Day Four: It Ain't Over 'Til the Pudding's on Fire

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

It Ain't Over ‘til the Pudding’s on Fire
By Dawnwind

“You’d best watch yourselves, lads. The word is out that your Christmas won’t all be pulling crackers and pudding with hard sauce,” Jimmie Trout said ominously, his clouded eye staring fixedly at Bodie. He turned his head to give Doyle a glare and stalked off towards the Thames.

“Keep a civil tongue in your head, Jimmie!” Bodie yelled after him. That unseeing eye always gave him a fright. “That was a waste of valuable time. Not only didn’t he have any information on the shipment, but he had the cheek to threaten us as well.”

“I’ll not put too much stock in a fortune telling fish.” Doyle waved a dismissive hand. “How is he likely to know what we have in store for tomorrow?”

“If we don’t find out which bloody wharf the wares are arriving to, we won’t be tucking into turkey and Christmas pud,” Bodie snarled, slugging his fist into the palm of his left hand. He loved when the Christmas pudding was set on fire. Always brought back memories of his earliest days, when his mum and Gran surprised him with a lumpy stocking containing an apple and a wooden soldier. Then there’d be the best holiday meal they could afford. Which had never been much, but always ended with a flaming pudding. He’d very much hoped to give Doyle the same thing this Christmas—their first as a couple.

“With nothing better in the offing, I say we go over to the pub Trout mentioned,” Doyle suggested, tugging his red tartan scarf more tightly around his neck. “What was the name?” He got into the Capri, shivering.

Bodie rolled his eyes, following his partner. He knew what Doyle was doing—he’d done it himself on many occasions. Distraction and diversion by asking for help. As if Doyle had forgotten the name of a pub. “The Dolphin,” Bodie reminded, starting the car. “You fancy fish and chips, then?”

“Food all you think about, is it?” Doyle grinned rakishly in the afternoon twilight, eyes bright with teasing affection.

Not five minutes drive from where they’d met Trout, Bodie parked the car at a pub across the road from a busy pier. A sign painted with a silvery dolphin emerging from blue and green curls of water hung above the disreputable establishment.

“Looks exactly the place to hire an assassin—or dock workers willing to unload illegal cargo,” Bodie said, patting his holstered gun. He glanced over at his partner, seeing Doyle stick his left hand under his arm to settle his pistol more loosely in the holster. “All Trout said was he’d ate the fish and chips here. What made you think there was any other significance?”

Doyle smiled enigmatically, peering at the dolphin. He tapped his temple. “Freudian slip. It was the last thing he’d want to say, so it slips out, yeah?”

They walked in and stood shoulder to shoulder to look around the dim room. With the sun already down and few lights to illuminate the interior, it was like peering into an underground cavern.

Not at all happy to be going into what was quite likely a den of thieves, Bodie went over to the bar, glad that Doyle hung back one step—literally watching his back. He still felt the eyes of every patron in the room.

“What’ll you have?” a suspicious voice asked.

Even knowing that the barman must be standing right in front of him, it took Bodie half a beat to see a barrel chested gorilla of a man behind the bar.

“Two pints of your best bitter,” Doyle said, challenging the man with a belligerent stare.

Bodie had been leaning toward a black and tan, but he didn’t say anything and accepted the glass the barman pushed toward him.

“We’re looking for a bit of dock work,” Doyle continued, glancing at Bodie over the top of his drink. “Could do with a few extra quid to buy our Marge a bit of Christmas cheer.”

Bodie stuck his nose in his glass to drown the laughter that bubbled up at the mention of Marge. Doyle’s conquest—they still used her as a grass now and again.

“Wot you think I can do t’elp ye?” the barman snarled.

“This is Jimmie Trout’s local, inn’e?” Bodie asked rhetorically, sliding into the Scouse accent of his youth. He set a twenty pound note beside the beer mat advertising Bass.

“You know Fishman?” A grizzled creature more Gollum than human standing on Bodie’s left put a dirty finger on the money. It disappeared up his sleeve with the suddenness of a parlour magic trick.

“Might say that.” Doyle leaned against the bar, arms across his chest, one leg resting on the brass rail running around the base. “Trout come here tonight?”

