else. And somehow bringing birds into it – even just doing that bragging-of-exploits thing they always did together – seemed to break the mood; it felt fake and artificial, just a way of making sure they were back on the laddish, just-mates footing. Suddenly that wasn't enough any more.

“I haven’t.” He looked at Bodie defiantly, almost coldly, and Bodie’s smile faded slightly.

“But you have had a threesome.”

Ray nodded, refusing to drop his gaze, expecting to see distaste or disappointment on Bodie’s face when he realised what had been said. So he saw it when this scrap of information hit home, saw Bodie’s eyes widen – and darken. When he next spoke, his voice was half an octave lower.

“Sharing a bird, then, eh? Must’ve been one heck of a good mate, I reckon?”

Ray shrugged. “Not that good. We were pretty young, you know – up for it any time, anywhere?”

“Some of us still are, mate – we’re not all gettin’ old and decrepit like some!” But Bodie was smiling again as he added “Of course, some of us have very discerning tastes.” And he was looking at Ray’s mouth as he said it.

“How discerning?” Ray heard the words leave his mouth without any conscious encouragement on his part, and noticed with an odd sense of detachment that his own voice had gone inexplicably husky. He cleared his throat hurriedly, but for some reason the sound seemed to have made Bodie’s eyes get darker still – or no, they looked darker – and bigger – and you could drown in those eyes – because Bodie was getting closer. How had he done that without Ray seeing him move? He stopped just short of actually walking right into him, and rested his arms casually on Ray’s shoulders, linking his hands behind Ray’s head without actually letting them touch him. And now when he spoke his voice had a quality to it that sent a lick of warmth through Ray’s gut.

“Nice job this evening, mate. Easy enough of course, but it’s easy because it’s us, isn’t it? You always know which way I’m going to dive, just like I always know where you’re standing. We keep an eye on each other” He cocked his head a little to one side. “So how come I never knew you were keeping an eye on my best bits as well? And how come you never knew – “ he punctuated his sentence with the lightest of taps to Ray’s cheek, leaving his hand there like an afterthought “ – that I was thinking of getting my hands on you as well as just looking?”

“About a million reasons, I reckon. Mainly to do with not wanting to screw up what’s best between us. I mean, you’ve got a lot of lovely bits, mate – “ and Ray let his glance flick up and down Bodie’s body once “ – but these –” he brushed a thumb across Bodie’s forehead – “are my favourites,” he finished as he made a fist and let it rest over Bodie’s heart. Ray’s own heart was racing. Yes, he fancied Bodie – of course he did, the bastard was beautiful, funny, annoying and irresistible by turns. But letting on it was more than that, much more… might be a step or ten too far. Bodie was notoriously wary of attachments…

But Bodie’s face lit up with an incandescent smile; he made as if to speak, thought about it, gave up with a shake of his head.”Yeah.” was all he said. “Ray , I – “ He closed his eyes, as if exasperated to find words failing him, shrugged and closed the remaining scrap of distance between them.

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

First times, Ray mused to himself, stretching luxuriously, knowing he couldn’t stop smiling even if he probably looked like an idiot, first times… best times, worst times. Best – because it’s really happening, it's really real, I’m touching him, holding him, loving him, loving the way he tastes and feels all over, the smooth skin, the fine hair and the coarse, so good to touch, so good to taste… And worst, too – feeling clumsy, sometimes, awkward, not sure what he likes, what he won’t, so nervous, will he think twice, will this or that put him off, wanting so badly to say the right things... Ah, but the second time – starting about thirty seconds after the first had rushed to a shuddering, shouting climax far too soon – yes, the second time was something else. Then there was time to look at each other, time to tell Bodie how beautiful he was and for Ray to see his own beauty shining in Bodie’s eyes, time for longer, leisurely, loving kisses, time to revel in it, to say some of the words that always had to be kept locked in before, time to love every inch of skin, to admit to the feelings – and the fears, remembering how each had come by one scar or another.

And no time for more now, he thought regretfully. Only an hour till they were due to report in, and they’d better not show up on an empty stomach – or in crumpled evening dress, wreathed in smiles and redolent of the bedroom either. Already regretting past glories and wondering how the hell to get through the desert of a whole day with barely a fleeting touch to survive on, knowing the next night could not come soon enough, Ray nudged Bodie awake with far more gentleness than usual. Of course, nudging a bloke with your nose has to be done gently…

“C’mon, sleeping beauty. We’ve barely got time for a shower and leftovers if we don’t want Cowley breathing down our necks in an hour.”

“ ’Drather have you breathin’ down me neck if anyone’s going to,” Bodie muttered, his eyes still closed and with every appearance of determination to spend another half an hour in bed. He heaved a sigh, then sprang to life with startling abruptness: seizing Ray’s head in both hands he planted a kiss on him with great emphasis only to break it off the second Ray began helplessly to respond. “Right. Shower. Move your delectable arse, Raymond – got to be out the door in twenty minutes, and I for one do not intend to face the Cow without about a gallon of coffee inside me. ”

The shower, as it turned out, took fifteen of the precious twenty minutes due to the fact that fighting over who would go first led to racing and jostling and laughing, led to sharing it, led to kissing under the spray, led inevitably to a soapy, slippery mutual hand job and finally to Ray cuffing Bodie round the ear – mindful of yesterday’s bruising – when he complained as they tumbled out into the street that they hadn’t left time to eat anything. Traffic was light enough though, with the worst of the rush hour over, for them to reach HQ with a couple of minutes to spare – just time enough to buy tea and filled rolls from the café two blocks away and wolf them down before reaching the briefing room door, paper cups still in hand as they took their places at the back.

