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discoveredinaljWhew! I am finally going to post these! A bit of an explanation: for the DIALJ Christmas 2011 I wrote a short story that was meant to be followed immediately by a companion story. However, Christmas 2011 was a bit fraught, being marked by a lost dog (fortunately found, miraculously in time, beside a very busy highway) and my mother's fall on Christmas Eve that led to a broken wrist and the realization that I couldn't care for her, at her stage of dementia, at home anymore. That was followed by a year of moving her into a nursing home, worrying, planning, and (the next year) selling the family home and moving into an apartment. Therefore, not only was the companion story never written, I didn't write at all for the last year. This post marks, I hope, a return to regular writing for me.
I am posting both stories here, since they really do need to be read together. The first you may well have read already, so I'll put it under its own cut. The trailer that, er, trails, applies to both stories. I am rusty at the writing and the posting, I'm afraid! But I hope you will enjoy these stories of Christmas with the lads. Happy Christmas to all who celebrate it, and all the best for everyone for the new year!
There Is No Rest
By PFL
Take out the perimeter guards, Cowley had said. But they’d had no intel on numbers or locations. Quietly, Cowley had said. Doyle finished stuffing a sock into the mouth of the man he’d put down and handcuffed. He rolled the man under a bush, then paused to listen. His heart was beating rapidly. Where the fuck was Bodie? Night was closing in, casting the wood in deep shadow
He heard a twig snap, and he dived and rolled, regaining his feet just in time to block a blow to his head. He wrenched the man’s arm back and flipped him on his hip, then kicked the man full in the face when he tried to get up from the ground. Doyle breathed heavily, and stared at the man’s still form. Two men. They’d thought there’d by three at the most. He heard another sound, like a cry choked off. Bodie? Or — ?
Doyle moved quickly but quietly in the direction of the cry. He nearly tripped on a body, recovered his balance and saw two men grappling with one another. The men were silent, almost still as they struggled, and then there was a gasp and one of the men fell in a twist to the ground. Doyle ran to them, already certain it was Bodie on the ground, although there had been nothing but that gasp to identify him. There was a flash of light on metal as the man on his feet raised his hand. No. Doyle hit the man low and hard, taking him down, forcing the man’s arm under his body. He heard a muffled explosion, and the man in his arms jerked, then went limp. Doyle breathed out, then cautiously rose to his feet, eyes on the man he’d put down. Killed?
“Ray!”
Doyle reacted instantly to Bodie’s hoarse cry, turning and spinning away, registering another man rushing at him. Off-balance, Doyle tripped and landed on one knee. When he looked up again, Bodie had an arm-lock around the neck of the man. Bodie jerked, twisted, and dropped the man’s body to the ground.
Christ. Doyle closed his eyes for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet. He checked the man he had tackled, found him dead and took his gun. Bodie touched him on the shoulder and he followed Bodie to the edge of the woods overlooking the back of the farm house. Doyle took out his R/T, saw Bodie nod, and sent the pre-arranged signal to Cowley: clear. He settled on the ground beside Bodie. Their orders had been to take out the men in the woods, then wait for Cowley’s signal.
Bodie’s shoulder pressed against his, and for once Doyle welcomed the contact from his partner. Two years, three months. He’d told Cowley that not long ago. I’ve watched his back, he’s watched mine. The adrenaline was still flowing through his body, his senses were alert, but even so he relaxed next to Bodie. They’d survived when others hadn’t. He thought briefly of Tommy, who had put them on to Franks in the first place.
The early sunset on a winter’s day had worked in their favour. Cowley had ordered them in while he continued negotiating on the telephone with Franks in the farmhouse. But they were running out of time. The bombing plot Anson had uncovered might already be unfolding — probably was. Franks wouldn’t talk, but if they could get inside the house they might find some clues. Anson might know the details. If Anson was still alive in there.
Dammit! Unable to move forward, his mind circled back to the fight in the woods. He had secured the first man he’d taken out, but not the second. It had to have been that man who’d attacked him at the end. He was certain Bodie had killed his first man — that was the body he’d stumbled over. Doyle hadn’t checked his second man before he’d responded to Bodie’s cry. If he had killed him instead, as Bodie would have done… But he wasn’t Bodie. They had met four men in the woods. Matheson and King were on the opposite side of the farm house — were they waiting as well? How many men did Franks have? Was Anson alive? Would they be able to stop the bombing? What if — ?
“Come on.” Bodie’s voice was barely a whisper under his breath — frustration rather than a signal to move.
“Wait.” Oddly, saying the word calmed him. Or perhaps it was his instinctive reaction to Bodie’s impatience.
