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discoveredinaljToday has gone quickly - I swear I've only just got up and made my Dialj post... my dreams still feel fresh in my head... But I've managed to write my first ficlet - a wee Bodie and Cowley story for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
franciskerst, set immediately after Fall Girl...
Falling
by Slantedlight
“3.7!”
He was tempted to keep walking - he meant to keep walking, but it was that tone of voice - it was as if his body never could disobey that tone of voice.
Bodie turned, tried to blank his face, which was more than he’d done for Doyle when he shoved the FAL into his arms, but then he could never hide anything from Doyle, either.
Cowley - George Cowley - was a different matter.
Cowley stared at him for a moment, smart in his grey wool coat, a matched pair with Willis, though Cowley looked smoother with it. Bastard.
Marikka was a woman - they’d never come through for him - but to have been used by his own boss…
“Och man,” Cowley said at last, “Put that look away and come with me. You’ll be wanting a drink.”
“I don’t want a drink,” he managed, “sir.” He didn’t know what it was he wanted, except to be free of the whole lot of them, for a few moments, maybe, to mourn for his lost past - for Marikka - in peace.
Cowley didn’t say anything, simply walked past him, hands tucked in the pockets of that damned coat, and Bodie found himself falling in beside him. Like the good little soldier he was, he thought, frowning even harder, very aware of the drab green of his old army jacket, of the shirt he wore under it.
Of the ammo that still weighted his pockets.
The pavement was grey under his feet, the same colour as the sky, as the world he’d seen from the top of the tank… grey as Cowley’s coat.
The coat flapped suddenly in front of him, and he realised he was caught in a spill of pale light, surrounded by the low murmurs of a pub - was it that late in the day already? He paused - he’d followed Cowley through the front door of some old Victorian place, all dark wood, flocked wallpaper, and gleaming brass fittings. Cowley stopped too, eyeing the bar, then Bodie felt a hand on his shoulder, a force pushing him gently towards the tables, and he moved automatically. The back corner was empty, a small round table, bench along both sides of the wall, and the passage to the toilets out back was far enough away that there’d be space to move if he needed to, so he settled himself there, looked out at the world grimly, and no one met his eye.
Another flash of brightness caught his attention, Cowley’s idea of a soothing drink, no less, a glass of pure malt scotch placed carefully in front of him, another set down beside it with the same golden glow, the same shining glass, the same promise of oblivion. One each. Then Cowley was undoing the buttons of his coat, sliding it off and hanging it neatly from the row of hooks near the hallway, smoothing what was left of his hair, and sitting beside him, at the other side of the corner.
Did he even know he’d put his back to the wall, Bodie wondered, leaning forward and picking up his drink, breathing in the warmth of the fumes even before his lips met the hard glass, let its fire slide into his mouth, down his throat, through his veins.
“She wasn’t for you, lad,” Cowley said at last, quietly, tilting his head and looking him full in the face. “And you knew that.”
Bodie said nothing, took another sip of his drink. It was a generous double, unadulterated by anything, but not nearly enough to get him properly drunk and forgetful, if that was what the bastard wanted.
“Men like you - and Doyle…” Cowley paused, looked into his own glass for a moment, and Bodie wondered if he saw his life as golden as the drink. “…men like myself…” Cowley continued, “…there’s more to our lives than the women we bed.”
Only he hadn’t bedded Marikka, had he - not for long years. He felt again the soft cotton of the towel she’d worn, smelled the perfume that had enveloped her, had reached out to him as they tumbled onto the bed, as he tightened his arms around her.
He breathed in again deliberately, drew all the fires of Scotland through his senses, let Cowley’s voice wash over him, and wrapped his hands around the glass, hard, hard, and unyielding to his touch.
“…Annie was… well, she was an aberration, something… someone… that I once thought I could be…”
Marikka had her own hardness - she’d left him, after all, hadn’t she, for that… he couldn’t remember the man’s name any more, Derick, or Dietrich, or something like that…
He took another mouthful of whisky, lifting it so that the light glinted on the golden splash of it… It’d be Christmas soon enough, all golden lights in the dark... Doyle’d said something about roasting a chicken if they weren’t on duty… It’d been years since he’d bothered with Christmas, but Doyle was so keen he didn’t know how he’d get out of this one…
“…but she was true to herself at the end, and I take great comfort in that…”
He shifted in his seat, and the ammunition clunked against the edge of the table. He should have given it to Doyle along with the rifle, let the bullets trickle through his fingers like so much time through an hour glass… Years of it, bullets of it…
“…of love still to come.”
Love still to come? He shook his head, sipped again at the whisky. What was the point of thinking that when he worked for CI5, worked at a job that snatched away anything he wanted?
The sounds of the pub were louder now, more people joining the drinking throngs after work, washing away the sorrows of this and that - butcher, baker, candlestick maker… They were all in here, blending with Cowley’s voice so that it was all the one hum in his ears…
He was the only one here with bullets in his pockets.
He should have given them to Doyle, let Doyle take away the bullets, the years, the…
“…back at work on Monday, unless you’d like some time off…”
Not like the old man to give away holiday like that… He wondered if there’d be a funeral for her - something public and mournful, probably, just as she’d always wanted…
Bodie he heard, and looked up, straight into Cowley’s eyes.
The whisky settled itself around his heart, and something else, perhaps, a kind of peace, and Bodie took a breath.
“To old friends,” Cowley offered, lifting his whisky to the light.
Bodie nodded, listening to the noise of the pub, of the world, of the world Cowley paid him to look after.
“To old friends,” he said, and he tapped his glass to Cowley’s, to that of the man he’d let buy him a drink. “To being true.”
o0o
Title: Falling
Author: Slantedlight
Slash or Gen: Gen
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Certainly
Disclaimer: The lads and the CI5 universe belong to people other than me, I'm just borrowing...
franciskerst, set immediately after Fall Girl... Falling
by Slantedlight
“3.7!”
