Discovered on a Silent Night: Day 23
Dec. 23rd, 2014 07:17 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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discoveredinaljHello, and Happy Christmas to all. I bring fic. I had a prompt but I'm afraid it went by the by! This fic is a bit of a celebration for me, I wrote the first half about 7 years ago for the DiaLJ Jubilee Challenge and couldn't work out what to do with it, and it's lurked on my hard drive from then till now. I'm dancing with glee to have finally finished it, even though it took a rather darker turn than I expected!
Doyle struggled, groaning, into something that at a stretch could be called consciousness. He considered opening his eyes, deterred by the fuzzy throbbing in his head that, he knew from long and bitter experience, would coalesce into sharp agony the moment he chose to face it. So he lay still, letting awareness filter in gradually, assessing his situation and trying in vain to remember what had led up to it.
First of all, he discovered, he wasn’t really lying at all. More slumped, knees bent, back and head resting against something hard with angles jutting out and digging into him. The chill penetrating his thin shirt told him that his jacket was gone. Of course, as soon as he had established this fact, his mind reacted with cold signals that set him shivering. Instinctively he hunched in on himself, the sudden movement prodding into life the headache he’d been trying to keep at bay. Oh bloody fantastic. Might as well open his eyes then.
He settled for squinting through narrow slits, relieved to see the gloomy half-light, alarmed at the total unfamiliarity of his surroundings. Slowly he glanced around the enclosed space.
He seemed to be in some kind of store cupboard. The room, compact at best, was crammed with all manner of bric-a-brac, including a number of wooden trestle tables stacked upright against the wall. It was these he was currently leaning on, the slats digging holes in his back, and he shifted slightly but found no real relief. Boxes and other assorted oddments were piled up in corners or scattered haphazardly about. Doyle noticed a string of coloured lights trailing out of one of the crates.
The sight triggered the first useful memory. Christmas – of course. Bodie had talked him into going to some bloody party that one of his ex-girlfriends was throwing. He’d been less than keen, particularly under the circumstances, but Bodie had been adamant, and he certainly knew how to get his own way.
He’d pouted first. “Oh come on, Doyle.”
“No.”
“Typical. The rest of the world’s celebrating, and you have to go all reclusive.”
“I’m not reclusive. I just don’t fancy spending the evening watching you chat up the nation’s birds on some sort of goodwill mission.”
He’d smirked then. “A-ha! Now we’re getting somewhere. A bit jealous, are we?”
“Of course not. What do you think I am?” But he’d felt himself go red, and knew Bodie had noticed too, the smirk deepening and softening, a sparkle in the blue eyes which ate away at Doyle’s resolution. He’d walked across the rest room to settle himself next to Doyle on the battered old leather sofa, draped an arm over Doyle’s shoulders with an insouciance that anyone coming in unexpectedly would easily mistake for casual camaraderie, and brought the big guns to bear.
His head dipped in close, his voice soft, tender yet carrying the subconscious air of menace that he couldn’t seem to control, or maybe he could. Either way, it raised the hairs on the back of Doyle’s neck.
“Listen, Sunshine, here’s the thing. We go to this bash, we have a few, trip the light fantastic with a willing lady or three, frolic under the mistletoe. Get into the party spirit. Then – are you listening carefully? You’ll like this bit.”
His voice dropped to a purring whisper, smooth and dark as molasses. “After an appropriate interval, we make our excuses. I drive you back to mine. Where…” his free hand grazed lightly but inexorably up Doyle’s thigh, prompting a low involuntary moan, “…I give that gorgeous, pert, delectable arse the care and attention it so richly deserves.”
The hand reached its destination and squeezed, ever so gently. Daringly, considering the possibility of discovery at any second, Bodie closed the small gap to place a light kiss on Doyle’s burning cheek. “You coming then?” he murmured.
Doyle couldn’t help a grin. “Not yet, mate, but if you go on like this I’ll disgrace myself.” Bodie returned the smile beatifically, waited patiently for Doyle to cave in. Which he did, as he’d always intended to.
In the event, the party had been a wild, relaxed affair that had been easy to enjoy. Bodie and Doyle had arrived together, but by mutual agreement had split up to circulate separately, the promise of later events lending an air of repressed excitement to both of them that had seemed to go down very well with the female contingent. From time to time they sought each other out from opposite sides of the packed room, the widening of eyes or brushing of tongue against lips acting as the most exquisite form of foreplay.
An hour or so in, Doyle had had enough of the over-sweet, over-fizzy white wine that was being brought around at regular intervals, and decided to go off in search of something more drinkable. Glancing across the room, he took in the sight of Bodie, perched on the arm of a sofa, a small gaggle of awe-struck females gazing at him adoringly. Doyle watched for a few seconds, as Bodie animatedly regaled his captive audience with some anecdote or other, no doubt an entirely falsified account of life on the ocean wave. He looked up and caught Doyle’s eye, grinning shamelessly. Doyle rolled his eyes ostentatiously in response, and pressed through the throng towards the kitchen.
After the airless crush of the other room, the smart, spacious kitchen came as a blessed relief. There were surprisingly few people in there – a couple, wrapped around each other, oblivious to his presence, and a man of about Doyle’s age who had stationed himself close to the whisky supply. He grinned in welcome as Doyle approached, holding out a well-filled glass of golden liquid.
“Laphroaig. Scotland’s finest. Is this what you’re after?” His tone was light, mellow. He exuded a distinct air of intelligence, along with an edge of something that Doyle couldn’t quite place. Doyle warmed to him instantly.
“Cheers, mate. You’re a lifesaver.” He took the offered glass, took a sip, wrinkling his nose at the unexpected bitterness. “Well, that’s not Laphroaig, whatever else it might be.”
“Ha!” the man responded. “Probably Bells or something, the bottle’s just to impress. Cheapskates. Still, all goes down the same way. Cheers!”
He raised his own glass in salute, then downed the contents in one go, watching as Doyle followed suit, grinning again as they both grimaced at the harsh aftertaste. He held out his free hand. “My name’s Jason, by the way. Jason Hart.”
Doyle clasped the offered hand firmly. “Ray Doyle. Good to meet you.”
“Pleasure. Hang on, Doyle you say? You’re a mate of Bodie’s, right?”
“That’s right.” Doyle was slightly puzzled. Bodie’s circle of friends – the ones not abroad or in prison – tended to be small and tight-knit, and Doyle thought he’d met all of them. “You know Bodie?”
“We’ve met, once or twice. I wouldn’t say we’re best friends or anything. Just – acquaintances, I suppose you could say. You know?”
“Yeah. Well, he’s around somewhere if you want to catch up on old times. Always assuming you can prise him away from his fan club.”
Jason laughed. “Yeah, I saw that. Well, I’ve always been up for a challenge. Think I’ll give it a go. Nice talking to you, Ray.”
Sketching a wave, he headed out into the crowded room. Doyle picked up the Laphroaig bottle, pouring himself a small measure. His head was beginning to feel slightly woolly, and he wanted his wits about him for later. He sipped the whisky, rolling it around his tongue, appreciating with surprise the smoky peatiness of the fine malt. A distinct improvement on the last glass.
