discoveredinalj | Discovered in a Christmas Cracker

Hello, everyone! I'm hoping to post a few times today, but I'll do the most important one first in case RL runs away with me.

So, from the sunny Southern Hemisphere, comes a winter's tale ...

Such a Night
by Maddalia

Bodie looks down from the obbo flat window and sees the endless, serpentine parade of Christmas shoppers, winding its way down Oxford Street and out of sight. He turns to his right and says: ‘Don’t look much cheerier than us, do they?’ But there’s no one beside him. Looking around, he realises that there’s no one in the room with him at all.

‘Doyle?’ Bodie rolls his eyes. ‘Bloody hell. Like living with a ninja.’

He turns back to the window, gives the street another quick scan through his binoculars. He takes a hip flask from his pocket and has a swig of what he expects to be scotch, but turns out to be gin. He nearly spits it out in surprise. His and Doyle’s flasks are almost identical; they must have mixed them up while they were changing that morning, fumbling about in the chilly near-darkness of an obbo flat at dawn.

In a few days’ time, though, they’ll be relieved of this miserable job. This year, other agents have the cruel fate of working over Christmas. Doyle, no doubt, will spend half the time with his family in Derby, and the other half tinkering with one of his ancient engines. Bodie will do what he does every Christmas he gets off: pack up his gear and do what he fondly terms as ‘disappearing into the wilderness’, but is really going to stay in a log cabin in the woods that belongs to a mate of his. A week and a half, maybe two, of real log fires, catching his own food, letting his beard grow, not having to speak to anyone — he can forget all that vanity, gregariousness, fondness for luxury, with which he knows he’s commonly associated. He wouldn’t want such solitude for life, but temporarily, it’s a relief.

Now if only there were a nice bird who could be talked into roughing it with him, that would be pretty much perfect. Scratch that: a bloke would do. Doyle would more than do, if it weren’t for the family duty calling him away. Their partnership is broad-ranging in its perks, and they don’t sleep together enough for the novelty to wear off. Though he’d never admit it, Bodie prefers Doyle’s company to just about anyone else’s. Even when he’s hard to be with — which is often — it’s easy. They have a good, solid working relationship, a seemingly unshakeable friendship. They haven’t fallen out, not properly, in a long while.

And Doyle’s good in bed. Really good. Versatile, which matters a lot in a relationship between two alpha males. And he’s loud, when he gets the chance, so in a remote location, they’d really see some fun.

I wonder if I could talk Doyle into …

‘Bodie.’

He turns around. Doyle’s walking into the room, R/T dangling from one hand. He looks pale, like someone about to be sick. It can’t be good news. And yet, teams of CI5 agents have been watching likely trouble spots for over a week now, and nothing sinister has come to light. A bomb scare in a department store that turned out to be a prank: that was it. Surely something hasn’t slipped under their radar?

‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s not the IRA, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Well, what then, for Christ’s sake?’

‘Me mum’s had a stroke. She died on the way to hospital.’

*
It’s cold at the burial. Bitterly cold. The funeral party huddles together, except for two men who stand separately: the vicar, and Bodie. Doyle stands with his family, comforting a weeping elderly aunt. He looks as numb as the tips of Bodie’s fingers. Bodie balls his hands into fists and shoves them into his pockets. He left his gloves in the car.

Finally, the thing is over and done with, and the body of a woman Bodie barely knew is lowered into the ground, the polished wood of the coffin reflecting barely-there winter sunlight. The weeping aunt dabs at her eyes with her handkerchief, and the party begins to disperse. Doyle lags behind, and Bodie falls into step with him.

‘Alright?’ he mutters.

‘Yeah.’ Doyle gives him a sideways glance. ‘Was good of you to come. They would’ve understood if you hadn’t.’

‘Someone’s got to keep an eye on you.’

Doyle grins, fleetingly. Then it’s as if he’s remembered he shouldn’t. He hunches against the wind.

‘Fuck, I hate funerals. I don’t want one. I put it in my will.’

‘Me too,’ says Bodie, and they look at each other, because this is normally a forbidden subject. There’s immediately an uneasiness between them. Doyle looks away first, and they walk the rest of the way in silence.

*
‘Bodie? It is Bodie, isn’t it?’

Bodie has met Doyle’s family before: on the Easter weekend three years ago, when his date cancelled on him and Doyle offered him an excuse to get out of London. Doyle’s mother took a shine to him, which must be the reason he was invited to the funeral. He nods, and smiles, and shakes the hand of Doyle’s brother, George.

