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discoveredinaljBecause of the generosity of two wonderful Pro’s fans, you not only get a story, but also some gorgeous unexpected and unsolicited artwork! Big hugs and thanks to the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
snailbones and minori_k And a big thank you also goes to my beta, moonlightmead! I didn’t follow all your advice this time, but thanks for making this a better story than the one I originally sent to you!
Happy Holidays, everyone!
Doyle groaned at the sound of the R/T. “It’s bloody Christmas Eve and I’m off duty!” he shouted at the CI5 dispatcher.
“You’re never off duty, 4.5. There’s an IRA bomb threat near St. Michael’s. Cowley wants you there yesterday.”
“Yeah, okay,” he muttered, resigned. “4.5 out.”
He heard Bodie stretch and yawn in the bed beside him, and then a smug, badly accented Scottish “On yer bike, Raymondo!” was stifled by an encounter with a spare bed pillow.
“You’ll be late,” Bodie teased, slapping Doyle’s arse as he climbed out of bed.
“Berk.” Doyle hit him again with the pillow.
The Capri slid up against the kerb just as the Rose and Crown erupted in smoke and flames. The force of the blast shattered the windows in the neighbouring church. Doyle leapt out of the driver’s seat, not bothering to turn off the engine or close the car door. He fought his way through the panicked stream of Christmas Eve worshippers fleeing the old church. Wood, stone and glass mixed with the evening’s snow, caught in the reflection of the burning flames, falling in a multi-hued cascade. It was, he thought absently, almost beautiful. Noting that the pub was dark, and there was no one running out the broken door, Doyle turned his attention to the church. Running up the steps into the burning building he spared a quick thought for the man he’d left sprawled warm and naked in his bed.
Doyle had been left with no doubt that Bodie, injured and on medical leave, had not been happy to have their Christmas celebration interrupted. The quietly serious, ’ Be careful, Ray,’ as Doyle had left the flat told him that Bodie was not best pleased to see his lover running into danger without back-up. He would understand, but he wouldn’t like it. They had agreed the job came first, but the agreement never made it any easier to be the one left behind.
As he reached the entryway, a second explosion rocked the street. The blast sent him back down the stairs to land on his knees in the street by the Capri. The police were crawling over the scene and an officer helped him to his feet, steadying him as he staggered upright.
“Doyle. CI5.” He could barely hear his own voice through the roaring in his ears as he flipped open his ID. “I need to get in there.” He gestured at the church.
The officer acknowledged his understanding with an exaggerated nod and took him through the cordon being set up by the police. They quickly ran up the steps and into the church. Hearing returned slowly and he registered the whine of sirens, the crash of falling debris, the snap of crackling flames, people crying, and as if denying it all, the continued ringing of the church’s bells, marking the slow passage of time. He looked around, assessing the situation. The thick smell of scorched wood left a bitter taste in his throat. The officer tugged at his sleeve to get his attention and pointed at the altar area. Doyle saw rescuers pulling children out of the collapsed chancel. Cursing terrorists and bombers and their willingness to hurt innocents to make their point, he raced in through the burning wreckage to help.
What seemed hours later Doyle found himself back on the front steps of the church, lungs burning from breathing in the heat of the now extinguished fire, fingers bleeding from glass shards and wood splinters. He leaned over and rested his hands on his thighs trying to catch his breath. Images of the broken bodies of the children played across his mind. Closing his eyes didn’t help; he could still smell the blood and hear the cries. His eyes burned with sadness and anger. Mainly anger. At least Bodie had been spared this. He took a deep shuddering breath, wincing as the heated air burned his throat, and straightened up. The officer that had led him into the church, PC Devon, handed him a drink. Before he could raise it to his lips, a young girl escaped the hold of her parent’s and threw herself at him, grabbing at his hand.
“You have to go back in there!” She tugged at Doyle’s arm.
“Elizabeth!” he mother yelled, chasing after her.