He realised he was beginning to feel slightly sick, and he put the glass down without finishing the contents. As he headed towards the door he staggered slightly. Christ, this was no good. Right, he’d find Bodie, let him know he was going to make a move.
He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, letting the frame take his weight, glancing rather blearily towards the sofa but discovering that Bodie was no longer there. He peered through the crowd, finally catching a glimpse of the back of Bodie’s head as he disappeared towards the front door along with another man. Jason, of course. Doyle threaded his way unsteadily after them, holding onto his stomach as a sudden upsurge of nausea threatened to overwhelm him.
Suddenly, he broke through and stopped, bewildered, taking in the scene before him. Bodie and Jason were close, Jason slightly behind with an arm around Bodie, and it definitely looked as though they were intending to leave together. Jealousy slammed through Doyle, temporarily knocking aside all other concerns. An old flame? And Bodie would just leave, not say a word? Doyle stood, paralysed. Watched as Bodie opened the door and Jason ushered him forwards.
At the very last moment, Bodie half-turned back into the room, his eyes locking with Doyle’s, dark and incandescent with a blazing rage that had Doyle stumbling towards the door before he realised he was moving. He was brought up short by a hand on his arm, turned to see Alison, erstwhile fling of Bodie and organiser of the party, beaming at him.
“Ray! At last! Great party, isn’t it? Having fun?”
He blinked, peered at her – both of her. “Um, yeah. Look, sorry – got to…”
Shaking her off less gently than was really fair, he turned back towards the door, but Bodie and Jason had gone. Panicking, he staggered out into the chilly dark, in time to see his partner being led down the path towards a waiting car. “Bodie!” he yelled.
As the two men stopped and turned, the world tilted suddenly and disconcertingly sideways, and Doyle collapsed onto one knee, a hand thrown downwards to break his fall. A flash of inspiration permeated his foggy brain, his stomach lurching at his own stupidity. “Shit,” he muttered quietly. The whisky. Must’ve been laced. How much of a bloody fool did that make him, taking a drink off a complete stranger?
As if from an immense distance, he saw Bodie take a couple of steps back towards him. Heard Hart snarl something, the words indistinct to him, but they brought Bodie up short. The pair stood immobile, watching him, and he tried to push himself up, he really did, but the night closed in on him, and he pitched heavily forward, out cold before he hit the floor.
Which all left him…where, exactly? Mentally giving himself a shake, he hauled himself upright, obstinately ignoring the uncomfortable nausea and the towering pain behind his eyes. Just consider it the hangover from hell. The gradually encroaching light from the high window told him that dawn was approaching, so he’d been here just a few hours.
Without real hope, he staggered over to the door and grabbed the handle. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. He gave it a tentative couple of pushes with his shoulder but felt no give at all. He turned his back on it in disgust, then leant heavily back against it as dizziness surged through him. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Letting himself get drugged and captured like some stupid kid. He forced his mind not to itemise all the grisly fates that could have befallen Bodie in the meantime. Bodie was tough, he could take care of himself. But then again, without knowing what Jason Hart was up to, he had no way of knowing that for sure.
And that was the thing, wasn’t it? He’d never heard of this ‘old acquaintance’ of Bodie’s, just one more mystery to add to the never-ending enigma. Bodie was touchy and secretive when it came to his past, and Doyle tended to respect that, knew enough to understand that there were aspects of Bodie’s life that he’d sooner forget. And since their relationship had taken its unexpected turn away from a professional partnership, he’d been even more careful not to push it, not to be seen to nag. Well, if this was where sensitivity had landed them, he could forget it. When this was over, Doyle resolved he’d beat the rest out of Bodie if that’s what it took.
In the meantime, of course, there was the small matter of finding him. And that meant getting out. The door was a non-starter – odds were it’d give eventually if he went at it long enough, but he didn’t much fancy taking on whatever surprises were waiting with a dislocated shoulder. And it’d be a noisy business – no chance of the element of surprise.
The window looked more promising. It was high and small enough to be an uncomfortable squeeze, but there were no bars and no obvious lock. Shoving aside a few of the scattered boxes, Doyle reached up to grip the sill with his fingers, hoisting himself up till he was on eye level with the bottom of the frame. Good, no lock. Looked as though the window hadn’t been opened in a while, though – paint was dried into the gaps between frame and wall, as well as across the latch.
Lowering himself back to the floor, he cast around for some way of getting himself into a position where he could work on the window. A table would be handy. There again, so would a key and he had neither. Apart from the trestle tables – far too wide to put up in this tiny space. Doyle glared morosely at the offending items, his expression growing thoughtful as an idea permeated the fog of his still half-drugged brain.
With so little space to play with, manoeuvring the table was a tricky and painful business, accompanied by a great deal of cursing. Finally, though, Doyle managed to turn it so that it was propped lengthways up against the wall beneath the window. The four horizontal slats holding the legs together looked very much like a ladder, and Doyle was hoping fervently that they would be strong enough to act as one. Placing one tentative foot on the lowest of the slats, he leant forward until his whole weight was supported by it. There was a protesting creak and a slight but un-nerving splintering sound, but the wood held.
Slowly and with infinite care, Doyle clambered upwards until he was standing on the third rung of his improvised ladder, pulled up the bar which was holding the window shut, and pressed forward on the frame. Nothing. A bit harder and there was a slight cracking sound, but the frame refused to yield. Doyle bit back his impatience, scratching and scrabbling into the gaps to remove some of the paint, flakes gathering dryly under his nails. For maybe twenty minutes he picked away until, pushing again, he finally felt the give he had been hoping for. He leant harder, harder still, but the window resisted valiantly until, suddenly and without warning giving up the fight, it flew outwards, the unexpected lack of resistance unbalancing Doyle, sending him crashing backwards onto the floor.
The adrenaline surge of finally having achieved his goal overrode any less pleasant sensations brought about by the impact of the fall, and Doyle was immediately pulling himself up and out through the open window. It was as expected something of a squeeze, but he wriggled through without too much trouble, dropping silently to the soft grass some way below.
It really was a breathtakingly beautiful morning, the hazy pink of the morning sun sparkling off the frozen ground, lending a magical luminescence to the crystalline grass. Under other circumstances, Doyle could have stayed for hours revelling in the fresh glory of the day. As it was, he allowed himself one deep breath, filling his lungs with the pure air, before hurrying off along the side of the building, hugging the wall, keeping low past the windows, rounding the corner to find himself in a deserted car park.
The building was some sort of community hall, not one Doyle had seen or visited before. A single car stood close to the half-open door. This Doyle did recognise – last seen outside Alison’s house, just before his collapse. He released a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding – he’d been trying not to think about the question of how to go about finding Bodie, and now it seemed he might not have to. With a bit of luck, he was in here somewhere.