George looks like Doyle, but older, even-featured, and more respectable. He’s the eldest of the three siblings, and the only one who went to university. He’s a museum curator now, with a wife, three children, and a house in the suburbs. All the things Doyle thinks he should want, and perhaps George is the reason. Bodie can see the wife — Karen, is it? — on the other side of the room, talking to Doyle’s sister and her husband. The children must be off outside somewhere.

‘It was good of you to come. I hope you weren’t too disconcerted by the invitation.’

‘Not at all,’ lies Bodie. ‘I liked your mother. She was a nice woman.’

‘Yes, she was. She worried about Ray, you know. He’s never really talked about what he does, but we knew that meant it was probably dangerous.’

‘It can be, sometimes.’

‘And it seems like — well — such a lonely sort of job,’ George presses on. He has a nervous, precise way of talking: an academic’s voice. ‘Ray’s never talked about anyone — you know, permanent. And none of us is really close to him. So we thought it’d be nice if he had someone here who was — you know.’

Bodie clears his throat, and says what he said to the younger Doyle earlier: ‘Someone’s got to keep an eye on him.’

‘And you will, won’t you? It doesn’t matter to us — that is, if — not that we’ve any reason to suppose — but if you — that is, you and Ray —’

Bodie meets George’s anxious eyes. ‘Just say what you mean to say.’

‘What — whatever you are to each other,’ George stammers. ‘Colleagues, or friends, or — anything else. It doesn’t matter. And it didn’t to Mum either. She just wanted Ray to have someone. And she wanted me to tell you it was alright.’

He produces a handkerchief and mops his brow. Bodie sympathises. That can’t have been an easy wish to honour.

‘George,’ he says, in the most patient tone he can muster. ‘None of you need to worry about Ray. All right?’

George nods, and turns away in palpable relief. Suddenly, in the middle of a funeral gathering, Bodie has to fight the urge to laugh.

*
It’s 6pm on Christmas Eve, half an hour before the end of their shift, and there’s no getting Doyle to the log cabin now. The stupid sod volunteered to be on standby, so he can’t leave London. He’s avoiding his family. For all Bodie knows, he’s avoiding the two of them being alone together, too. He must have at least suspected that Bodie was thinking of asking him. That sort of thinking never gets past Doyle.

But Bodie knows better than to interfere. If this is Doyle’s way of working through his grief — literally, working through it — that’s fine. He understands. And a family gathering in Derby, at which his mother was always such a dominant figure, now a house filled with people pretending it’s all business as usual? Bodie would prefer CI5 to that, too.

‘When are you off?’ Doyle asks, when they’re relieved from duty, and descending the four flights of stairs between them and freedom.

‘Tomorrow morning. I was going to ask if you wanted to grab a pint this evening, actually.’

‘Love to, but I’ve got to get over to see a mate of mine. My heating packed up this morning, and he’s lending me a portable one.’

Ha, got him! Bodie thinks, although he’s fairly certain that Doyle wasn’t conspiring against him with his radiators as accomplices.

‘Oh, that’s no problem,’ he says, airily. ‘I’ve got two of ‘em. We’ll stop at my lockup on the way back to your place.’

Doyle frowns, and asks: ‘Don’t you need them for your trip?’

Bodie answers: ‘Naah — ‘s all log fires up there.’

‘Well, if you’re sure — that’d be great, thanks. Can you hang on a sec?’

As they emerge onto the street, Doyle gestures towards a phone box fifty yards or so down the road. Theatrically, Bodie waves him onward. He gets into his car with a smile on his face, thinking about how the evening might go. A few drinks at Doyle’s local, drive him home, covertly slip a gift underneath the Christmas tree — Doyle’s guitar’s been missing a string for months, so Bodie bought him a new set, plus a bottle of single malt — and then what? Bodie doesn’t let his imagination run too far, for fear that his thoughts become visible, but it’s been six weeks now, and it’d be nice if they could be that way again.

I almost think I’d stay if he asked me. Forego the log cabin altogether.

Bodie switches on the car radio, tunes it to a music station. They’re not really meant to do that in CI5 cars, but he’s off duty, so what the hell? He grins when the DJ’s chatter fades into a song. Such a night … sweet confusion under the moonlight … Bodie’s in the mood for a bit of that.

Doyle gets into the car beside him, and listens.

‘I’ve got the single of that somewhere. Erm — yeah, I rang Dave, that’s fine, only I owe him a drink, because he was going to be late for a party and it really pissed his wife off. Still, at least he can arrive on time and surprise her.’