He looked down at the girl. Tears and dirt marred her face but her blue eyes were fierce. “My brother. He’s still in there. You have to go back and get him.”
The fireman standing next to Doyle shook his head. “There’s no one left in there, love. We’ve checked.”
She ignored him, still pulling on Doyle’s arm. “I saw you bring the others out. You have to find my brother.”
Taking a deep drink, sure that this task would end with him carrying the body of a dead child in his arms and on into his nightmares, Doyle steeled himself and nodded. “What’s 'is name, then?” he asked the girl.
“Billy.”
Doyle rolled his eyes. Of course it is. What else could it be? he thought to himself.
He turned to PC Devon. “Let’s find Billy, shall we?”
PC Devon grimaced through his smoke-blackened face. “Yes, sir.”
They moved back into the church, pushing aside broken pews, digging through ruined church regalia, calling out for the missing child.
“Billy!” There was no answer to their shouts; their eyes met in resignation. Not willing to give up, Doyle moved closer to where the altar had been and called out again. This time he heard a muffled response.
“Billy? Is that you? Can you hear me, Billy?”
“Down here.” Doyle followed the sound of the voice to a gap in the floor. A dirty face looked up at him, wide-eyed. The child had fallen through some collapsed floor boards and was hiding in a small space beneath the chancel.
Doyle lowered himself into the space. Seeing incipient tears, he ruffled the boy’s hair and said with a smile, “Easy now, you’re safe.” He took his jacket off and wrapped it around the shivering child, then picked him up. Holding him against his chest, he asked, “All right?” He felt the child nod. “Not hurt, are you?”
“No, sir.” The words were shaky but certain.
Doyle smiled at the title. “Must be gettin’ old, you’re the second one to call me “sir” in as many hours.” He gently tousled the child’s hair again. “Shall we get out of here, Billy, and find your mum?”
The child stiffened in Doyle’s embrace. “My sister. She’s-”
“Red hair, blue eyes and a bit bossy?”
Billy giggled. “That’s her.”
“Ah, that’s all right, then. She’s safe. She’s the one sent me in after you.”
There was a loud crack outside their shelter and a low creaking sound filled the space they occupied. The broken floor boards surrounding them shifted. Dust drifted down around them. Billy coughed and held onto Doyle tighter.
“Mr Doyle!” PC Devon shouted, “You better get out of there. The building isn’t stable.”
Doyle looked into the scared face inches from his own and winked. “That’s our hint to get moving.” He grabbed Billy around the waist and lifted him up so PC Devon could reach him. “You go first. There’s a policeman waiting for you.” Reading the panic setting into the young boy’s face, he assured him, “I’ll be right behind you.”
Bodie threw back the covers. “Bugger this! If he thinks I’m going to let him walk into an IRA bombing without me, he’s got another think coming.” He winced as he bumped his still healing arm. “And Cowley can do the other as well.”
Smoke clung to the ruins of the church and stealthily crept out into the surrounding streets obscuring the figures busily/methodically looking for survivors and evidence. Snow and ash danced together lifted and spun round by cold gusts of wind. The acrid haze burned Bodie’s eyes and caught in his throat as he moved to join his boss at a makeshift command centre.
“Ah, Bodie, why am I not surprised?” Cowley looked over his injured agent. “Are you fit, 3.7?”
“As you see, sir.” Bodie’s tone was bland.
“Aye, but what did the doctor say?”
Bodie didn’t answer. He pulled his collar tighter around his neck.
Cowley sighed. “You’ll do. We’re in the cleanup stage here. Witnesses are in the cafe across the street.
Take Murphy and see what you can get out of them. And, Bodie...”
“Sir?”
“Try not to do any more damage to yourself. We’re shorthanded as it is.”
“Of course, sir.”
Bodie turned to see Murphy coming up behind him. He nodded a greeting. Murphy smiled and asked, “How’s the arm?”