Bodie took another drink. To some, Doyle might look relaxed and easy going but Bodie could see the way he held himself. One hand nearly touching his weapon, one leg poised to kick out if need be.

“Maybe ‘e did.” Gollum bared his teeth, all ten of them. “But ‘e didn’t say nothing ‘bout sending ‘round a couple of tossers.”

“Oy!” Doyle raised two fingers at the creature. “None of your aggro. Came in for a drink and some employment. We haven’t got neither.”

“Patience, lad,” Bodie advised, feeling a bit like Cowley. “We ain’t picky, just need to pick up Lady Godiva.”

“It’s Christmas eve, ye’ve left it a bit late,” the bartender commented wryly. “But Samson is needing some ‘eavy lifting.”

“Samson?” Doyle rolled his eyes, finishing his drink.

“That’s my name.” A small, dapper looking gent complete with a gold pin through his tie pushed past Gollum. He stood between Bodie and Doyle with his hands on his hips. “My mother was a religious woman, God rest her soul.”

“Bill Phillips,” Bodie said smoothly. “And me surly mate R—Randy.”

Doyle sent Bodie such a look over Samson’s head.

Gollum guffawed, his wide open mouth gaping. “Can’t possibly be the moniker yer mam gave you.”

“Nah, earned it naturally,” Doyle said straight-faced. “You hiring?” he asked Samson.

“I could use two big…” Samson eyed Bodie as if he wanted to take a nice juicy bite of tender flesh, “strong blokes to retrieve some crates for me. Got anything in the way of a CV? Need more references than Trout.”

“Haven’t had time to type them up, gov’,” Doyle said out of the side of his mouth.

Bodie scrambled mentally to give a well tarnished named that would impress Samson. “Worked with Harry Walters a time or two.”

The man’s expression didn’t change, but he was apparently satisfied. “Meet me at eleven thirty at the pier.”

“How much do we get paid?” Bodie held out a hand as if he were playing Oliver in the junior school play.

“Depends on what you do for me.” Samson beckoned Gollum to his side. “We’ll be waiting.”

“And so will we,” Doyle muttered, obviously suspicious.

~*~

Back at the Capri, a quick call to the late night crew at CI-5 headquarters confirmed that their new employer was in fact Samson Lapierre, known for illegally importing substances from Marseilles and other foreign ports. The odds on favourite was that he was a drugs smuggler, but the Met had never been able to get any charges to stick.

Cowley was out of reach at a Christmas concert at The Albert Hall, so Bodie and Doyle had to make a unilateral decision. If Samson had been small potatoes, they wouldn’t have bothered with the meet. They still weren’t certain he was the one they’d originally been after, but arresting him had the potential to get a fair amount of heroin off the streets of London during the holidays.

“Happy Christmas to us,” Bodie sighed. “It’s barely two bloody degrees out there with a chance of snow, and he wants us to be lugging barrels and lifting crates in the open air!”

“Will keep you warm,” Doyle said, tucking his gloved hands between his knees.

Bodie wished he could tuck those hands between his knees—somewhere in the direction of his cock. But that was for later—most probably tomorrow. Along with a pudding filled with sultanas and nuts, and a pretty blue flame rising off the top. “You think we got the job too easily?”

“Your problem is that you think your glass is half empty.”

Bodie almost laughed. He was the joker of the partnership, Doyle was the pessimist. “Not really a problem, I’d just prefer a different glass.”

“Perhaps Father Christmas brought our gifts early?” Doyle commented lightly.

~*~

Eleven thirty on the pier was perishing cold, with an icy wind coming off the Atlantic that sent chills down Bodie’s spine. In the past, Doyle had always suffered the cold far more than he had. Possibly more so since he was shot a year ago, but Doyle stood with his hands in his armpits, facing the dark and silent Thames without a word as the minutes ticked by.

“He’s late,” Doyle said very, very quietly into the night. “Might be a set…”

A dark figure burst out from the warehouse to the right, crashing into Bodie with the force of a rampaging bull. He hit the wooden dock, landing in a puddle of dank water, his head ringing. He groped for his gun when the assailant cracked something hard across his shoulders and his whole right arm went completely numb. Bodie kicked out with one leg, desperately trying to roll away. Where the hell was Doyle?