‘He might get that kiss under the mistletoe yet. Speaking of which — you got any at your place?’

Bodie wiggles his eyebrows. Doyle laughs.

‘What — mistletoe? You’re joking. No time for any of that, mate.’

‘Christmas decorations, or kissing?’

‘Both, let’s face it, these days.’

‘But you’ll at least have a tree. Even I’ve got one of those. Stupid little fake thing, but I get it out once a year — Ray, you pillock, you know full well I meant the tree.’ Not that I’m complaining, Bodie adds inwardly, grinning at his chuckling partner. Feels like months since I last heard him laugh.

Doyle’s laughter subsides, and he’s about to say something, when a rapping on the car window makes them both jump.

‘Oh, God,’ Doyle mutters, winding down the window. ‘Evening, sir.’

‘Doyle, my car, now. Bodie, you’re off duty, I’ll see you in the New Year. Merry Christmas.’

‘And you, sir.’ says Bodie.

Doyle utters a dismal: ‘Yes, sir,’ and opens the car door. Cowley’s already walking away, calling: ‘Hurry up!’ over his shoulder. Bodie catches Doyle by the arm.

‘Ray — keys.’

‘What?’

Bodie rolls his eyes. ‘Heaters, remember?’

‘Oh, yeah!’ Doyle takes his keys from his jacket pocket and tosses them onto the passenger seat. ‘Cheers, mate, you’re a lifesaver. Just put ‘em through the letterbox after; I’ll get my spares from HQ.’

‘Will do. Look after yourself!’ Bodie calls, and drives away.

*
Trust them to have a real bloody bomb, just when Doyle wants to get home and put his feet up. Cowley wants him because he’s good with women and children. Someone has to help with the evacuation, stop people panicking, make sure mothers don’t run back into the building after missing kids who just got out of another exit. The firemen can’t do it all. Benny, an ex-beat copper like Doyle, is also drafted in to help. Anson jumps into someone’s Ford Cortina and speeds off after two men who McCabe spotted through his binoculars, running from the scene. Lucas tumbles another one trying to make a call in the next street. It doesn’t seem like they knew they were being watched.

Cowley sends Doyle in with the bomb squad, but they’re too late, and have to make a run for it. One of the bomb squad is carted off in an ambulance with a nasty head wound. Ten bystanders are injured by the blast, but the evacuation was smooth and efficient: there are no deaths. Doyle sustains a cut to his forehead that requires stitches. It’s four hours before he gets out of the hospital, then it’s back to HQ for debriefing, and to pick up his spare keys. It’s a quarter to midnight when he finally leaves.

And then it’s back to a freezing cold, dark flat, in the middle of the night, alone. Merry Christmas, Ray.

The clock ticks over on the drive home, and the distant sound of bells announces the season. In no mood for religion, Doyle consoles himself with the thought of the heaters Bodie’s left for him. It might take a while for the place to get warm, but he can huddle in front of one of them with a cup of tea, read a good book, try and stop his mind from racing as it always does after an op — why did he volunteer for this, again?

You know why, he tells himself, sadly. Would you rather be in Derby now?

No, he would not. The thought of Christmas at George’s semi-detached, middle-class home, even the secular trappings that are the extent of his family’s celebrations, is more than Doyle can stand. The kids would be running round under the influence of too much sugar and the excitement of presents, adults carrying on the traditions for their sake, while one place at the table would look empty, and no one would feel able to mention it. Christ, what a nightmare.

Doyle remembers when he, George, Janet and their cousins were the children. How magical the whole thing had seemed, and they had much less than kids have now. Janet’s kids have more at Christmas, thanks to George’s generosity, than they would have had otherwise. He inherited their mother’s kindness, her family-mindedness, and he’ll be the one who carries it all on. Perhaps next year, Doyle will have the stomach to support him.

He gets in the lift and rides up to his flat. Someone’s playing music — the song that was on in the car, earlier, when Bodie was fiddling with the radio. Doyle sighs. Life had looked a little brighter for those few minutes.

There is light under his front door, and the music seems to be coming from behind it. Doyle’s blood runs cold. His mind races through the possibilities. Burglar? Vendetta? Someone who was listening in, spying on them in the car — or one of the lads, playing a joke?

Or, surely not …

Hand on his gun, Doyle turns the key, and opens the door.

He’s greeted by the smell of food, the sight of Christmas lights, the warmth of a heated flat, the sound of Dr John on the stereo, and his table, resplendent with the plates and cutlery his brother and sister-in-law gave him one Christmas, which he’s been saving for the dinner party he never finds the time to give.