Bodie sighed, and Doyle felt it against his arm. He nudged Bodie in a gesture of sympathy. They were like chalk and cheese, as Cowley often said, but they understood one another. They needed to act, but they’d wait, still and ready, like the dogs of war they were. At least they were safe for now.
Doyle’s breathing eased, his heart slowed to normal speed, and a strange sort of…contentment stole over him. He felt it even though he’d killed tonight. It wasn’t his first kill, and it wouldn’t be his last. He’d signed on with CI5 in full knowledge of what he’d do, and what it might do to him. He knew there was a part of him that took a sort of pleasure in — Not the killing itself, but in the release of anger. He’d learnt to control that part of himself long ago. He’d done it through shame and will combined — the twin voices in his head that sometimes left him hollow-eyed and sick, at war with himself. Disgusted with himself. He was afraid of what would happen if he didn’t listen to the voices.
And yet. The voices were softened tonight — calm rather than excoriating. He’d killed out of necessity. He’d channelled anger and skill for the benefit of others. He’d protected his partner. And when the command came for him to kill again, he’d go with Bodie at his side. That thought — as insane as it was in these circumstances — put him at ease. He was all right as long as Bodie was with him, calming him with a touch, balancing him. Somehow, after two years and four months, Bodie was his. Christ, he must be mad. Doyle smiled, then felt something soft and wet on his face, and realised as he looked up that it was snowing lightly, silently — as quiet as they were in a moment of rest.
Could men of violence have peace as well? His heart had slowed, but he could feel a heavy beat in his stomach. And something that felt like light flashed through him, leaving clarity behind. War and peace. Chalk and cheese. It was a balance they lived and made livable — precarious, perhaps, but it was theirs. Bodie’s and his.
His R/T bleeped twice. They moved at the same time, swift and low like wolves on the hunt. And the violence was quick and extreme as they took out Franks and his men, joined in the fight by Matheson and King, Williams and Lake, and Turner. In the middle of the firefight, with his ears ringing and his blood singing, Doyle caught a grin from Bodie. He gave it back to him, saw an eyebrow go up, and laughed as he fired another round. They found Anson, damaged but alive. Their only other casualty was Williams, who suffered a deep bullet graze along his thigh.
After they’d won, Doyle supported Anson as he spoke into the R/T Bodie held to his mouth. “Two bombs, sir. Vans. Oxford Str — “ Anson gasped, then continued: “...and Regent Street. Closing…time...” Anson slumped against Doyle, eyes closed.
Bodie spoke into the R/T. “He’s out, sir.”
“It’s enough. Word’s gone out.” Cowley’s voice was brisk. “Bodie, you and Doyle — “
Anson lifted his head and a hand.
“Oh, wait sir.” Bodie held the R/T for Anson again. “Clint Eastwood has revived.”
“Bomb-maker…Luton...”
Doyle grabbed the R/T as Anson fainted again. “A blue Escort, sir — left about forty minutes ago. Biggs followed.”
“I’ll contact him. Bodie, Doyle, Turner, get to Luton. Find the bomb-maker. The rest of you clean up there. Ambulance is on its way.”
They left the farmhouse at a run, heading for their car parked a mile and a half away on the road. The cold air filled his lungs, and brought a rosy hue to Bodie’s cheeks, as he saw when they reached the car. Turner had fallen behind, and they were alone again. The world seemed to pause around them, in their isolation. The snow had stopped, leaving a little more than a dusting behind, and a scent in the air that promised more. Doyle brushed the snow from the rear windscreen as Bodie started the car.
Christmas was in a week. Perhaps... A yearning swept through Doyle, stripping away caution and sense. He wanted this peace, and their own world. He leant on the open driver’s side door. “What are you doing for Christmas?” His voice was normal, but it felt like his heart was in his throat.
Bodie looked up at him, and there was a pause that froze Doyle’s breath. “Julia,” Bodie said. He turned his head away. “Remember?”
Doyle didn’t, and he would have. He forced himself to speak. “Trust you. Thought you said she was finished with you?” He was good at facing reality. He always had been.
“Yeah, well, the lack...”
“Of sense, yes.” Doyle nodded, then straightened. “Here’s Turner.”
“At bloody last.”
Doyle closed the driver’s door, hurried to the passenger side and slid into the car as Turner climbed into the back. Bodie took off in a squeal of tyres and they were on the chase again.
No rest. No break. He should have known. Julia. Chalk and cheese. Calm and disquiet. They lived on the edge. But he’d hold the tranquility he’d found in a frosted wood in his heart — a secret all his own. It had been a moment of peace in the madness, when the world had been theirs alone, and full of promise.