He managed to avoid a second blow from what was probably a length of wood or a cricket bat, and grabbed hold of the assailant’s ankle, pulling him off balance. The man tripped backwards over Bodie’s legs, giving Bodie enough time to scramble away.

In the black of the night, he couldn’t see who Doyle was grappling with, and the grunts and unintelligible shouts didn’t help any. He could just make out two figures punching and kicking.

Dragging his pistol out with his left hand, Bodie crouched against the wall of the warehouse for two breaths, keeping a wary eye on the hulk he’d toppled. The man hadn’t moved yet. Maybe he’d been knocked out?

“Doyle!” Bodie shouted when he had his wind back. Cradling his useless right arm against his chest, he raised his weapon in the air, pulling off one shot.

The noise alone had the desired effect. Doyle and whomever he was fighting rolled apart for an instant. That was long enough. Bodie didn’t have to guess which was his partner, even in the dark. He cracked the butt of his gun on the egg-shaped head he could barely see, felling the man.

“Thanks, mate!” Doyle rose fluidly, pointing his pistol straight at his partner.

Bodie gulped, feeling the heat of the bullet pass his cheek and hearing the gasp of pain from the man behind him as it hit.

“Where’s your bloody r/t?” Doyle yelled irritably, stalking past Bodie to the wounded man. “No sense at all, have you?” He bent over the suspect who was swearing colourfully in French, checking for weapons.

I love you, too, Bodie thought. There was no way he’d say it out loud. “Right hand won’t function,” he said instead.

The bright light of a torch hit him square in the face, blinding him. Bodie blinked, raising his left hand to shield his eyes, surprised to realize he was still holding his gun. “Took your own effing time, didn’t you?” he groused as Jax and Murphy ran up.

“It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey out here,” Murphy complained, sweeping the beam of his torch over the bald man on the dock and the one Doyle had shot. Neither one appeared seriously hurt, although Bodie’s assailant had blood running down the sleeve of his anorak from Doyle’s bullet. “And black as the hole of Calcutta,” Murphy continued, getting out a set of handcuffs. “If you’d wanted us sooner, you should have rung up.”

“I told him that,” Doyle snapped, holstering his gun. “Cold’s frozen what little brain cells he had.”

Jax snickered, herding the two suspects back to his van.

“I’m requesting alternate reinforcements next time,” Bodie retorted, leaning against the wall since he didn’t seem to be needed much. His shoulder and arm were one huge throb and his neck felt wonky. It took some doing to get his pistol slotted back in the shoulder holder left handed and upside down. “Take my life into my hands with you lot.”

“Get them back to headquarters on your own, can you?” Doyle asked as Jax slammed the doors of the van on the prisoners.

“No trouble,” Jax said cheerfully. “I prefer the mopping up. Less danger to my precious life and limb. Oh, and Happy Christmas!”

“Midnight already?” Bodie asked just as bells began to peel all over London. Churches from every corner of the city celebrating the birth of Jesus. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

“We’ll be in tomorrow—“ Doyle started, glancing over at Bodie with an emotion it was too dark to read in his eyes.

“More like Boxing day,” Bodie put in, “to question those yobbos.”

“Tuck them up as if they were our own,” Murphy promised, getting into the van.

“No sign of Samson or the troll,” Doyle said when Jax and Murphy had driven away. “Seems we were meant for a watery grave.”

“What more could one expect from a fortune telling fish?” Bodie asked into the dark, not looking forward to the hike back to the Capri.

“I see Trout fishing in the near future,” Doyle said, his breath hot on Bodie’s cold cheek. “But first, young Bodie, you need tending to. Is it a visit to A&E or--”

“No hospital,” Bodie answered, warmed to the core from Doyle’s concern, even if it was something else he’d never say out loud. “Just a kip and some decent food.”

“Never did eat, did we?” Doyle brushed his knuckles over Bodie’s hand in the dark, walking past. “Good thing you went to Marks and Sparks this morning.”

~*~

It wasn’t the Christmas feast Bodie had planned on, but when Doyle touched the match to the brandy soaked pudding, the flame erupted bright blue. Bodie looked directly into Doyle’s eyes, seeing fire that was no reflection of the one blazing briefly on the plate. This one was forever, a foundation of warmth and security that he could depend on for the rest of his life.