Best of all, though — Bodie. What’s more, a Bodie dressed to kill, the way he used to look at work in the early days of their partnership, the way he hardly ever looks, these days. And a Bodie who smiles at the sight of him, as if he isn’t tired and filthy with a cut on his head. As if he, Raymond Doyle, is the best thing Bodie’s seen all day.

‘There you are, Doyle! I thought you’d never get here.’

Bodie comes towards him, grinning like a cat who's got the cream, and Doyle feels a hint of outrage. Do you think this’ll make it all go away, Bodie? But whether he’s too tired, or too world-weary, or just too relieved not to be coming home to the cold and dark, the feeling goes away, and he smiles back.

‘What are you …?’ he starts to ask, but Bodie cuts him off with: ‘Were you born in a barn? You’re letting the heat out!’

‘Oh, right.’ Doyle shuts and locks the door behind him. The record ends, and there’s the familiar soft thunk as the needle lifts itself off.

‘Your keys are where you normally leave them,’ Bodie says, gesturing to the bowl on the table next to the door. Doyle puts the spare keys with them.

‘What’s cooking? It smells like a roast dinner.’

‘That’s because it is,’ Bodie says with a smirk. He rubs his hands together. ‘Let’s eat, shall we?’

‘Where did you get a roast dinner from at this time of night? And where did all these decorations come from?’ Doyle throws his hands up and laughs at himself. ‘Sorry. You’ll be expecting a question about the whereabouts of a microfilm reel next.’

‘Nigh on,’ says Bodie. ‘Tell you what, Ray, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll answer one question in return for you getting showered and changed. No offence, but —’

He holds his nose to make his point. Doyle grins, and says: ‘OK. One question. Decorations?’

‘My lockup.’ Bodie makes a sweeping gesture around the living room. He’s strung lights and tinsel from one end to the other. A particularly hideous cardboard Father Christmas is sellotaped to one window. In the corner, next to the television, is a six foot Christmas tree, fully decorated, and Doyle can smell that it’s real.

‘Including the tree?’

‘Erm — nope.’

Hands on hips, Doyle demands: ‘Well, where did you …’

‘Ah — shower!’

‘Yes, Mum.’ Doyle slumps off, pretending to sulk. Bodie’s laughter follows him into his bedroom.

Shivering in the cold, and thinking he’ll probably wake up in bed any minute with his R/T bleeping in his ear, Doyle strips quickly, pads into the bathroom, and uses the last of his hot water to shower away the sweat and grime of the op. In a few moments it feels like a whole other day — all he can think of is: It’s Christmas out there! and for a few precious seconds it’s almost as exciting as it was when he was a child. The mood is fleeting, but when it leaves him, one thing remains: Bodie did this for him. That is what’s precious. And he hasn’t demanded to know what happened on the op.

Anyone can string up a few lights and order some food in, he thinks, tipping his head back to let the water run over his face. It takes a CI5 agent to give another CI5 agent a good Christmas.

And it takes Bodie to know exactly what he, Doyle, needs … but Doyle pushes that thought away.

Doyle turns off the water, towels himself dry, and rubs his hair into a state of damp chaos while he gets out clean clothes one-handed. He dresses, combs the wreck into something more presentable, and goes back out to the living room. The smell of food is stronger now. There’s a roast dinner on the table, and Doyle is suddenly very hungry, and cares a whole lot less where it came from.

‘Brilliant, I’m starving,’ Bodie greets him. ‘I hope it’s still OK. It’s been keeping warm in the oven for an hour or so.’ He waves Doyle into a chair.

‘What, no candles?’ Doyle can’t help the sarcasm.

‘Nah. I dunno what birds see in eating by candlelight, do you? You can’t see your food properly.’

‘You old romantic, you.’ Doyle chuckles, and assembles himself a serve of roast chicken, gravy, roast potatoes, peas, carrots, and Yorkshire pudding. Bodie, like the gentleman he’s being tonight, waits his turn.

‘Forgot the wine, hang on.’ Bodie disappears into the kitchen again, and emerges with a bottle that Doyle recognises.

‘Ah, I know where you got that, at least.’

‘Yep — your pantry,’ Bodie says cheerfully, and pours out two glasses. ‘Here’s to George Cowley and his orchestra.’

‘And all who sail in him.’

They laugh, and clink their glasses, but before Doyle drinks, he gives Bodie a smile, and says: ‘Cheers, mate.’ Bodie inclines his glass in a silent ‘you’re welcome’.