Ass he headed past the car he glanced in, surprised and pleased to see his own jacket carelessly discarded on the back seat. He leant inside and retrieved it, shrugging it on, immediately feeling better. He moved on towards the hall door. Stopped, back to the wall beside it, assessing his options, reaching instinctively for his gun and feeling a renewed vulnerability as his hand closed over empty space.
Cautiously he pushed the door, waiting with nerves jangling as it swung silently inwards. He hesitated, waiting for a response, and when none came he slipped inside.
He found himself in a roomy foyer. On one side, a cloakroom. On the other, two doors leading into an office and a kitchen area. A quick careful check established that they were all empty. He listened intently – the silence was absolute, oppressive, but a deep indefinable awareness told him he was in the right place.
One direction left. A pair of double doors led out of the foyer opposite the main entrance. As Doyle cautiously eased one open, his eye was drawn to an object lying apparently discarded on the wooden floor. He recognised it immediately. Bodie’s wallet. Well, this put a different slant on things – the jacket in the car wasn’t an oversight. Hart had laid a trail.
Doyle padded noiselessly across the empty hall, aiming for the half-open door beside the stage, ruthlessly squashing an increasing prickle of apprehension at the knowledge that his quarry was close. He could hear now the soft indistinct rumble of voices, wished more than ever that he had a weapon to hand. The sound of conversation was a reassurance, though – with a bit of luck it meant that Bodie was still alive and conscious. For the time being, anyway.
“Look, if you’re going to kill me anyway, I wish you’d just get it over with. You might have all day, but I’ve not.” Doyle relaxed fractionally – Bodie’s tone was clear and strong, his smug arrogance a sure sign that he was still confident of talking his way out of whatever scrape he’d managed to land himself in this time.
“Oh no, Bodie – you’re not getting off that lightly.” The voice was recognisably Hart’s, but only just – all the smooth affability of the previous evening had been stripped away, his words less spoken than snarled, and Doyle hurriedly re-evaluated the threat level. This bloke wasn’t messing about. Any thought of going in search of backup disappeared half-formed – he just couldn’t take the risk of leaving Bodie in this situation, Hart could go off half-cocked at any moment. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Doyle found time to be exasperated at Bodie’s unerring ability to rile people beyond reason. He could sympathise a bit with Hart, in all honesty, even if he was quite possibly going to kill him.
He tuned back into the conversation.
“...took everything from me. Everything. And I won’t be satisfied until I’m sure you know what that feels like.”
“It wasn’t like that. You know it wasn’t.” It was the note of hesitancy, almost of pleading, that frightened Doyle most, because Bodie was obviously scared and that wasn’t something he often let show. God knew what this Hart was capable of, if he could get Bodie this worked up. Come to think, the very fact that Bodie went off with him so meekly, even given the number of civilians around them at the time, should have been a sign of something pretty grim.
A couple of quick footsteps, a clattering thud, a pained grunt from Bodie as he hit the deck, pretty hard by the sounds of it.
“What I know, Billy-boy, is that you left me for dead. I trusted you, and you fucked me over.”
“Don’t call me that. Billy’s dead. I had...”
Even through the door, Doyle recognised the sickening crack of bone, and Bodie’s sentence ended abruptly with a stifled yell.
“Shut up. You gave up the right to an opinion when you killed that boy. You know, I did consider just letting your new mates know the truth. What do you reckon the powers-that-be would make of that?”
Doyle was relieved to hear a snort from his partner, although startled by the comment that followed it. “Come off it. At CI5? A shady past’s almost compulsory.”
“Yeah,” Hart returned, “that’s what I reckoned. Too easy. So I had a rethink. You destroyed everything I loved, seems only proper I should return the favour in kind. Thought I might start with that partner of yours.”
“What, Doyle?” Bodie’s tone was suitably dismissive, any underlying tension easily accounted for by the pain of his injuries. “Yeah, I thought you might have something like that in mind when you decided to bring him along for the ride. Sorry to disappoint you, and all that, but partners in CI5 are a bit like London buses – there’s always another one just around the corner. Still, do your worst if it makes you feel better. Where is he, anyway?”
“By now? Right outside that door, I should think, if he’s any good at his job.” Hart raised his voice. “Come on in and join the party, Raymond.”
Bugger it, thought Doyle. Seeing no point in delaying the inevitable, confident that Hart would be able to come up with some persuasive tactic or other, he hoisted his hands to shoulder height and pushed the door open with his forearm, stepping into the room. He glanced immediately at Bodie, assessing the damage. “You all right, mate?”
“Never better. Thanks for dropping by.”
“Oh, you know me. Got to be where the action is.” Bodie looked a trifle the worse for wear but more or less intact – a gash on one temple was sluggishly dripping blood, and it looked as though his forearm was broken judging by how he was favouring it. He was sitting propped against a wall, Hart standing close but not close enough, holding Bodie’s own Browning trained on him with an easy accuracy that spoke of long experience.
“Glad you could join us.” Hart was smirking, which did nothing for Doyle’s peace of mind. “OK, on your knees, and open wide.”
It took Doyle a moment to catch up, so unexpected was the demand, and when he got it he laughed reflexively. “Are you insane? Fuck off.”
The smirk dropped instantly. “Don’t mess me about, Doyle. Unless you fancy seeing your 'partner' here” (and there was a sneer in the word that told Doyle that Hart had reached his own conclusions about the nature of the partnership) “holding his guts in with his fingers. You and I both know how easy it is to keep someone alive. Till you’re ready for them to die.”
“Ray. Don’t.” Bodie’s voice was little more than a croak, his face, when Doyle looked back at him, drained of colour. “Please.”
“Don’t worry, Sunshine, I’m not a complete mug.” He returned his attention to Hart. “You’re not going to let either of us out of here alive either way, are you? Not much in it for me, really, is there? Or do you think you’re that much of a catch?”
Hart shrugged. “Your choice.” Without warning, he loosed off a shot at Bodie, swinging the gun round quickly in time to check Doyle’s instinctive move towards him. Doyle could hear Bodie’s laboured breathing behind him, chanced a glance in his direction. A red stain was blooming on the material covering Bodie’s upper arm – the same arm that had been broken earlier, not much fun to recover from, but Doyle was intensely relieved that it wasn’t worse. “But I’d decide quickly, if I were you.”
The decision was already made. A highly trained and clearly unstable psycho with a grudge, against two unarmed men, one of them pretty effectively out of commission – Doyle considered himself pretty much out of options at this point. And he could only think of one possible way out of this – and even that was highly unlikely to succeed.
He took a few steps back, till he was more or less alongside Bodie. Took a deep breath and met Bodie’s eyes, holding his gaze for a moment. Finally Bodie nodded once, and Doyle dropped obediently to his knees.
Hart smiled. “There’s a good boy. Now, hands behind your back.” Again Doyle complied, and Hart fished out a pair of handcuffs from his pocket – Doyle recognised them as his own, taken from his jacket, and wasn’t that bloody ironic? – and moved behind Doyle to fasten them securely around his wrists. Which was a bit of a setback.