“Cheers,” Bodie said when the flames had died away and he could cut into their sweet.

They’d never bothered to heat up the cooked turkey he’d purchased the previous morning. After a quick shower and judicious dosing of paracetamol plus some leftover codeine found in Doyle’s cupboard, Bodie felt almost human again. There was a bruise forming from his shoulder down to his elbow that promised to be spectacular—and annoyingly painful—in the next few days. He should have been exhausted, but by some contrary after effect of adrenalin, both he and Doyle were wide awake in the early hours of Christmas day.

Doyle had bustled about while Bodie showered, and served up cold turkey, Brussels sprouts drowning in butter and croissants, with pudding for afters. Christmas dinner had never tasted so good—even better than those long ago meals with Bodie’s mum and Gran.

“Ta,” Doyle said when Bodie handed him a dish of pudding smothered in hard sauce. He ducked his head over his sweet but didn’t take a bite, his remarkable eyes suddenly as remote and stormy as the North Sea.

“What?” Bodie asked, sitting gingerly on the settee. “Need debriefing?”

“Expect Cowley will call soon enough,” Doyle said dismissively. “I—“ He set down the plate. Picking up his cup of tea and whisky, he drank it quickly. “This just gets harder every time, doesn’t it?”

“At the risk of repeating myself,” Bodie said around a mouthful of rich cake and sultanas with just the right dollop of brandy flavoured sauce on the top. “What?”

“Watching you get hurt,” Doyle said with such fierceness that Bodie felt something knot in his belly. “Accepting that I might not have made that shot and then…”

“When did you ever miss a shot?” Bodie hooked his left hand around Doyle, pulling him closer. He could feel Doyle’s heart racing through the palm of his hand.

“Could have been a stoppage, it was dark, my fingers were cold. There could have been so many.... damned… complications,” Doyle exploded, horror in every word.

Terror—for Bodie.

“Like this one right here?” Bodie kissed him.

At first, Doyle resisted as if afraid to open up and be vulnerable. Then, he yielded, melting against Bodie with what could almost have been a sob. Bodie treasured that pure trust in his heart.

“Yeah,” Doyle whispered. “This—we’re dangerous.”

“Always were, Raymond,” Bodie said, rubbing his nose against Doyle’s rough morning stubble. “There was never a day I would have accepted losing you, not from the very first.”

Doyle kissed him on the sharp jut of his jawline, then nipped at the softer skin of his neck, the possibly-tears turning into possibly-giggles. “Sentimental berk,” he said, finding Bodie’s mouth for a proper kiss.

“You are a heavy sod, and are leaning on my war wounds,” Bodie hissed through his teeth when he couldn’t quite stay quiet any longer. Shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch.

“Your own fault, you started it,” Doyle said, unrepentant, and forked up a morsel of pudding to shove into Bodie’s mouth. “That make it better?”

“Mmm. Got exactly what I wished for.” Bodie chewed and swallowed, opening for another bite. Doyle obliged. “Sharing my Christmas pudding with you.”

“Mine was having you beside me--,” Doyle smiled, chipped tooth and all, more beautiful than the angels decorating the Christmas cards Bodie had propped up on the bookcase. “But when I talked to Father Christmas, I should have specified unbruised.”

“You talked to Father Christmas?” Bodie asked, intrigued. “About me?”

“Saw him at Harrods. He remembered you.” Doyle shook a finger before feeding Bodie another forkful of pudding. “Said our William has a wild streak and shouldn’t expect a gift in his stocking.”

“Cruel man, Father Christmas. Extremely judgmental.”

“I told him you’d most likely get a sausage stuffed up your…” Doyle added a suggestive Italian gesture for illustration.

“I’ve been a very good boy,” Bodie insisted, yanking Doyle to his feet. “There’s always room for a tasty sausage.”

Merry Christmas!


Title: It Ain’t Over ‘til the Pudding’s on Fire
Author: Dawnwind
Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes, please.
Author's Name for Archiving (if different to above): Dawnebeth (on lj)
Disclaimer: I only don’t own them, never did. Would like to.

Comments

[dawnebeth.livejournal.com]

I always have to throw in the work with the play, and lighting that pud on fire makes the holiday for me. Thanks for reading.