They drink, and pick up their cutlery, and for a few minutes they’re just two hungry men, eating in silence, save an ‘Mmm’ or two of enjoyment. The food is delicious, and the wine’s a perfect complement. Delia Smith herself couldn’t have arranged it better. Once he’s quenched his immediate hunger and thirst, however, Doyle’s curiosity piques.

‘Now, come on, Bodie. Come clean. Where did all this stuff come from?’

‘OK,’ Bodie says, with his mouth full. He chews and swallows. ‘Like I said. Decorations, my lockup. Got ‘em from a relative, ages ago. Always mean to put them up, but I never have time for anything but that tiddly artificial thing you were winding me up about. When I’m working, that is. And if I have Christmas off I always go away, so there doesn’t seem much point. My mate who owns the log cabin — he and his wife always drive up there the day before to get it ready for me — you know, fresh bedding, firewood, that sort of thing. And all the Christmas trimmings. She’s a sweetheart; she always decorates. I treat them to a pub lunch to say thanks. It’s a nice little routine.’

‘It sounds nice,’ says Doyle. In his head, he adds: I wish I could be there with you. But that’s not the sort of thing you say out loud to someone like Bodie. ‘So what about the tree?’ He squints at it. ‘Is that Cowley’s face pasted onto the angel?’

Bodie chuckles. ‘Was wondering when you’d notice.’

Doyle gives an exaggerated shudder. ‘I’m watching you, lads,’ he says, in a Scottish accent.

‘Alllllways watching,’ Bodie puts in, and it’s Doyle’s turn to laugh. The piece of carrot he’s just put into his mouth goes down the wrong way. He coughs, takes a sip of wine, nods when Bodie asks if he’s alright.

‘Anyway,’ he croaks, patting himself on the chest a couple of times. ‘All Cows aside, where did the tree come from?’

Bodie taps his nose. ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell.’

‘OK. Dinner.’

‘Cooked it.’

‘You?’

‘Yeah, easy.’ Bodie gives a careless gesture that nearly sends a piece of chicken flying off his fork. ‘You see, Ray, when I was a kid, I was sent to live with an old aunt for a while. She was rich, servants and everything. Her cook took a shine to me, taught me everything she knew.’ He pops the chicken into his mouth and chews. Doyle stares at him.

‘You’re kidding!’

Bodie swallows, and grins. ‘Yep. I just followed a recipe, mate. It’s easier than a gun manual, I don’t know why people make so much fuss.’

Doyle rolls his eyes, and shakes his head, and says: ‘Bodie.’

‘Anyway, like I said, easy. You had oil, you had potatoes and frozen veg. I brought Bisto from home. Can’t beat it with sausages, you know. You had flour, too, and I had eggs, so Yorkshire puddings were a piece of — well, Yorkshire pudding.’ He pauses to grin when Doyle snorts at the bad wordplay. ‘No sprouts, but I think we can both live without those.’

Doyle nods, but he still doesn’t have the whole story. ‘Chicken?’

Bodie’s smile widens. ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell.’

‘Fucking hell. Always knew you had criminal tendencies. What’s for dessert?’

‘Ice-cream. I knew you wouldn’t have anything decent, so I brought some.’

‘Well, I think we both deserve it after tonight.’

They lapse into silence again. Bodie attacks his dinner with gusto, and goes back for seconds. Even Doyle accepts an extra Yorkshire pudding and a bit of chicken, but mostly he’s watching Bodie. Noticing Bodie, the way he only occasionally allows himself to notice him. He thinks of those moments as lapses from normality, almost a kind of desperation. Times when there isn’t anyone else — or should that be when no one else would do?

Christ, Bodie looks good eating ice-cream, Doyle thinks during dessert, and barely notices his own. When he looks down to take a mouthful, he fancies that maybe, Bodie was watching him, too. Maybe he looks hastily away when Doyle raises his eyes again. Doyle’s remembering what it’s like to kiss Bodie’s lips, the scent of his neck, the way his stomach muscles contract with anticipation when Doyle nips and licks his way down his body … Doyle’s head feels light, his loins feel heavy, and he knows the way this night is going to go, and maybe that’s what Bodie always intended, but what does it matter, if it’s what they both want?

They pretend it isn’t. They finish eating, have one more glass of wine, and then they do the washing-up. They talk and joke as if it’s any other night — God knows, they’ve spent enough of them together, and they’ve ended innocently enough. They’ve slipped into their usual, easy camaraderie, talking about films and sport and music, rating the typing pool girls, joking about their colleagues, and Cowley. The conversation sees them onto Doyle’s couch with a couple of cans of lager, appreciating the Christmas tree, with the stereo down low playing carols, because neither of them can be bothered to choose anything else.