END
December 2011
Because You’re Mine
By PFL
Bodie woke in Doyle’s bed. He lay still for a minute, absorbing the familiar sounds and the tranquility that Doyle somehow created in all his flats. Call it a sense of home, although that thought made Bodie uneasy. And yet, he had been the one who had wanted to crash here last night — this morning.
It’s Christmas — you invited me for Christmas.
Eh?
Well, you were going to, you never did get around to it. You asked me what I was doing — on the Franks op.
That was four years ago, mate. And you were busy.
Well, I’m not now. C’mon, Ray. Could murder for a bed.
If you snore, I’m shooting you.
Fair enough. Put me out of me misery, anyway.
They had been on the run without a break for days, and they were both exhausted. Bloody bombing run-up to bloody Christmas. It never ended, did it? Four years of it — and before that with the SAS and Paras. Cowley had finally released them a little after three in the morning with a curt order not to show their faces to him again until they could stand straight. Bodie had driven them to Doyle’s, and he hadn’t wanted to go any further.
Be honest. He hadn’t wanted to let Doyle out of his sight.
Bodie opened his eyes, glanced at where Doyle must have slept, although he was gone now. He sat up and eased to the edge of the bed, groaning when he saw the low angle of the sun through the window. They’d slept most of Christmas Day — or he had, anyway. Last night, he had pulled on a t-shirt and jogging bottoms and collapsed onto the bed, along with Doyle. If he had dreamt, he didn’t remember it, just the bliss of unconsciousness, when silence was safe. He put his face in his hands, too many thoughts swirling through his brain. He didn’t want to think. He’d had too much time to think when Doyle was in hospital, when Doyle was in surgery, even when Bodie had been in that damn lift that had seemed to take forever to get down to the car —
Bodie stood up. Doyle had changed flats after the shooting. The bedroom was different than the one he’d examined when Cowley had ordered him onto the case. There's nothing you can do here, Cowley had said. Bodie had been grateful — action was a familiar panacea. But Cowley had taken him to Ray’s, where there had been little for him to do. He remembered trying not to think, and then trying to sense Doyle in the arrangement of his things, seeking…he didn’t know what. But the flat had been empty without Doyle, its tranquility destroyed.
Bodie crossed the room to Doyle’s wardrobe. A shower was what he needed, and then there was the day to be faced. He pulled a bag out of the wardrobe, stashed there for just such an occasion. He kept a bag at Doyle’s, another at HQ, and another in the car he stored — a bag in every port, good for quick getaways. He had become an expert at leaving, at knowing when it was time to go. It kept him safe. Change was inevitable, he’d rather keep ahead of it. He headed for the bathroom, but heard the shower as he neared it. He was about to turn round, when he heard the water shut off, so he leaned against the wall to wait. “You’d better have left me some hot water,” he called through the door. Doyle’s response was too mumbled to make out. Bodie’s stomach growled. When was the last time they’d eaten? Breakfast the day before…no, he’d grabbed a sandwich off the shelf at the petrol station. Doyle had turned up his nose at it, although that hadn’t stopped him from filching half of it when Bodie had been distracted by traffic. Bodie had complained, as expected, but he’d been glad to see Doyle eating. Doyle had passed fit, but he was still slightly underweight. Bodie closed his eyes as he leaned his head back against the wall. Fuck it, he had to stop thinking like that. Doyle wouldn’t thank him for the nagging. It was past time to move on. But that thought caused an unexpected twist in his stomach. He turned his head towards the door. “Hurry up, Ray.” Maybe they could go down the pub, get some food — damn, it was Christmas, wasn’t it?
The bathroom door opened. “All right, all right,” Doyle said. “Trust you to sleep like the dead then immediately get up when it’s most inconvenient.”
Bodie pushed away from the wall. “What food have you got…?” His voice trailed off as Doyle, clad only in a towel, emerged from the bathroom. The scars from Mayli’s bullets and the surgery were vivid on Doyle’s skin. Bodie had seen them before, but not since the early, post op days. His mouth dried up; he felt as if he’d been sucker punched.
“Already checked, mate. I have bread. And cheese. And maybe a couple of cans of beans. Well, it’s your fault for insisting on staying when you know I haven’t — “ Doyle stopped speaking as Bodie’s silence clearly penetrated. And it seemed he read Bodie as easily as he did in the field, because his expression turned grim. “Dammit, Bodie.” He made as if to brush past, but Bodie grabbed his arm.
“Ray.”