“… Fisher, you’ll take over from Anson until this time tomorrow; McKenzie and Sherrin, I want you on the airport run, and Bodie and Doyle –” Cowley raised his eyes “you’ll be following up with our Mr. Anderson of last night. He’s not the brightest of lads, but somebody made sure he knew where to find Holden and when. He’s already told us all about the men he’s been talking to, and who gave him the gun – but the names are all fakes; they knew better than to give him real ones. So that’s what you’re going to find out and report back to me, preferably before lunch. Oh, and Bodie – ” they turned back at the door, to see Cowley tapping two slim packages lying on the desk before him. “Mr. Holden wished to express his appreciation of your efforts last night.” He smiled. “So there’ll be no new shirts listed on anybody’s expenses this month.”

Bode ripped his packet open as they headed for the locker room, noting with approval that Holden had ordered a shirt – or rather, had presumably had his secretary order it – from Harrod’s and that somebody had had the foresight to check his measurements; Ray, however, stopped a moment looking at the contents of the second package. Not from Harrod’s but a much smaller and more exclusive gents’ outfitter’s – and not in Ray’s size either, but Bodie’s. “Couldn’t have got one of us right and not the other,” he mused – an’ I didn’t even ruin my shirt, anyway. I reckon this one’s for you too – but who – ” Ray looked up, the memory of another pair of blue eyes coming back to him.

“No idea, mate.”

“Give’s it back a minute, I want to see if there’s a card or anything with it.”

“Just this. My initial.”

“B, yeah. But it’s not B for Bodie, for who the shirt’s for – I reckon it’s for who the shirt’s from.”

Bodie looked gobsmacked.

“Nah, not a chance.”

“I don’t know, mate – we did stop anyone getting shot, and it happened right outside his dressing room door too – he got a good butcher’s at you in your posh frock before and after – and it was a pretty neat bit of footwork you did back there. Who knows, mate, who knows – maybe he reckoned you were a bit balletic after all. And we all know,” Ray grinned as they headed for the car, “that you’re a very nice mover when you want to be…”

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

Epilogue

Bodie threw down his biro in disgust. Nothing he could come up with came anywhere near hinting at, let alone capturing, the way he felt about Ray – and the way he had gradually come to accept that Ray felt about him. The feelings were real enough, but the poetry was – let’s face it, the poetry was crap. Never mind, Ray would understand… He thought back to the first night they had finally found themselves able to admit the attraction that had gradually grown between them almost from the first, and smiled as he thought of the incongruous setting and everything else he always associated with the memory – the Royal Opera House, the ballet, those daft silk shirts … It hadn’t only been the show that opened that night, he remembered with a grin. They’d opened up to each other, in more ways than one…

The newspaper lay across the table from him, where Ray had left it to go and watch some old film on ITV – daft bit of nonsense it was, about this SAS bloke who goes undercover with a bunch of fanatics. Complete tosh, of course, but Ray obviously fancied that actor – not that he’d ever admit to it, of course. Bodie preferred that new cop show on the Beeb himself, that old-style one set in the 50s ... Ray’d left the paper folded back at the arts pages, there was a review of some ballet or other. Bodie did a double-take. Blimey, just look at the bloke, almost their age and still dancing? In between running a dance company and acting and however many other things?

Bodie smiled as another thought came to him. Maybe he couldn’t pen a decent line to save his life, but he knew beauty when he read it. Now there was a poem worthy of the name, he reckoned – not about them, exactly, but could sit very well with that Barry what’s-‘is-name. About beauty and strength and grace, present only in the moment of their passing and yet still, somehow, forever and eternally as vibrant and as real as – well, as thirty years ago.

He took down his copy from the shelf, and wandered through to the other room. He’d watch the rest of the film with him, they’d have a laugh and a cuppa and then later he’d show Ray the poem and… yeah, still dancing, they were. Still dancing.

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

The poem Bodie was thinking of:

The Lost Dancer

Jean Toomer

Spatial depths of being survive
The birth to death recurrences
Of feet dancing on earth of sand;
Vibrations of the dance survive
The sand; the sand, elect, survives
The dancer. He can find no source
Of magic adequate to bind
The sand upon his feet, his feet
Upon his dance, his dance upon
The diamond body of his being.

The ballet they saw: Union Jack by New York City Ballet co-founder and founding choreographer George Balanchine, set to traditional British tunes. Baryshnikov danced the role of the Costermonger King (aka the Pearly King) at the Royal Opera House in 1979. It really does have the corps de ballet in kilts at one point; sadly I can’t vouch for anything that may or may not have happened in Box 36 or backstage.

Title: Opening Night in the West End
Author: Heliophile
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit:
Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle and the CI5 universe belong to their original creators - we're just playing...
Notes: With thanks to Angelci5 and Probodie for prompts; to Byslantedlight and Londoronnie for encouragement and beta!
With thanks for the prompts, and apologies for failing to do them justice – I did want Bodie to write me some poetry, but he refused point blank to let me see his attempts!

Happy reading!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

msmoat.livejournal.com

Oh, lovely, and just the break I needed today! You really brought their world to life--not only their job and the way they are together, but also the ballet. I do enjoy it when the mundane world crosses paths with the fannish world. Plus it was lovely to be in Doyle's and Bodie's heads, watching as they realized they could express what they feel, and that it was mutual. Thank you!

From:

Day Three - Opening Night in the West End by Heliophile

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