Bodie flexed his gloved fingers in the cold. “Better.” Together they walked towards the cafe. Once across the road, Murphy stopped Bodie with a hand on his chest. “Was bloody awful, Bodie. The church was crowded with it being Christmas Eve. The bombs went off in the pub, which was thankfully empty. The church was damaged in the blasts. The knave and the altar area were hardest hit. Most of the people were able to get out with minor injuries. But there had been a children’s choir, singing up front as people came into the church. The warning from the IRA came too late for anyone to do anything. Doyle arrived as the first bomb went off. He saw the church go up. He was one of the first ones in; the first to find the children.”
“Where is he, Murph?”
“Over there.” Murphy pointed at a brown Cortina parked a few feet away. “I’ll get started on the witnesses, join me when you can.” Murphy clapped him on the shoulder and entered the cafe.
Bodie walked quickly to the car, his shoes crunching through the accumulating snow announcing his presence. As he got closer, he heard the unmistakeable sound of retching, of a man trying to turn himself inside out. He had a quick flashback to the first time Doyle had had to kill a man and had tried to hide this same reaction. He quietly cleared his throat in case Doyle hadn’t heard his approach and said, “Thought you’d given up this behaviour years ago, mate.” And as expected he got a low growl in response. He heard a shuddering indrawn breath and then “Don’t make jokes, Bodie. Don’t you joke.”
He knelt down and squeezed Doyle’s shoulder. “That bad, Ray?” He passed over a clean white handkerchief.
“Worse.” The body beneath his hand shivered, the combination of cold and anger too much for stressed nerves to contain. Doyle took the offered handkerchief, wiped his mouth and stood up, unsteadily. “Ta.” He didn’t look at his partner.
“Ray.” Bodie reached a hand out to capture the back of Doyle’s neck.
“Kids, Bodie. The church was full of kids.” Doyle took a shaky breath. “I found a little girl, Bodie. No more’n six.” He swallowed hard. “She’ll be blind – if she survives. And then there were...”
“We’ve seen this-”
Doyle’s eyes bored into his partner’s. “Bodie-” He started to speak but his voice broke. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, stood and banged clenched fists hard against the bonnet of the car. The noise and his voice were swallowed up by the thickening snow as he pleaded, “Tell me again how we’re making a fucking bit of difference, Bodie.” He pointed at the group of parents waiting anxiously by the church. “Tell them.”
Bodie had no words. He stepped forward again and gathered Doyle into a tight embrace. Doyle accepted the offered comfort this time and buried his face in Bodie’s neck.
“It’s fuckin’ Christmas, Bodie!” Doyle’s ragged whisper brushed across Bodie’s ear. Bodie continued to rock him gently.
“And Father Christmas wouldn’t be pleased to hear you talkin’ like that, old son.” Bodie felt Doyle relax a little in his grasp. He heard a reluctant chuckle.
“And Father wouldn’t be pleased to see his top team wrapped around each other in public, either.” Doyle took a step back. “Know which one I’d rather not displease!” Bodie took Doyle’s face between his hands and gently shook the curly head. Doyle met his eyes with and murmured a quiet, “Thanks.”
Bodie nodded and tipped his head towards the church. “Back to work?”
The air around the pub and the church had grown quiet. The sirens were gone with the injured sent off to hospital. The fires had been put out. Snow still fell, blanketing those kneeling quietly in grief as the vicar led them in prayer. Someone had found candles and a soft yellow glow lit the falling snowflakes, deepening the night’s stillness. Softly, slowly, voices rose to fill the emptiness. The sound grew, mournful and yet somehow comforting.
Doyle froze when he heard the singing.
“How?” Doyle’s voice cracked. “After all this...” He gestured at the destruction around them.
“Faith, Ray. Simple faith.”
“Not so simple.” Doyle shook his head. “It’s beyond me.” As he looked out over the kneeling people he found Billy and his sister wrapped in their mother’s arms. The little girl met his eyes and stood up. Her mother took her hand to pull her back down. The girl bent closer to whisper something to her. Her mother smiled gently and let her go. The girl walked to Ray, a candle in her hand. When she got close she raised the candle and silently gestured that he should take it. He squatted down and accepted it. She leaned in and brushed a kiss against his cold-reddened cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered shyly and turned and ran back to her family.