He returned to his position in front of Doyle, crouching to meet his eyes. “Let’s be clear,” he said softly, “You make it good for me, and I’ll kill Billy here quick and easy. Make it really good, and I might even let you out of here in one piece.” He rested the muzzle of the gun briefly against Doyle’s forehead, pressing in slightly as if to emphasise his point. “But I’m warning you, any funny business at all, and Bodie will be in agony like you wouldn’t believe. For starters.”
He stood up, unzipping himself deftly one-handed, while training the Browning back on Bodie, who had gone quiet again – hopefully he was still with it, Doyle thought wildly; without Bodie on board this plan was doomed before it going. Doyle found himself suddenly facing a rapidly engorging erection, not fully hard but he supposed that was his job now.
He licked his lips a couple of times, getting them good and moist. Turned his eyes upwards to find Hart’s gaze fixed on his, the gun still pointed steadily in Bodie’s direction. Good – he’d got Hart’s attention. Now he needed to keep it.
Closing the gap the last couple of inches, he ran his tongue slowly, deliberately, from root to tip. Swirled around the head before flicking against the nerve cluster just below it. The taste was – fine. Warm, slightly musky, not unpleasant. Just a cock, like any other. And Doyle was no stranger to this. His confidence increased fractionally as the man above him twitched slightly, his breathing hitching just a little.
Fixing his lips around the moist head, Doyle started to suckle, gently at first but increasing the suction, keeping the pace casual. With no hands free to grasp the exposed length, a bit of improvisation was necessary. He took Hart further into his mouth, as far as he could without triggering his gag reflex, running his lips firmly three or four times up and down, taking care to avoid scraping him with his teeth, before returning his attention to the tip of Hart’s cock, sucking and licking with gentle pressure.
All the time, he was hyper-aware of two things – Hart’s reactions, his breath becoming harsher and a slight but definite tremor in his legs, although as yet he was staying silent; and Bodie in his peripheral vision, very still and (Doyle was almost sure) ready to act. If he looked sideways as far as he could he was able to see Bodie’s face, slightly blurred by the angle, darkened eyes fixed on him, waiting. He raised his eyebrows, unsure whether Bodie would be able to make out the gesture, but got an answering terse nod, unnoticed by Hart who was valiantly (and worryingly successfully) engaged in keeping his self-control intact.
Doyle had one more trick up his sleeve, though, but timing was everything and Hart wasn’t there yet. He redoubled his ministrations, skilfully using his lips and tongue, applying every technique he’d ever picked up to make this the blow job of the century. He was finally rewarded by a harsh groan, Hart’s free hand coming up to tangle itself in Doyle’s hair as a wash of bitter precome flooded his mouth. It was the signal Doyle had been waiting for.
He pulled back slightly, taking a couple of deep breaths and relaxing his throat in readiness. Felt rather than saw Bodie tense beside him. And plunged downwards, taking Hart in right to the root before swallowing around him.
Hart, taken totally unawares, let out a hoarse yell as his whole body jerked involuntarily. It was the only opening they were going to get, and Bodie went for it, jamming his feet into Hart’s ankles and toppling him off his feet. Doyle, unable to breathe with Hart’s cock still jammed down his throat, bit down hard, slightly sickened to feel the skin give under his teeth. Hart hit the floor screaming as Doyle finally managed to disengage and gasp in a breath.
“Christ, you fucking bastard!” Hart, wounded and winded, was still holding onto the Browning, and he lifted it and squeezed off a shot just as Doyle, realising the threat, launched himself on top of him and the gun. Doyle ignored the sudden sharp tearing pain in his side, shifting himself so his full weight was pinning Hart’s gun arm to the floor. That was all he could do, though, with his hands still cuffed behind him, and Hart wasn’t going to be incapacitated for long. If Bodie wasn’t up to helping out...
It was over in a second. Doyle jumped as a single shot rang out, and the man underneath him stiffened then relaxed, totally inert. Bodie had grabbed the Browning from Hart’s outstretched hand and shot him, point blank, in the head, so quickly that Doyle hadn’t been aware of him moving at all. He rolled off Hart’s corpse to lie on his back, cuffed hands trapped beneath him, coming to rest with his face against his partner’s thigh.
“Merry Christmas, Bodie,” he mumbled, suddenly becoming aware of the fire in his side spreading through his torso, dizzying him.
“And a happy New Year to you, my son,” responded Bodie insouciantly from a distance, as Doyle’s mind decided to take the easy option and pass out.
...
Chalk up another Christmas in hospital, Doyle thought a trifle grumpily, as he propped up the door of the ward, watching as Bodie’s gunshot wound was attended to by an irritatingly pretty and (in Doyle’s opinion) shamelessly brazen nurse. His own injuries had already been taken care of, the bullet having carved a deep groove in his side following the line of a rib, no major damage done. Bodie was in a worse state, and the doctor was almost as keen to keep him in overnight as Bodie was to get out. Hence Doyle was loitering, intending to try and break his partner out as soon as the bandages were all in place.
After an interminable time, the nurse finally stepped back, surveying her handiwork. “There you go, all done,” she declared, blushing as Bodie turned on his most bloody twinkly charming smile in response. Doyle coughed loudly, and the nurse, looking up, must have seen something in his expression that kick-started her self-preservation instincts, because she hurried out of the door without a backward glance.
“Now now, Raymond,” Bodie said reproachfully. “Was there any need for that?”
“Yes there bloody was. There’s precious little of Christmas left, and I refuse to spend any of it watching you collecting more numbers for your not-so-little black book.”
“Jealousy is a curse, mate, I’ve told you before. Still, you’ve got a point. If we’re lucky we can still make it down the boozer for a pint of festive cheer. The Cow’s said he’ll sort out the Constabulary, as long as we both turn in a report tomorrow, so the night is ours. Mind, you’ll have to drive, I’m going to find it a bit tricky with my arm strapped up like this. Oi, you listening at all?”
Doyle honestly wasn’t. He’d tuned out Bodie’s rambling, thinking back over the snatches of conversation he’d heard from outside the door. Now probably wasn’t the time for searching questions, but he needed to know...
“Bodie? Who was Hart?”
Bodie’s walls went up so fast they were almost a physical presence. “Blast from the past, that’s all.”
“Yeah, gathered that.” Doyle kept his voice light, casual. “Sorry, mate, but I need a bit more than that.”
“Look,” and Bodie’s tone went from guarded to angry, “it’s none of...”
Doyle’s own anger flared. “Bodie, don’t you dare tell me it’s none of my business. After what I’ve just had to do to save your arse, I think I’ve earned a bit of honesty, wouldn’t you say?”
There was a silence, then Bodie puffed out a sigh, deflating visibly. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “Suppose you’re right at that. Just...not now? Please, mate. I promise I’ll fill you in. But for now, can we just try and get something good out of today?”
Tempted as he was to push the issue, Doyle heard the weariness behind the words, the remnants of the terror from earlier, along with something he couldn’t identify but which sounded a little bit like – grief? Shame? Whatever it was, Bodie was right. Now wasn’t the right time. He decided to let Bodie off the hook.