At first it seemed as if Doyle would throw him off, but he quietened instead, although Bodie could feel the tension in him. “Thought it would be okay with you,” he said finally. “Reckon I ought to wait on the birds a while, eh?”
It was an attempt at humour, but Bodie couldn’t respond in kind. He was too busy being appalled at the emotions roiling within him, and his inability to hide them. He needed to do something. Doyle would break away in a moment and he didn’t want that. He tightened his grip.
“All right.” Doyle’s eyes met his. “Look your fill, then.” His voice was oddly, damningly gentle, as if it didn’t matter what Bodie had revealed, as if it were safe.
Fear galvanized him and he took refuge in action. He raised his other hand to cup Doyle’s cheek and the back of his head, and pulled Doyle towards him. He registered the shift to shock in Doyle’s eyes, felt something like triumph at it, but when their lips met there was no resistance. Bodie’s senses were overwhelmed in an instant: sight, smell, touch, and he heard Doyle murmur just before he tasted him at last. It was right, so bloody right, to be with Doyle like this. Joy pierced him like an arrow, pinned him. The kiss deepened and Bodie would willingly have stayed there forever, immersed in Doyle, but Doyle pushed him away.
Bodie took a step back, started to turn away, joy turned to panic, but Doyle grabbed him. He caught a glimpse of something fierce in Doyle’s eyes, and then he was in Doyle’s arms, being kissed by Doyle, and he didn’t want to break free. He understood this kind of need, the desire that drove them to each other, and to the bed, burying any doubts or hesitation in the urge for completion. Doyle was like a live wire in his hands, and he wanted nothing more than to bury his fear and confusion in him. And yet, he slowed them down, calmed Doyle with a touch, tracing the contours of Doyle’s scars with his fingers, and then his mouth.
“Bodie.” Doyle’s voice was nothing but a whisper. His breathing, ragged at first, eased under Bodie’s touch. One of Doyle’s hands came to rest on Bodie’s head. “You and me.”
Nearly lost you, Bodie thought, but couldn’t say. Doyle seemed to understand, though, or at least he brought Bodie’s mouth back to his own for a deep kiss, and then he pulled back a few inches. “Don’t think much of your finishing technique, Three-seven.”
“Oh, yeah?” Bodie grinned, feeling lit with life, like he did after a firefight. “You’ll pay for that.” And though Doyle tried to turn the tables more than once, and nearly succeeded when he wrapped both his hands round Bodie’s cock, Bodie made them both wait to come until Doyle was moaning and his own body’s demands were overwhelming. He brought them home then, taking Doyle’s release into his mouth and his own comfort against Doyle’s body.
Silence engulfed them as passion faded, and despite the peace, Bodie’s heart seemed to start pounding again. It felt as if he could hear it in the silence between them. He was afraid of Doyle’s reaction, of Doyle himself, and of what he might — could — demand of Bodie. The silence was oppressive, as it always had been, right from the start in his own home with a drunken father and a fearful mother. Home was never a refuge he sought, and he fled from silence and the promise of a peace that never was. And yet, sometimes, in the waiting between action in a firefight, with Doyle by his side, he felt content to be still and quiet. It almost felt…safe. But such moments were fleeting. They had to face the day —
“It’s Christmas,” Doyle said in a hushed voice, as if it meant something. And maybe it did, because Bodie found himself allowing Doyle to draw him back down until he lay against Doyle, his arm across Doyle’s chest, his fingers just brushing the upper scar. He buried his face against Doyle’s shoulder. The silence settled again, but it seemed lighter. He could feel Doyle breathing, strong and steady, as sure as his aim with a gun. Doyle’s arm was heavy on Bodie’s back, not pressing him down, but sheltering him. His partner who watched his back.
Minutes went by, and in the quiet tranquility of Doyle’s flat, he allowed himself to name the yearnings he’d buried for so long: acceptance, peace, home. Maybe he didn’t need to banish silence with action. Maybe. He could...
“Ray?”
“I told you: beans and cheese and toast, that’s it.”
“What are you doing Boxing Day?”
“You.” Doyle’s voice turned reflective: “Us.”
It was that still moment between action, when he was safe with Doyle. He could trust in that, couldn’t he? They might just make it last. “There’s food at my place.”
“And all is balanced in the world,” Doyle murmured, just before he kissed him.
END
December 2013
Title: "There Is No Rest" and "Because You're Mine"
Author: PFL
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib: Yes, please. I will send files! These will be up on A03 for easy downloading.
I am posting both stories here, since they really do need to be read together. The first you may well have read already, so I'll put it under its own cut. The trailer that, er, trails, applies to both stories. I am rusty at the writing and the posting, I'm afraid! But I hope you will enjoy these stories of Christmas with the lads. Happy Christmas to all who celebrate it, and all the best for everyone for the new year!