Doyle remained kneeling, candle glowing softly in one hand, the other hand absently raised to touch his cheek, where he could still feel the warm brush of the child’s whisper. He stood and Bodie gently brushed snow from his hair. Doyle looked back at the church members and listened to their song, envying their ability to believe. His eyes fell on Billy and his family again and a little bit of the magic Christmas had held when he was a child came back to him, bringing with it a touch of warmth and promise.
Faith, Bodie had said. His mum had believed all the church had taught her. He’d never understood where that belief came from or how she held on to it despite what life had thrown at them. And the things he’d seen since that time made him question all the more. But faith – he did have that, didn’t he. Standing right next to him. And it was enough.
Bodie watched the tension leave his partner’s shoulders, saw the ghosts of what Doyle had witnessed earlier retreat a bit from his eyes.
“Faith, mate. in spite of all, some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Bodie put a hand on Doyle’s shoulder and squeezed. “Happy Christmas, Ray.”
Title: A Light in the Dark
Author: Merentha 13
Slash or Gen: slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: yes
Disclaimer: Just borrowing the lads, no copyright infringement intended
Notes: Bodie’s quote is from “Endymion” by John Keats
snailbones and minori_k And a big thank you also goes to my beta, moonlightmead! I didn’t follow all your advice this time, but thanks for making this a better story than the one I originally sent to you!Happy Holidays, everyone!
Doyle groaned at the sound of the R/T. “It’s bloody Christmas Eve and I’m off duty!” he shouted at the CI5 dispatcher.
“You’re never off duty, 4.5. There’s an IRA bomb threat near St. Michael’s. Cowley wants you there yesterday.”
“Yeah, okay,” he muttered, resigned. “4.5 out.”
He heard Bodie stretch and yawn in the bed beside him, and then a smug, badly accented Scottish “On yer bike, Raymondo!” was stifled by an encounter with a spare bed pillow.
“You’ll be late,” Bodie teased, slapping Doyle’s arse as he climbed out of bed.
“Berk.” Doyle hit him again with the pillow.
The Capri slid up against the kerb just as the Rose and Crown erupted in smoke and flames. The force of the blast shattered the windows in the neighbouring church. Doyle leapt out of the driver’s seat, not bothering to turn off the engine or close the car door. He fought his way through the panicked stream of Christmas Eve worshippers fleeing the old church. Wood, stone and glass mixed with the evening’s snow, caught in the reflection of the burning flames, falling in a multi-hued cascade. It was, he thought absently, almost beautiful. Noting that the pub was dark, and there was no one running out the broken door, Doyle turned his attention to the church. Running up the steps into the burning building he spared a quick thought for the man he’d left sprawled warm and naked in his bed.
Doyle had been left with no doubt that Bodie, injured and on medical leave, had not been happy to have their Christmas celebration interrupted. The quietly serious, ’ Be careful, Ray,’ as Doyle had left the flat told him that Bodie was not best pleased to see his lover running into danger without back-up. He would understand, but he wouldn’t like it. They had agreed the job came first, but the agreement never made it any easier to be the one left behind.
As he reached the entryway, a second explosion rocked the street. The blast sent him back down the stairs to land on his knees in the street by the Capri. The police were crawling over the scene and an officer helped him to his feet, steadying him as he staggered upright.
“Doyle. CI5.” He could barely hear his own voice through the roaring in his ears as he flipped open his ID. “I need to get in there.” He gestured at the church.