“Fair enough. Come on, then, I’ll be chauffeur and we’ll toast the season with a pint or three. See if Ruthie behind the bar can rustle us up a turkey sandwich. And we’ll forget all this till tomorrow.”
“You’re on. First pint’s on me.”
“Bollocks to that. All the pints are on you, Sunshine.”
“Yus, your Lordship. How could I refuse when you ask so nicely?”
Bodie pushed himself one-handed off the bed, and together they headed off into the night.
Title: Jubilo
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bistokids
Word count: About 5,600
Archive: Yes
Genre: slash
Pairings: Bodie/Doyle; Doyle/omc
Warning: Dubcon
Doyle struggled, groaning, into something that at a stretch could be called consciousness. He considered opening his eyes, deterred by the fuzzy throbbing in his head that, he knew from long and bitter experience, would coalesce into sharp agony the moment he chose to face it. So he lay still, letting awareness filter in gradually, assessing his situation and trying in vain to remember what had led up to it.
First of all, he discovered, he wasn’t really lying at all. More slumped, knees bent, back and head resting against something hard with angles jutting out and digging into him. The chill penetrating his thin shirt told him that his jacket was gone. Of course, as soon as he had established this fact, his mind reacted with cold signals that set him shivering. Instinctively he hunched in on himself, the sudden movement prodding into life the headache he’d been trying to keep at bay. Oh bloody fantastic. Might as well open his eyes then.
He settled for squinting through narrow slits, relieved to see the gloomy half-light, alarmed at the total unfamiliarity of his surroundings. Slowly he glanced around the enclosed space.
He seemed to be in some kind of store cupboard. The room, compact at best, was crammed with all manner of bric-a-brac, including a number of wooden trestle tables stacked upright against the wall. It was these he was currently leaning on, the slats digging holes in his back, and he shifted slightly but found no real relief. Boxes and other assorted oddments were piled up in corners or scattered haphazardly about. Doyle noticed a string of coloured lights trailing out of one of the crates.
The sight triggered the first useful memory. Christmas – of course. Bodie had talked him into going to some bloody party that one of his ex-girlfriends was throwing. He’d been less than keen, particularly under the circumstances, but Bodie had been adamant, and he certainly knew how to get his own way.
He’d pouted first. “Oh come on, Doyle.”
“No.”
“Typical. The rest of the world’s celebrating, and you have to go all reclusive.”
“I’m not reclusive. I just don’t fancy spending the evening watching you chat up the nation’s birds on some sort of goodwill mission.”
He’d smirked then. “A-ha! Now we’re getting somewhere. A bit jealous, are we?”
“Of course not. What do you think I am?” But he’d felt himself go red, and knew Bodie had noticed too, the smirk deepening and softening, a sparkle in the blue eyes which ate away at Doyle’s resolution. He’d walked across the rest room to settle himself next to Doyle on the battered old leather sofa, draped an arm over Doyle’s shoulders with an insouciance that anyone coming in unexpectedly would easily mistake for casual camaraderie, and brought the big guns to bear.
His head dipped in close, his voice soft, tender yet carrying the subconscious air of menace that he couldn’t seem to control, or maybe he could. Either way, it raised the hairs on the back of Doyle’s neck.
“Listen, Sunshine, here’s the thing. We go to this bash, we have a few, trip the light fantastic with a willing lady or three, frolic under the mistletoe. Get into the party spirit. Then – are you listening carefully? You’ll like this bit.”
His voice dropped to a purring whisper, smooth and dark as molasses. “After an appropriate interval, we make our excuses. I drive you back to mine. Where…” his free hand grazed lightly but inexorably up Doyle’s thigh, prompting a low involuntary moan, “…I give that gorgeous, pert, delectable arse the care and attention it so richly deserves.”
The hand reached its destination and squeezed, ever so gently. Daringly, considering the possibility of discovery at any second, Bodie closed the small gap to place a light kiss on Doyle’s burning cheek. “You coming then?” he murmured.
Doyle couldn’t help a grin. “Not yet, mate, but if you go on like this I’ll disgrace myself.” Bodie returned the smile beatifically, waited patiently for Doyle to cave in. Which he did, as he’d always intended to.
In the event, the party had been a wild, relaxed affair that had been easy to enjoy. Bodie and Doyle had arrived together, but by mutual agreement had split up to circulate separately, the promise of later events lending an air of repressed excitement to both of them that had seemed to go down very well with the female contingent. From time to time they sought each other out from opposite sides of the packed room, the widening of eyes or brushing of tongue against lips acting as the most exquisite form of foreplay.
An hour or so in, Doyle had had enough of the over-sweet, over-fizzy white wine that was being brought around at regular intervals, and decided to go off in search of something more drinkable. Glancing across the room, he took in the sight of Bodie, perched on the arm of a sofa, a small gaggle of awe-struck females gazing at him adoringly. Doyle watched for a few seconds, as Bodie animatedly regaled his captive audience with some anecdote or other, no doubt an entirely falsified account of life on the ocean wave. He looked up and caught Doyle’s eye, grinning shamelessly. Doyle rolled his eyes ostentatiously in response, and pressed through the throng towards the kitchen.
After the airless crush of the other room, the smart, spacious kitchen came as a blessed relief. There were surprisingly few people in there – a couple, wrapped around each other, oblivious to his presence, and a man of about Doyle’s age who had stationed himself close to the whisky supply. He grinned in welcome as Doyle approached, holding out a well-filled glass of golden liquid.
“Laphroaig. Scotland’s finest. Is this what you’re after?” His tone was light, mellow. He exuded a distinct air of intelligence, along with an edge of something that Doyle couldn’t quite place. Doyle warmed to him instantly.
“Cheers, mate. You’re a lifesaver.” He took the offered glass, took a sip, wrinkling his nose at the unexpected bitterness. “Well, that’s not Laphroaig, whatever else it might be.”
“Ha!” the man responded. “Probably Bells or something, the bottle’s just to impress. Cheapskates. Still, all goes down the same way. Cheers!”
He raised his own glass in salute, then downed the contents in one go, watching as Doyle followed suit, grinning again as they both grimaced at the harsh aftertaste. He held out his free hand. “My name’s Jason, by the way. Jason Hart.”
Doyle clasped the offered hand firmly. “Ray Doyle. Good to meet you.”
“Pleasure. Hang on, Doyle you say? You’re a mate of Bodie’s, right?”
“That’s right.” Doyle was slightly puzzled. Bodie’s circle of friends – the ones not abroad or in prison – tended to be small and tight-knit, and Doyle thought he’d met all of them. “You know Bodie?”
“We’ve met, once or twice. I wouldn’t say we’re best friends or anything. Just – acquaintances, I suppose you could say. You know?”
“Yeah. Well, he’s around somewhere if you want to catch up on old times. Always assuming you can prise him away from his fan club.”
Jason laughed. “Yeah, I saw that. Well, I’ve always been up for a challenge. Think I’ll give it a go. Nice talking to you, Ray.”