There Is No Rest
By PFL
Take out the perimeter guards, Cowley had said. But they’d had no intel on numbers or locations. Quietly, Cowley had said. Doyle finished stuffing a sock into the mouth of the man he’d put down and handcuffed. He rolled the man under a bush, then paused to listen. His heart was beating rapidly. Where the fuck was Bodie? Night was closing in, casting the wood in deep shadow
He heard a twig snap, and he dived and rolled, regaining his feet just in time to block a blow to his head. He wrenched the man’s arm back and flipped him on his hip, then kicked the man full in the face when he tried to get up from the ground. Doyle breathed heavily, and stared at the man’s still form. Two men. They’d thought there’d by three at the most. He heard another sound, like a cry choked off. Bodie? Or — ?
Doyle moved quickly but quietly in the direction of the cry. He nearly tripped on a body, recovered his balance and saw two men grappling with one another. The men were silent, almost still as they struggled, and then there was a gasp and one of the men fell in a twist to the ground. Doyle ran to them, already certain it was Bodie on the ground, although there had been nothing but that gasp to identify him. There was a flash of light on metal as the man on his feet raised his hand. No. Doyle hit the man low and hard, taking him down, forcing the man’s arm under his body. He heard a muffled explosion, and the man in his arms jerked, then went limp. Doyle breathed out, then cautiously rose to his feet, eyes on the man he’d put down. Killed?
“Ray!”
Doyle reacted instantly to Bodie’s hoarse cry, turning and spinning away, registering another man rushing at him. Off-balance, Doyle tripped and landed on one knee. When he looked up again, Bodie had an arm-lock around the neck of the man. Bodie jerked, twisted, and dropped the man’s body to the ground.
Christ. Doyle closed his eyes for a moment, then pushed himself to his feet. He checked the man he had tackled, found him dead and took his gun. Bodie touched him on the shoulder and he followed Bodie to the edge of the woods overlooking the back of the farm house. Doyle took out his R/T, saw Bodie nod, and sent the pre-arranged signal to Cowley: clear. He settled on the ground beside Bodie. Their orders had been to take out the men in the woods, then wait for Cowley’s signal.
Bodie’s shoulder pressed against his, and for once Doyle welcomed the contact from his partner. Two years, three months. He’d told Cowley that not long ago. I’ve watched his back, he’s watched mine. The adrenaline was still flowing through his body, his senses were alert, but even so he relaxed next to Bodie. They’d survived when others hadn’t. He thought briefly of Tommy, who had put them on to Franks in the first place.
The early sunset on a winter’s day had worked in their favour. Cowley had ordered them in while he continued negotiating on the telephone with Franks in the farmhouse. But they were running out of time. The bombing plot Anson had uncovered might already be unfolding — probably was. Franks wouldn’t talk, but if they could get inside the house they might find some clues. Anson might know the details. If Anson was still alive in there.
Dammit! Unable to move forward, his mind circled back to the fight in the woods. He had secured the first man he’d taken out, but not the second. It had to have been that man who’d attacked him at the end. He was certain Bodie had killed his first man — that was the body he’d stumbled over. Doyle hadn’t checked his second man before he’d responded to Bodie’s cry. If he had killed him instead, as Bodie would have done… But he wasn’t Bodie. They had met four men in the woods. Matheson and King were on the opposite side of the farm house — were they waiting as well? How many men did Franks have? Was Anson alive? Would they be able to stop the bombing? What if — ?
“Come on.” Bodie’s voice was barely a whisper under his breath — frustration rather than a signal to move.
“Wait.” Oddly, saying the word calmed him. Or perhaps it was his instinctive reaction to Bodie’s impatience.
Bodie sighed, and Doyle felt it against his arm. He nudged Bodie in a gesture of sympathy. They were like chalk and cheese, as Cowley often said, but they understood one another. They needed to act, but they’d wait, still and ready, like the dogs of war they were. At least they were safe for now.
Doyle’s breathing eased, his heart slowed to normal speed, and a strange sort of…contentment stole over him. He felt it even though he’d killed tonight. It wasn’t his first kill, and it wouldn’t be his last. He’d signed on with CI5 in full knowledge of what he’d do, and what it might do to him. He knew there was a part of him that took a sort of pleasure in — Not the killing itself, but in the release of anger. He’d learnt to control that part of himself long ago. He’d done it through shame and will combined — the twin voices in his head that sometimes left him hollow-eyed and sick, at war with himself. Disgusted with himself. He was afraid of what would happen if he didn’t listen to the voices.