The officer acknowledged his understanding with an exaggerated nod and took him through the cordon being set up by the police. They quickly ran up the steps and into the church. Hearing returned slowly and he registered the whine of sirens, the crash of falling debris, the snap of crackling flames, people crying, and as if denying it all, the continued ringing of the church’s bells, marking the slow passage of time. He looked around, assessing the situation. The thick smell of scorched wood left a bitter taste in his throat. The officer tugged at his sleeve to get his attention and pointed at the altar area. Doyle saw rescuers pulling children out of the collapsed chancel. Cursing terrorists and bombers and their willingness to hurt innocents to make their point, he raced in through the burning wreckage to help.
What seemed hours later Doyle found himself back on the front steps of the church, lungs burning from breathing in the heat of the now extinguished fire, fingers bleeding from glass shards and wood splinters. He leaned over and rested his hands on his thighs trying to catch his breath. Images of the broken bodies of the children played across his mind. Closing his eyes didn’t help; he could still smell the blood and hear the cries. His eyes burned with sadness and anger. Mainly anger. At least Bodie had been spared this. He took a deep shuddering breath, wincing as the heated air burned his throat, and straightened up. The officer that had led him into the church, PC Devon, handed him a drink. Before he could raise it to his lips, a young girl escaped the hold of her parent’s and threw herself at him, grabbing at his hand.
“You have to go back in there!” She tugged at Doyle’s arm.
“Elizabeth!” he mother yelled, chasing after her.
He looked down at the girl. Tears and dirt marred her face but her blue eyes were fierce. “My brother. He’s still in there. You have to go back and get him.”
The fireman standing next to Doyle shook his head. “There’s no one left in there, love. We’ve checked.”
She ignored him, still pulling on Doyle’s arm. “I saw you bring the others out. You have to find my brother.”
Taking a deep drink, sure that this task would end with him carrying the body of a dead child in his arms and on into his nightmares, Doyle steeled himself and nodded. “What’s 'is name, then?” he asked the girl.
“Billy.”
Doyle rolled his eyes. Of course it is. What else could it be? he thought to himself.
He turned to PC Devon. “Let’s find Billy, shall we?”
PC Devon grimaced through his smoke-blackened face. “Yes, sir.”
They moved back into the church, pushing aside broken pews, digging through ruined church regalia, calling out for the missing child.
“Billy!” There was no answer to their shouts; their eyes met in resignation. Not willing to give up, Doyle moved closer to where the altar had been and called out again. This time he heard a muffled response.
“Billy? Is that you? Can you hear me, Billy?”
“Down here.” Doyle followed the sound of the voice to a gap in the floor. A dirty face looked up at him, wide-eyed. The child had fallen through some collapsed floor boards and was hiding in a small space beneath the chancel.
Doyle lowered himself into the space. Seeing incipient tears, he ruffled the boy’s hair and said with a smile, “Easy now, you’re safe.” He took his jacket off and wrapped it around the shivering child, then picked him up. Holding him against his chest, he asked, “All right?” He felt the child nod. “Not hurt, are you?”
“No, sir.” The words were shaky but certain.
Doyle smiled at the title. “Must be gettin’ old, you’re the second one to call me “sir” in as many hours.” He gently tousled the child’s hair again. “Shall we get out of here, Billy, and find your mum?”
The child stiffened in Doyle’s embrace. “My sister. She’s-”
“Red hair, blue eyes and a bit bossy?”
Billy giggled. “That’s her.”
“Ah, that’s all right, then. She’s safe. She’s the one sent me in after you.”
There was a loud crack outside their shelter and a low creaking sound filled the space they occupied. The broken floor boards surrounding them shifted. Dust drifted down around them. Billy coughed and held onto Doyle tighter.
“Mr Doyle!” PC Devon shouted, “You better get out of there. The building isn’t stable.”
Doyle looked into the scared face inches from his own and winked. “That’s our hint to get moving.” He grabbed Billy around the waist and lifted him up so PC Devon could reach him. “You go first. There’s a policeman waiting for you.” Reading the panic setting into the young boy’s face, he assured him, “I’ll be right behind you.”