He was tempted to keep walking - he meant to keep walking, but it was that tone of voice - it was as if his body never could disobey that tone of voice.
Bodie turned, tried to blank his face, which was more than he’d done for Doyle when he shoved the FAL into his arms, but then he could never hide anything from Doyle, either.
Cowley - George Cowley - was a different matter.
Cowley stared at him for a moment, smart in his grey wool coat, a matched pair with Willis, though Cowley looked smoother with it. Bastard.
Marikka was a woman - they’d never come through for him - but to have been used by his own boss…
“Och man,” Cowley said at last, “Put that look away and come with me. You’ll be wanting a drink.”
“I don’t want a drink,” he managed, “sir.” He didn’t know what it was he wanted, except to be free of the whole lot of them, for a few moments, maybe, to mourn for his lost past - for Marikka - in peace.
Cowley didn’t say anything, simply walked past him, hands tucked in the pockets of that damned coat, and Bodie found himself falling in beside him. Like the good little soldier he was, he thought, frowning even harder, very aware of the drab green of his old army jacket, of the shirt he wore under it.
Of the ammo that still weighted his pockets.
The pavement was grey under his feet, the same colour as the sky, as the world he’d seen from the top of the tank… grey as Cowley’s coat.
The coat flapped suddenly in front of him, and he realised he was caught in a spill of pale light, surrounded by the low murmurs of a pub - was it that late in the day already? He paused - he’d followed Cowley through the front door of some old Victorian place, all dark wood, flocked wallpaper, and gleaming brass fittings. Cowley stopped too, eyeing the bar, then Bodie felt a hand on his shoulder, a force pushing him gently towards the tables, and he moved automatically. The back corner was empty, a small round table, bench along both sides of the wall, and the passage to the toilets out back was far enough away that there’d be space to move if he needed to, so he settled himself there, looked out at the world grimly, and no one met his eye.
Another flash of brightness caught his attention, Cowley’s idea of a soothing drink, no less, a glass of pure malt scotch placed carefully in front of him, another set down beside it with the same golden glow, the same shining glass, the same promise of oblivion. One each. Then Cowley was undoing the buttons of his coat, sliding it off and hanging it neatly from the row of hooks near the hallway, smoothing what was left of his hair, and sitting beside him, at the other side of the corner.
Did he even know he’d put his back to the wall, Bodie wondered, leaning forward and picking up his drink, breathing in the warmth of the fumes even before his lips met the hard glass, let its fire slide into his mouth, down his throat, through his veins.
“She wasn’t for you, lad,” Cowley said at last, quietly, tilting his head and looking him full in the face. “And you knew that.”
Bodie said nothing, took another sip of his drink. It was a generous double, unadulterated by anything, but not nearly enough to get him properly drunk and forgetful, if that was what the bastard wanted.
“Men like you - and Doyle…” Cowley paused, looked into his own glass for a moment, and Bodie wondered if he saw his life as golden as the drink. “…men like myself…” Cowley continued, “…there’s more to our lives than the women we bed.”
Only he hadn’t bedded Marikka, had he - not for long years. He felt again the soft cotton of the towel she’d worn, smelled the perfume that had enveloped her, had reached out to him as they tumbled onto the bed, as he tightened his arms around her.
He breathed in again deliberately, drew all the fires of Scotland through his senses, let Cowley’s voice wash over him, and wrapped his hands around the glass, hard, hard, and unyielding to his touch.
“…Annie was… well, she was an aberration, something… someone… that I once thought I could be…”
Marikka had her own hardness - she’d left him, after all, hadn’t she, for that… he couldn’t remember the man’s name any more, Derick, or Dietrich, or something like that…
He took another mouthful of whisky, lifting it so that the light glinted on the golden splash of it… It’d be Christmas soon enough, all golden lights in the dark... Doyle’d said something about roasting a chicken if they weren’t on duty… It’d been years since he’d bothered with Christmas, but Doyle was so keen he didn’t know how he’d get out of this one…
“…but she was true to herself at the end, and I take great comfort in that…”
He shifted in his seat, and the ammunition clunked against the edge of the table. He should have given it to Doyle along with the rifle, let the bullets trickle through his fingers like so much time through an hour glass… Years of it, bullets of it…
“…of love still to come.”
Love still to come? He shook his head, sipped again at the whisky. What was the point of thinking that when he worked for CI5, worked at a job that snatched away anything he wanted?
The sounds of the pub were louder now, more people joining the drinking throngs after work, washing away the sorrows of this and that - butcher, baker, candlestick maker… They were all in here, blending with Cowley’s voice so that it was all the one hum in his ears…
He was the only one here with bullets in his pockets.
He should have given them to Doyle, let Doyle take away the bullets, the years, the…
“…back at work on Monday, unless you’d like some time off…”
Not like the old man to give away holiday like that… He wondered if there’d be a funeral for her - something public and mournful, probably, just as she’d always wanted…
Bodie he heard, and looked up, straight into Cowley’s eyes.
The whisky settled itself around his heart, and something else, perhaps, a kind of peace, and Bodie took a breath.
“To old friends,” Cowley offered, lifting his whisky to the light.
Bodie nodded, listening to the noise of the pub, of the world, of the world Cowley paid him to look after.
“To old friends,” he said, and he tapped his glass to Cowley’s, to that of the man he’d let buy him a drink. “To being true.”
Title: Falling
Author: Slantedlight
Slash or Gen: Gen
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Certainly
Disclaimer: The lads and the CI5 universe belong to people other than me, I'm just borrowing...
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Date: 2012-12-23 11:21 am (UTC)