And yet. The voices were softened tonight — calm rather than excoriating. He’d killed out of necessity. He’d channelled anger and skill for the benefit of others. He’d protected his partner. And when the command came for him to kill again, he’d go with Bodie at his side. That thought — as insane as it was in these circumstances — put him at ease. He was all right as long as Bodie was with him, calming him with a touch, balancing him. Somehow, after two years and four months, Bodie was his. Christ, he must be mad. Doyle smiled, then felt something soft and wet on his face, and realised as he looked up that it was snowing lightly, silently — as quiet as they were in a moment of rest.
Could men of violence have peace as well? His heart had slowed, but he could feel a heavy beat in his stomach. And something that felt like light flashed through him, leaving clarity behind. War and peace. Chalk and cheese. It was a balance they lived and made livable — precarious, perhaps, but it was theirs. Bodie’s and his.
His R/T bleeped twice. They moved at the same time, swift and low like wolves on the hunt. And the violence was quick and extreme as they took out Franks and his men, joined in the fight by Matheson and King, Williams and Lake, and Turner. In the middle of the firefight, with his ears ringing and his blood singing, Doyle caught a grin from Bodie. He gave it back to him, saw an eyebrow go up, and laughed as he fired another round. They found Anson, damaged but alive. Their only other casualty was Williams, who suffered a deep bullet graze along his thigh.
After they’d won, Doyle supported Anson as he spoke into the R/T Bodie held to his mouth. “Two bombs, sir. Vans. Oxford Str — “ Anson gasped, then continued: “...and Regent Street. Closing…time...” Anson slumped against Doyle, eyes closed.
Bodie spoke into the R/T. “He’s out, sir.”
“It’s enough. Word’s gone out.” Cowley’s voice was brisk. “Bodie, you and Doyle — “
Anson lifted his head and a hand.
“Oh, wait sir.” Bodie held the R/T for Anson again. “Clint Eastwood has revived.”
“Bomb-maker…Luton...”
Doyle grabbed the R/T as Anson fainted again. “A blue Escort, sir — left about forty minutes ago. Biggs followed.”
“I’ll contact him. Bodie, Doyle, Turner, get to Luton. Find the bomb-maker. The rest of you clean up there. Ambulance is on its way.”
They left the farmhouse at a run, heading for their car parked a mile and a half away on the road. The cold air filled his lungs, and brought a rosy hue to Bodie’s cheeks, as he saw when they reached the car. Turner had fallen behind, and they were alone again. The world seemed to pause around them, in their isolation. The snow had stopped, leaving a little more than a dusting behind, and a scent in the air that promised more. Doyle brushed the snow from the rear windscreen as Bodie started the car.
Christmas was in a week. Perhaps... A yearning swept through Doyle, stripping away caution and sense. He wanted this peace, and their own world. He leant on the open driver’s side door. “What are you doing for Christmas?” His voice was normal, but it felt like his heart was in his throat.
Bodie looked up at him, and there was a pause that froze Doyle’s breath. “Julia,” Bodie said. He turned his head away. “Remember?”
Doyle didn’t, and he would have. He forced himself to speak. “Trust you. Thought you said she was finished with you?” He was good at facing reality. He always had been.
“Yeah, well, the lack...”
“Of sense, yes.” Doyle nodded, then straightened. “Here’s Turner.”
“At bloody last.”
Doyle closed the driver’s door, hurried to the passenger side and slid into the car as Turner climbed into the back. Bodie took off in a squeal of tyres and they were on the chase again.
No rest. No break. He should have known. Julia. Chalk and cheese. Calm and disquiet. They lived on the edge. But he’d hold the tranquility he’d found in a frosted wood in his heart — a secret all his own. It had been a moment of peace in the madness, when the world had been theirs alone, and full of promise.
END
December 2011
Because You’re Mine
By PFL
Bodie woke in Doyle’s bed. He lay still for a minute, absorbing the familiar sounds and the tranquility that Doyle somehow created in all his flats. Call it a sense of home, although that thought made Bodie uneasy. And yet, he had been the one who had wanted to crash here last night — this morning.
It’s Christmas — you invited me for Christmas.
Eh?
Well, you were going to, you never did get around to it. You asked me what I was doing — on the Franks op.
That was four years ago, mate. And you were busy.
Well, I’m not now. C’mon, Ray. Could murder for a bed.
If you snore, I’m shooting you.
Fair enough. Put me out of me misery, anyway.