Sketching a wave, he headed out into the crowded room. Doyle picked up the Laphroaig bottle, pouring himself a small measure. His head was beginning to feel slightly woolly, and he wanted his wits about him for later. He sipped the whisky, rolling it around his tongue, appreciating with surprise the smoky peatiness of the fine malt. A distinct improvement on the last glass.
He realised he was beginning to feel slightly sick, and he put the glass down without finishing the contents. As he headed towards the door he staggered slightly. Christ, this was no good. Right, he’d find Bodie, let him know he was going to make a move.
He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, letting the frame take his weight, glancing rather blearily towards the sofa but discovering that Bodie was no longer there. He peered through the crowd, finally catching a glimpse of the back of Bodie’s head as he disappeared towards the front door along with another man. Jason, of course. Doyle threaded his way unsteadily after them, holding onto his stomach as a sudden upsurge of nausea threatened to overwhelm him.
Suddenly, he broke through and stopped, bewildered, taking in the scene before him. Bodie and Jason were close, Jason slightly behind with an arm around Bodie, and it definitely looked as though they were intending to leave together. Jealousy slammed through Doyle, temporarily knocking aside all other concerns. An old flame? And Bodie would just leave, not say a word? Doyle stood, paralysed. Watched as Bodie opened the door and Jason ushered him forwards.
At the very last moment, Bodie half-turned back into the room, his eyes locking with Doyle’s, dark and incandescent with a blazing rage that had Doyle stumbling towards the door before he realised he was moving. He was brought up short by a hand on his arm, turned to see Alison, erstwhile fling of Bodie and organiser of the party, beaming at him.
“Ray! At last! Great party, isn’t it? Having fun?”
He blinked, peered at her – both of her. “Um, yeah. Look, sorry – got to…”
Shaking her off less gently than was really fair, he turned back towards the door, but Bodie and Jason had gone. Panicking, he staggered out into the chilly dark, in time to see his partner being led down the path towards a waiting car. “Bodie!” he yelled.
As the two men stopped and turned, the world tilted suddenly and disconcertingly sideways, and Doyle collapsed onto one knee, a hand thrown downwards to break his fall. A flash of inspiration permeated his foggy brain, his stomach lurching at his own stupidity. “Shit,” he muttered quietly. The whisky. Must’ve been laced. How much of a bloody fool did that make him, taking a drink off a complete stranger?
As if from an immense distance, he saw Bodie take a couple of steps back towards him. Heard Hart snarl something, the words indistinct to him, but they brought Bodie up short. The pair stood immobile, watching him, and he tried to push himself up, he really did, but the night closed in on him, and he pitched heavily forward, out cold before he hit the floor.
Which all left him…where, exactly? Mentally giving himself a shake, he hauled himself upright, obstinately ignoring the uncomfortable nausea and the towering pain behind his eyes. Just consider it the hangover from hell. The gradually encroaching light from the high window told him that dawn was approaching, so he’d been here just a few hours.
Without real hope, he staggered over to the door and grabbed the handle. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. He gave it a tentative couple of pushes with his shoulder but felt no give at all. He turned his back on it in disgust, then leant heavily back against it as dizziness surged through him. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Letting himself get drugged and captured like some stupid kid. He forced his mind not to itemise all the grisly fates that could have befallen Bodie in the meantime. Bodie was tough, he could take care of himself. But then again, without knowing what Jason Hart was up to, he had no way of knowing that for sure.
And that was the thing, wasn’t it? He’d never heard of this ‘old acquaintance’ of Bodie’s, just one more mystery to add to the never-ending enigma. Bodie was touchy and secretive when it came to his past, and Doyle tended to respect that, knew enough to understand that there were aspects of Bodie’s life that he’d sooner forget. And since their relationship had taken its unexpected turn away from a professional partnership, he’d been even more careful not to push it, not to be seen to nag. Well, if this was where sensitivity had landed them, he could forget it. When this was over, Doyle resolved he’d beat the rest out of Bodie if that’s what it took.
In the meantime, of course, there was the small matter of finding him. And that meant getting out. The door was a non-starter – odds were it’d give eventually if he went at it long enough, but he didn’t much fancy taking on whatever surprises were waiting with a dislocated shoulder. And it’d be a noisy business – no chance of the element of surprise.
The window looked more promising. It was high and small enough to be an uncomfortable squeeze, but there were no bars and no obvious lock. Shoving aside a few of the scattered boxes, Doyle reached up to grip the sill with his fingers, hoisting himself up till he was on eye level with the bottom of the frame. Good, no lock. Looked as though the window hadn’t been opened in a while, though – paint was dried into the gaps between frame and wall, as well as across the latch.
Lowering himself back to the floor, he cast around for some way of getting himself into a position where he could work on the window. A table would be handy. There again, so would a key and he had neither. Apart from the trestle tables – far too wide to put up in this tiny space. Doyle glared morosely at the offending items, his expression growing thoughtful as an idea permeated the fog of his still half-drugged brain.
With so little space to play with, manoeuvring the table was a tricky and painful business, accompanied by a great deal of cursing. Finally, though, Doyle managed to turn it so that it was propped lengthways up against the wall beneath the window. The four horizontal slats holding the legs together looked very much like a ladder, and Doyle was hoping fervently that they would be strong enough to act as one. Placing one tentative foot on the lowest of the slats, he leant forward until his whole weight was supported by it. There was a protesting creak and a slight but un-nerving splintering sound, but the wood held.
Slowly and with infinite care, Doyle clambered upwards until he was standing on the third rung of his improvised ladder, pulled up the bar which was holding the window shut, and pressed forward on the frame. Nothing. A bit harder and there was a slight cracking sound, but the frame refused to yield. Doyle bit back his impatience, scratching and scrabbling into the gaps to remove some of the paint, flakes gathering dryly under his nails. For maybe twenty minutes he picked away until, pushing again, he finally felt the give he had been hoping for. He leant harder, harder still, but the window resisted valiantly until, suddenly and without warning giving up the fight, it flew outwards, the unexpected lack of resistance unbalancing Doyle, sending him crashing backwards onto the floor.
The adrenaline surge of finally having achieved his goal overrode any less pleasant sensations brought about by the impact of the fall, and Doyle was immediately pulling himself up and out through the open window. It was as expected something of a squeeze, but he wriggled through without too much trouble, dropping silently to the soft grass some way below.
It really was a breathtakingly beautiful morning, the hazy pink of the morning sun sparkling off the frozen ground, lending a magical luminescence to the crystalline grass. Under other circumstances, Doyle could have stayed for hours revelling in the fresh glory of the day. As it was, he allowed himself one deep breath, filling his lungs with the pure air, before hurrying off along the side of the building, hugging the wall, keeping low past the windows, rounding the corner to find himself in a deserted car park.
The building was some sort of community hall, not one Doyle had seen or visited before. A single car stood close to the half-open door. This Doyle did recognise – last seen outside Alison’s house, just before his collapse. He released a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding – he’d been trying not to think about the question of how to go about finding Bodie, and now it seemed he might not have to. With a bit of luck, he was in here somewhere.