Bodie threw back the covers. “Bugger this! If he thinks I’m going to let him walk into an IRA bombing without me, he’s got another think coming.” He winced as he bumped his still healing arm. “And Cowley can do the other as well.”
Smoke clung to the ruins of the church and stealthily crept out into the surrounding streets obscuring the figures busily/methodically looking for survivors and evidence. Snow and ash danced together lifted and spun round by cold gusts of wind. The acrid haze burned Bodie’s eyes and caught in his throat as he moved to join his boss at a makeshift command centre.
“Ah, Bodie, why am I not surprised?” Cowley looked over his injured agent. “Are you fit, 3.7?”
“As you see, sir.” Bodie’s tone was bland.
“Aye, but what did the doctor say?”
Bodie didn’t answer. He pulled his collar tighter around his neck.
Cowley sighed. “You’ll do. We’re in the cleanup stage here. Witnesses are in the cafe across the street.
Take Murphy and see what you can get out of them. And, Bodie...”
“Sir?”
“Try not to do any more damage to yourself. We’re shorthanded as it is.”
“Of course, sir.”
Bodie turned to see Murphy coming up behind him. He nodded a greeting. Murphy smiled and asked, “How’s the arm?”
Bodie flexed his gloved fingers in the cold. “Better.” Together they walked towards the cafe. Once across the road, Murphy stopped Bodie with a hand on his chest. “Was bloody awful, Bodie. The church was crowded with it being Christmas Eve. The bombs went off in the pub, which was thankfully empty. The church was damaged in the blasts. The knave and the altar area were hardest hit. Most of the people were able to get out with minor injuries. But there had been a children’s choir, singing up front as people came into the church. The warning from the IRA came too late for anyone to do anything. Doyle arrived as the first bomb went off. He saw the church go up. He was one of the first ones in; the first to find the children.”
“Where is he, Murph?”
“Over there.” Murphy pointed at a brown Cortina parked a few feet away. “I’ll get started on the witnesses, join me when you can.” Murphy clapped him on the shoulder and entered the cafe.
Bodie walked quickly to the car, his shoes crunching through the accumulating snow announcing his presence. As he got closer, he heard the unmistakeable sound of retching, of a man trying to turn himself inside out. He had a quick flashback to the first time Doyle had had to kill a man and had tried to hide this same reaction. He quietly cleared his throat in case Doyle hadn’t heard his approach and said, “Thought you’d given up this behaviour years ago, mate.” And as expected he got a low growl in response. He heard a shuddering indrawn breath and then “Don’t make jokes, Bodie. Don’t you joke.”
He knelt down and squeezed Doyle’s shoulder. “That bad, Ray?” He passed over a clean white handkerchief.
“Worse.” The body beneath his hand shivered, the combination of cold and anger too much for stressed nerves to contain. Doyle took the offered handkerchief, wiped his mouth and stood up, unsteadily. “Ta.” He didn’t look at his partner.
“Ray.” Bodie reached a hand out to capture the back of Doyle’s neck.
“Kids, Bodie. The church was full of kids.” Doyle took a shaky breath. “I found a little girl, Bodie. No more’n six.” He swallowed hard. “She’ll be blind – if she survives. And then there were...”
“We’ve seen this-”
Doyle’s eyes bored into his partner’s. “Bodie-” He started to speak but his voice broke. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, stood and banged clenched fists hard against the bonnet of the car. The noise and his voice were swallowed up by the thickening snow as he pleaded, “Tell me again how we’re making a fucking bit of difference, Bodie.” He pointed at the group of parents waiting anxiously by the church. “Tell them.”
Bodie had no words. He stepped forward again and gathered Doyle into a tight embrace. Doyle accepted the offered comfort this time and buried his face in Bodie’s neck.
“It’s fuckin’ Christmas, Bodie!” Doyle’s ragged whisper brushed across Bodie’s ear. Bodie continued to rock him gently.
“And Father Christmas wouldn’t be pleased to hear you talkin’ like that, old son.” Bodie felt Doyle relax a little in his grasp. He heard a reluctant chuckle.