They had been on the run without a break for days, and they were both exhausted. Bloody bombing run-up to bloody Christmas. It never ended, did it? Four years of it — and before that with the SAS and Paras. Cowley had finally released them a little after three in the morning with a curt order not to show their faces to him again until they could stand straight. Bodie had driven them to Doyle’s, and he hadn’t wanted to go any further.
Be honest. He hadn’t wanted to let Doyle out of his sight.
Bodie opened his eyes, glanced at where Doyle must have slept, although he was gone now. He sat up and eased to the edge of the bed, groaning when he saw the low angle of the sun through the window. They’d slept most of Christmas Day — or he had, anyway. Last night, he had pulled on a t-shirt and jogging bottoms and collapsed onto the bed, along with Doyle. If he had dreamt, he didn’t remember it, just the bliss of unconsciousness, when silence was safe. He put his face in his hands, too many thoughts swirling through his brain. He didn’t want to think. He’d had too much time to think when Doyle was in hospital, when Doyle was in surgery, even when Bodie had been in that damn lift that had seemed to take forever to get down to the car —
Bodie stood up. Doyle had changed flats after the shooting. The bedroom was different than the one he’d examined when Cowley had ordered him onto the case. There's nothing you can do here, Cowley had said. Bodie had been grateful — action was a familiar panacea. But Cowley had taken him to Ray’s, where there had been little for him to do. He remembered trying not to think, and then trying to sense Doyle in the arrangement of his things, seeking…he didn’t know what. But the flat had been empty without Doyle, its tranquility destroyed.
Bodie crossed the room to Doyle’s wardrobe. A shower was what he needed, and then there was the day to be faced. He pulled a bag out of the wardrobe, stashed there for just such an occasion. He kept a bag at Doyle’s, another at HQ, and another in the car he stored — a bag in every port, good for quick getaways. He had become an expert at leaving, at knowing when it was time to go. It kept him safe. Change was inevitable, he’d rather keep ahead of it. He headed for the bathroom, but heard the shower as he neared it. He was about to turn round, when he heard the water shut off, so he leaned against the wall to wait. “You’d better have left me some hot water,” he called through the door. Doyle’s response was too mumbled to make out. Bodie’s stomach growled. When was the last time they’d eaten? Breakfast the day before…no, he’d grabbed a sandwich off the shelf at the petrol station. Doyle had turned up his nose at it, although that hadn’t stopped him from filching half of it when Bodie had been distracted by traffic. Bodie had complained, as expected, but he’d been glad to see Doyle eating. Doyle had passed fit, but he was still slightly underweight. Bodie closed his eyes as he leaned his head back against the wall. Fuck it, he had to stop thinking like that. Doyle wouldn’t thank him for the nagging. It was past time to move on. But that thought caused an unexpected twist in his stomach. He turned his head towards the door. “Hurry up, Ray.” Maybe they could go down the pub, get some food — damn, it was Christmas, wasn’t it?
The bathroom door opened. “All right, all right,” Doyle said. “Trust you to sleep like the dead then immediately get up when it’s most inconvenient.”
Bodie pushed away from the wall. “What food have you got…?” His voice trailed off as Doyle, clad only in a towel, emerged from the bathroom. The scars from Mayli’s bullets and the surgery were vivid on Doyle’s skin. Bodie had seen them before, but not since the early, post op days. His mouth dried up; he felt as if he’d been sucker punched.
“Already checked, mate. I have bread. And cheese. And maybe a couple of cans of beans. Well, it’s your fault for insisting on staying when you know I haven’t — “ Doyle stopped speaking as Bodie’s silence clearly penetrated. And it seemed he read Bodie as easily as he did in the field, because his expression turned grim. “Dammit, Bodie.” He made as if to brush past, but Bodie grabbed his arm.
“Ray.”
At first it seemed as if Doyle would throw him off, but he quietened instead, although Bodie could feel the tension in him. “Thought it would be okay with you,” he said finally. “Reckon I ought to wait on the birds a while, eh?”
It was an attempt at humour, but Bodie couldn’t respond in kind. He was too busy being appalled at the emotions roiling within him, and his inability to hide them. He needed to do something. Doyle would break away in a moment and he didn’t want that. He tightened his grip.
“All right.” Doyle’s eyes met his. “Look your fill, then.” His voice was oddly, damningly gentle, as if it didn’t matter what Bodie had revealed, as if it were safe.