‘Well,’ Bodie says finally, draining the last drops from his can. ‘I should be off.’ He puts the can down beside him, and lets his head fall, very deliberately it seems, in Doyle’s direction. ‘Unless there’s a reason for me to stay.’

Doyle smiles. ‘Philosophical conversation, right into the daylight hours? Sharing tales of Christmases past?’

Bodie blinks, slowly. Whether he’s showing off his eyelashes on purpose, or whether it’s just a side-effect, Doyle wouldn’t like to guess.

‘I’m going to be all alone up there in the woods, you know.’

Or you could stay here with me, Doyle thinks, but that would be overstepping the mark, so he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t give Bodie a verbal answer. He puts down his own can, stands up, and offers a hand to his partner. He doesn’t let Bodie go when he’s on his feet. He turns off the main light in the living room, picks up the nearest heater in his free hand, and leads Bodie to the bedroom.

By the light of the Christmas decorations that carries in to them, they undress without ceremony, without stopping to appreciate each other’s appearance. Doyle, for one, remembers every inch of Bodie’s skin. Not that that diminishes the thrill when they touch for the first time in six weeks. It’s more like coming home, it makes Doyle feel warmer, even than he felt earlier tonight, when he first saw what Bodie had done for him. This — whatever it is — this is the greatest of all things. Worth waiting for, fighting for, going through hell for. Bodie on him, under him, in him, around him; this is the moment when Doyle’s mind meets another truly equal, grander than any grand gesture, sweeter than any food, or wine, or words. As rough and tough as they both are, and more gentle than he ever would have expected: that is the miracle they make tonight.

*
Doyle wakes up warm, and bathed in early morning light, floating on his last memory of Bodie. Such a simple memory, but one Doyle knows will stay with him. In the relaxation of afterglow, enveloped by darkness and silence, Bodie pressed his lips to Doyle’s temple, pillowed his head on his shoulder, whispered: ‘Happy Christmas, Ray,’ and fell asleep. And Doyle slept more peacefully than he has in a long time.

But he’s alone now, except for a note on his pillow.

Didn’t want to wake you. Thought I’d better get on the road. Shame you can’t join me.
Thanks for a great night, and take care of yourself.
Bodie.

Doyle lies back on the pillow, and draws the covers more closely around himself. There, in that note, that single action, the distance is back between them again. But there’s a glimmer of hope in Bodie’s note, too. The faint echo of an idea, that someday, it might not be like this. Perhaps there’s a future in which Bodie won’t leave, or if he does, maybe Doyle will feel able to go with him.

On the other hand, maybe our next case will be the end for one or both of us, Doyle thinks. That’s why blokes like us have to live in the moment. And if that’s what last night was … if that’s what the other times were ...

It’s more than a single Christmas can solve. But that inner warmth has not left Doyle as he closes his eyes once again. At this time of year, of all times, there is hope in uncertainty.

— THE END —

“O for the night that was ending, for the sleep and the wakefulness, the toughness and tenderness mixed, the sweet temper, the safety in darkness. Would such a night ever return?”

E.M. Forster.

Title: Such A Night
Author: Maddalia
Slash or gen? Slash
Archive at Pros-Lib/Circuit: Yes
Disclaimer: I own nothing — I just take it out to play with.
Notes: The title of this fic comes from ‘Such A Night’ by Dr John (if you don’t know it, check out his brilliant performance with The Band from The Last Waltz, on YouTube), which is also the song the lads play in the car and at Doyle’s flat. It is also taken from the E.M. Forster quotation, which is from the novel Maurice (again, if you don’t know it, I highly recommend). That quotation reminded me so much of our lads — or, at least, my idea of our lads *g* — that I wanted to include it in a Prosfic somehow. Merry Christmas, everyone!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

jessebee.livejournal.com

{melts} That was delightful. :D

From:

murphybabe

Lovely - thank you!

From:

margaret-r.livejournal.com

A lovely story, I really like the wistful but also hopeful note it ends with.

From:

milomaus.livejournal.com

Very, very nice story!
Kinda sad they didn´t get together for good, though both would like to, but this is so much more real, and maybe next year Doyle will be asked by Bodie and they´ll spent Christmas in the log cabin!

From:

Discovered in a Christmas Cracker - Day 7

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