“And Father wouldn’t be pleased to see his top team wrapped around each other in public, either.” Doyle took a step back. “Know which one I’d rather not displease!” Bodie took Doyle’s face between his hands and gently shook the curly head. Doyle met his eyes with and murmured a quiet, “Thanks.”
Bodie nodded and tipped his head towards the church. “Back to work?”
The air around the pub and the church had grown quiet. The sirens were gone with the injured sent off to hospital. The fires had been put out. Snow still fell, blanketing those kneeling quietly in grief as the vicar led them in prayer. Someone had found candles and a soft yellow glow lit the falling snowflakes, deepening the night’s stillness. Softly, slowly, voices rose to fill the emptiness. The sound grew, mournful and yet somehow comforting.
Doyle froze when he heard the singing.
“How?” Doyle’s voice cracked. “After all this...” He gestured at the destruction around them.
“Faith, Ray. Simple faith.”
“Not so simple.” Doyle shook his head. “It’s beyond me.” As he looked out over the kneeling people he found Billy and his sister wrapped in their mother’s arms. The little girl met his eyes and stood up. Her mother took her hand to pull her back down. The girl bent closer to whisper something to her. Her mother smiled gently and let her go. The girl walked to Ray, a candle in her hand. When she got close she raised the candle and silently gestured that he should take it. He squatted down and accepted it. She leaned in and brushed a kiss against his cold-reddened cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered shyly and turned and ran back to her family.
Doyle remained kneeling, candle glowing softly in one hand, the other hand absently raised to touch his cheek, where he could still feel the warm brush of the child’s whisper. He stood and Bodie gently brushed snow from his hair. Doyle looked back at the church members and listened to their song, envying their ability to believe. His eyes fell on Billy and his family again and a little bit of the magic Christmas had held when he was a child came back to him, bringing with it a touch of warmth and promise.
Faith, Bodie had said. His mum had believed all the church had taught her. He’d never understood where that belief came from or how she held on to it despite what life had thrown at them. And the things he’d seen since that time made him question all the more. But faith – he did have that, didn’t he. Standing right next to him. And it was enough.
Bodie watched the tension leave his partner’s shoulders, saw the ghosts of what Doyle had witnessed earlier retreat a bit from his eyes.
“Faith, mate. in spite of all, some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Bodie put a hand on Doyle’s shoulder and squeezed. “Happy Christmas, Ray.”
Title: A Light in the Dark
Author: Merentha 13
Slash or Gen: slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: yes
Disclaimer: Just borrowing the lads, no copyright infringement intended
Notes: Bodie’s quote is from “Endymion” by John Keats
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Date: 2013-12-18 04:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-18 04:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-18 06:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-18 11:27 am (UTC)And thanks to
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Date: 2013-12-18 11:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-18 11:55 am (UTC)The title image and illustration are just lovely and capture the mood exactly!
Well done all of you! :D
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Date: 2013-12-18 12:51 pm (UTC)Vey nicely done. And thanks to
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Date: 2013-12-18 02:53 pm (UTC)Wonderful - well done! I like it even more now than I did the first time round, and I loved it then ♥
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Date: 2013-12-19 01:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-19 01:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-19 01:27 am (UTC)Thank you.
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Date: 2013-12-19 01:29 am (UTC)Happy holidays to you! I hope you're enjoying England!
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Date: 2013-12-19 01:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-19 01:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-19 01:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-19 01:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-19 03:26 am (UTC)Great art! The title card is so nice and the little drawing is sweet. Well done. Thanks to all.
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Date: 2013-12-19 09:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-19 04:24 pm (UTC)lbc
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Date: 2013-12-19 08:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-20 02:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-20 02:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-20 02:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-20 08:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-28 04:36 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you enjoyed this! Faith and friendship is what Christmas should be all about. Thank you for your kind words!
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Date: 2013-12-29 08:16 pm (UTC)