Ass he headed past the car he glanced in, surprised and pleased to see his own jacket carelessly discarded on the back seat. He leant inside and retrieved it, shrugging it on, immediately feeling better. He moved on towards the hall door. Stopped, back to the wall beside it, assessing his options, reaching instinctively for his gun and feeling a renewed vulnerability as his hand closed over empty space.
Cautiously he pushed the door, waiting with nerves jangling as it swung silently inwards. He hesitated, waiting for a response, and when none came he slipped inside.
He found himself in a roomy foyer. On one side, a cloakroom. On the other, two doors leading into an office and a kitchen area. A quick careful check established that they were all empty. He listened intently – the silence was absolute, oppressive, but a deep indefinable awareness told him he was in the right place.
One direction left. A pair of double doors led out of the foyer opposite the main entrance. As Doyle cautiously eased one open, his eye was drawn to an object lying apparently discarded on the wooden floor. He recognised it immediately. Bodie’s wallet. Well, this put a different slant on things – the jacket in the car wasn’t an oversight. Hart had laid a trail.
Doyle padded noiselessly across the empty hall, aiming for the half-open door beside the stage, ruthlessly squashing an increasing prickle of apprehension at the knowledge that his quarry was close. He could hear now the soft indistinct rumble of voices, wished more than ever that he had a weapon to hand. The sound of conversation was a reassurance, though – with a bit of luck it meant that Bodie was still alive and conscious. For the time being, anyway.
“Look, if you’re going to kill me anyway, I wish you’d just get it over with. You might have all day, but I’ve not.” Doyle relaxed fractionally – Bodie’s tone was clear and strong, his smug arrogance a sure sign that he was still confident of talking his way out of whatever scrape he’d managed to land himself in this time.
“Oh no, Bodie – you’re not getting off that lightly.” The voice was recognisably Hart’s, but only just – all the smooth affability of the previous evening had been stripped away, his words less spoken than snarled, and Doyle hurriedly re-evaluated the threat level. This bloke wasn’t messing about. Any thought of going in search of backup disappeared half-formed – he just couldn’t take the risk of leaving Bodie in this situation, Hart could go off half-cocked at any moment. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Doyle found time to be exasperated at Bodie’s unerring ability to rile people beyond reason. He could sympathise a bit with Hart, in all honesty, even if he was quite possibly going to kill him.
He tuned back into the conversation.
“...took everything from me. Everything. And I won’t be satisfied until I’m sure you know what that feels like.”
“It wasn’t like that. You know it wasn’t.” It was the note of hesitancy, almost of pleading, that frightened Doyle most, because Bodie was obviously scared and that wasn’t something he often let show. God knew what this Hart was capable of, if he could get Bodie this worked up. Come to think, the very fact that Bodie went off with him so meekly, even given the number of civilians around them at the time, should have been a sign of something pretty grim.
A couple of quick footsteps, a clattering thud, a pained grunt from Bodie as he hit the deck, pretty hard by the sounds of it.
“What I know, Billy-boy, is that you left me for dead. I trusted you, and you fucked me over.”
“Don’t call me that. Billy’s dead. I had...”
Even through the door, Doyle recognised the sickening crack of bone, and Bodie’s sentence ended abruptly with a stifled yell.
“Shut up. You gave up the right to an opinion when you killed that boy. You know, I did consider just letting your new mates know the truth. What do you reckon the powers-that-be would make of that?”
Doyle was relieved to hear a snort from his partner, although startled by the comment that followed it. “Come off it. At CI5? A shady past’s almost compulsory.”
“Yeah,” Hart returned, “that’s what I reckoned. Too easy. So I had a rethink. You destroyed everything I loved, seems only proper I should return the favour in kind. Thought I might start with that partner of yours.”
“What, Doyle?” Bodie’s tone was suitably dismissive, any underlying tension easily accounted for by the pain of his injuries. “Yeah, I thought you might have something like that in mind when you decided to bring him along for the ride. Sorry to disappoint you, and all that, but partners in CI5 are a bit like London buses – there’s always another one just around the corner. Still, do your worst if it makes you feel better. Where is he, anyway?”
“By now? Right outside that door, I should think, if he’s any good at his job.” Hart raised his voice. “Come on in and join the party, Raymond.”
Bugger it, thought Doyle. Seeing no point in delaying the inevitable, confident that Hart would be able to come up with some persuasive tactic or other, he hoisted his hands to shoulder height and pushed the door open with his forearm, stepping into the room. He glanced immediately at Bodie, assessing the damage. “You all right, mate?”
“Never better. Thanks for dropping by.”
“Oh, you know me. Got to be where the action is.” Bodie looked a trifle the worse for wear but more or less intact – a gash on one temple was sluggishly dripping blood, and it looked as though his forearm was broken judging by how he was favouring it. He was sitting propped against a wall, Hart standing close but not close enough, holding Bodie’s own Browning trained on him with an easy accuracy that spoke of long experience.
“Glad you could join us.” Hart was smirking, which did nothing for Doyle’s peace of mind. “OK, on your knees, and open wide.”
It took Doyle a moment to catch up, so unexpected was the demand, and when he got it he laughed reflexively. “Are you insane? Fuck off.”
The smirk dropped instantly. “Don’t mess me about, Doyle. Unless you fancy seeing your 'partner' here” (and there was a sneer in the word that told Doyle that Hart had reached his own conclusions about the nature of the partnership) “holding his guts in with his fingers. You and I both know how easy it is to keep someone alive. Till you’re ready for them to die.”
“Ray. Don’t.” Bodie’s voice was little more than a croak, his face, when Doyle looked back at him, drained of colour. “Please.”
“Don’t worry, Sunshine, I’m not a complete mug.” He returned his attention to Hart. “You’re not going to let either of us out of here alive either way, are you? Not much in it for me, really, is there? Or do you think you’re that much of a catch?”
Hart shrugged. “Your choice.” Without warning, he loosed off a shot at Bodie, swinging the gun round quickly in time to check Doyle’s instinctive move towards him. Doyle could hear Bodie’s laboured breathing behind him, chanced a glance in his direction. A red stain was blooming on the material covering Bodie’s upper arm – the same arm that had been broken earlier, not much fun to recover from, but Doyle was intensely relieved that it wasn’t worse. “But I’d decide quickly, if I were you.”
The decision was already made. A highly trained and clearly unstable psycho with a grudge, against two unarmed men, one of them pretty effectively out of commission – Doyle considered himself pretty much out of options at this point. And he could only think of one possible way out of this – and even that was highly unlikely to succeed.
He took a few steps back, till he was more or less alongside Bodie. Took a deep breath and met Bodie’s eyes, holding his gaze for a moment. Finally Bodie nodded once, and Doyle dropped obediently to his knees.
Hart smiled. “There’s a good boy. Now, hands behind your back.” Again Doyle complied, and Hart fished out a pair of handcuffs from his pocket – Doyle recognised them as his own, taken from his jacket, and wasn’t that bloody ironic? – and moved behind Doyle to fasten them securely around his wrists. Which was a bit of a setback.