Fear galvanized him and he took refuge in action. He raised his other hand to cup Doyle’s cheek and the back of his head, and pulled Doyle towards him. He registered the shift to shock in Doyle’s eyes, felt something like triumph at it, but when their lips met there was no resistance. Bodie’s senses were overwhelmed in an instant: sight, smell, touch, and he heard Doyle murmur just before he tasted him at last. It was right, so bloody right, to be with Doyle like this. Joy pierced him like an arrow, pinned him. The kiss deepened and Bodie would willingly have stayed there forever, immersed in Doyle, but Doyle pushed him away.
Bodie took a step back, started to turn away, joy turned to panic, but Doyle grabbed him. He caught a glimpse of something fierce in Doyle’s eyes, and then he was in Doyle’s arms, being kissed by Doyle, and he didn’t want to break free. He understood this kind of need, the desire that drove them to each other, and to the bed, burying any doubts or hesitation in the urge for completion. Doyle was like a live wire in his hands, and he wanted nothing more than to bury his fear and confusion in him. And yet, he slowed them down, calmed Doyle with a touch, tracing the contours of Doyle’s scars with his fingers, and then his mouth.
“Bodie.” Doyle’s voice was nothing but a whisper. His breathing, ragged at first, eased under Bodie’s touch. One of Doyle’s hands came to rest on Bodie’s head. “You and me.”
Nearly lost you, Bodie thought, but couldn’t say. Doyle seemed to understand, though, or at least he brought Bodie’s mouth back to his own for a deep kiss, and then he pulled back a few inches. “Don’t think much of your finishing technique, Three-seven.”
“Oh, yeah?” Bodie grinned, feeling lit with life, like he did after a firefight. “You’ll pay for that.” And though Doyle tried to turn the tables more than once, and nearly succeeded when he wrapped both his hands round Bodie’s cock, Bodie made them both wait to come until Doyle was moaning and his own body’s demands were overwhelming. He brought them home then, taking Doyle’s release into his mouth and his own comfort against Doyle’s body.
Silence engulfed them as passion faded, and despite the peace, Bodie’s heart seemed to start pounding again. It felt as if he could hear it in the silence between them. He was afraid of Doyle’s reaction, of Doyle himself, and of what he might — could — demand of Bodie. The silence was oppressive, as it always had been, right from the start in his own home with a drunken father and a fearful mother. Home was never a refuge he sought, and he fled from silence and the promise of a peace that never was. And yet, sometimes, in the waiting between action in a firefight, with Doyle by his side, he felt content to be still and quiet. It almost felt…safe. But such moments were fleeting. They had to face the day —
“It’s Christmas,” Doyle said in a hushed voice, as if it meant something. And maybe it did, because Bodie found himself allowing Doyle to draw him back down until he lay against Doyle, his arm across Doyle’s chest, his fingers just brushing the upper scar. He buried his face against Doyle’s shoulder. The silence settled again, but it seemed lighter. He could feel Doyle breathing, strong and steady, as sure as his aim with a gun. Doyle’s arm was heavy on Bodie’s back, not pressing him down, but sheltering him. His partner who watched his back.
Minutes went by, and in the quiet tranquility of Doyle’s flat, he allowed himself to name the yearnings he’d buried for so long: acceptance, peace, home. Maybe he didn’t need to banish silence with action. Maybe. He could...
“Ray?”
“I told you: beans and cheese and toast, that’s it.”
“What are you doing Boxing Day?”
“You.” Doyle’s voice turned reflective: “Us.”
It was that still moment between action, when he was safe with Doyle. He could trust in that, couldn’t he? They might just make it last. “There’s food at my place.”
“And all is balanced in the world,” Doyle murmured, just before he kissed him.
END
December 2013
Title: "There Is No Rest" and "Because You're Mine"
Author: PFL
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib: Yes, please. I will send files! These will be up on A03 for easy downloading.
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Date: 2013-12-22 11:13 am (UTC)Lovely work!
I'm sorry to hear you've had a couple of very trying years. Welcome back. :-)
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Date: 2013-12-22 12:10 pm (UTC)I'm glad the stories worked for you. They are very much mood pieces, and they echo and reflect each other. Rather like the lads do. *g*
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Date: 2013-12-22 12:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-22 01:13 pm (UTC)Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed the stories. In my world, I suspect the lads will always want to be together. *g*
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Date: 2013-12-22 07:41 pm (UTC)Thank you, and happy solstice+1 day!
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Date: 2013-12-22 09:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-22 08:22 pm (UTC)Hurrah and finally for that. ;-)
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Date: 2013-12-22 09:09 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you enjoyed the stories!
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Date: 2013-12-24 09:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-28 08:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-27 04:34 pm (UTC)Thanks for posting both stories.
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Date: 2013-12-28 09:21 am (UTC)You are very welcome. Thank you for reading and commenting!