He returned to his position in front of Doyle, crouching to meet his eyes. “Let’s be clear,” he said softly, “You make it good for me, and I’ll kill Billy here quick and easy. Make it really good, and I might even let you out of here in one piece.” He rested the muzzle of the gun briefly against Doyle’s forehead, pressing in slightly as if to emphasise his point. “But I’m warning you, any funny business at all, and Bodie will be in agony like you wouldn’t believe. For starters.”
He stood up, unzipping himself deftly one-handed, while training the Browning back on Bodie, who had gone quiet again – hopefully he was still with it, Doyle thought wildly; without Bodie on board this plan was doomed before it going. Doyle found himself suddenly facing a rapidly engorging erection, not fully hard but he supposed that was his job now.
He licked his lips a couple of times, getting them good and moist. Turned his eyes upwards to find Hart’s gaze fixed on his, the gun still pointed steadily in Bodie’s direction. Good – he’d got Hart’s attention. Now he needed to keep it.
Closing the gap the last couple of inches, he ran his tongue slowly, deliberately, from root to tip. Swirled around the head before flicking against the nerve cluster just below it. The taste was – fine. Warm, slightly musky, not unpleasant. Just a cock, like any other. And Doyle was no stranger to this. His confidence increased fractionally as the man above him twitched slightly, his breathing hitching just a little.
Fixing his lips around the moist head, Doyle started to suckle, gently at first but increasing the suction, keeping the pace casual. With no hands free to grasp the exposed length, a bit of improvisation was necessary. He took Hart further into his mouth, as far as he could without triggering his gag reflex, running his lips firmly three or four times up and down, taking care to avoid scraping him with his teeth, before returning his attention to the tip of Hart’s cock, sucking and licking with gentle pressure.
All the time, he was hyper-aware of two things – Hart’s reactions, his breath becoming harsher and a slight but definite tremor in his legs, although as yet he was staying silent; and Bodie in his peripheral vision, very still and (Doyle was almost sure) ready to act. If he looked sideways as far as he could he was able to see Bodie’s face, slightly blurred by the angle, darkened eyes fixed on him, waiting. He raised his eyebrows, unsure whether Bodie would be able to make out the gesture, but got an answering terse nod, unnoticed by Hart who was valiantly (and worryingly successfully) engaged in keeping his self-control intact.
Doyle had one more trick up his sleeve, though, but timing was everything and Hart wasn’t there yet. He redoubled his ministrations, skilfully using his lips and tongue, applying every technique he’d ever picked up to make this the blow job of the century. He was finally rewarded by a harsh groan, Hart’s free hand coming up to tangle itself in Doyle’s hair as a wash of bitter precome flooded his mouth. It was the signal Doyle had been waiting for.
He pulled back slightly, taking a couple of deep breaths and relaxing his throat in readiness. Felt rather than saw Bodie tense beside him. And plunged downwards, taking Hart in right to the root before swallowing around him.
Hart, taken totally unawares, let out a hoarse yell as his whole body jerked involuntarily. It was the only opening they were going to get, and Bodie went for it, jamming his feet into Hart’s ankles and toppling him off his feet. Doyle, unable to breathe with Hart’s cock still jammed down his throat, bit down hard, slightly sickened to feel the skin give under his teeth. Hart hit the floor screaming as Doyle finally managed to disengage and gasp in a breath.
“Christ, you fucking bastard!” Hart, wounded and winded, was still holding onto the Browning, and he lifted it and squeezed off a shot just as Doyle, realising the threat, launched himself on top of him and the gun. Doyle ignored the sudden sharp tearing pain in his side, shifting himself so his full weight was pinning Hart’s gun arm to the floor. That was all he could do, though, with his hands still cuffed behind him, and Hart wasn’t going to be incapacitated for long. If Bodie wasn’t up to helping out...
It was over in a second. Doyle jumped as a single shot rang out, and the man underneath him stiffened then relaxed, totally inert. Bodie had grabbed the Browning from Hart’s outstretched hand and shot him, point blank, in the head, so quickly that Doyle hadn’t been aware of him moving at all. He rolled off Hart’s corpse to lie on his back, cuffed hands trapped beneath him, coming to rest with his face against his partner’s thigh.
“Merry Christmas, Bodie,” he mumbled, suddenly becoming aware of the fire in his side spreading through his torso, dizzying him.
“And a happy New Year to you, my son,” responded Bodie insouciantly from a distance, as Doyle’s mind decided to take the easy option and pass out.
...
Chalk up another Christmas in hospital, Doyle thought a trifle grumpily, as he propped up the door of the ward, watching as Bodie’s gunshot wound was attended to by an irritatingly pretty and (in Doyle’s opinion) shamelessly brazen nurse. His own injuries had already been taken care of, the bullet having carved a deep groove in his side following the line of a rib, no major damage done. Bodie was in a worse state, and the doctor was almost as keen to keep him in overnight as Bodie was to get out. Hence Doyle was loitering, intending to try and break his partner out as soon as the bandages were all in place.
After an interminable time, the nurse finally stepped back, surveying her handiwork. “There you go, all done,” she declared, blushing as Bodie turned on his most bloody twinkly charming smile in response. Doyle coughed loudly, and the nurse, looking up, must have seen something in his expression that kick-started her self-preservation instincts, because she hurried out of the door without a backward glance.
“Now now, Raymond,” Bodie said reproachfully. “Was there any need for that?”
“Yes there bloody was. There’s precious little of Christmas left, and I refuse to spend any of it watching you collecting more numbers for your not-so-little black book.”
“Jealousy is a curse, mate, I’ve told you before. Still, you’ve got a point. If we’re lucky we can still make it down the boozer for a pint of festive cheer. The Cow’s said he’ll sort out the Constabulary, as long as we both turn in a report tomorrow, so the night is ours. Mind, you’ll have to drive, I’m going to find it a bit tricky with my arm strapped up like this. Oi, you listening at all?”
Doyle honestly wasn’t. He’d tuned out Bodie’s rambling, thinking back over the snatches of conversation he’d heard from outside the door. Now probably wasn’t the time for searching questions, but he needed to know...
“Bodie? Who was Hart?”
Bodie’s walls went up so fast they were almost a physical presence. “Blast from the past, that’s all.”
“Yeah, gathered that.” Doyle kept his voice light, casual. “Sorry, mate, but I need a bit more than that.”
“Look,” and Bodie’s tone went from guarded to angry, “it’s none of...”
Doyle’s own anger flared. “Bodie, don’t you dare tell me it’s none of my business. After what I’ve just had to do to save your arse, I think I’ve earned a bit of honesty, wouldn’t you say?”
There was a silence, then Bodie puffed out a sigh, deflating visibly. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “Suppose you’re right at that. Just...not now? Please, mate. I promise I’ll fill you in. But for now, can we just try and get something good out of today?”
Tempted as he was to push the issue, Doyle heard the weariness behind the words, the remnants of the terror from earlier, along with something he couldn’t identify but which sounded a little bit like – grief? Shame? Whatever it was, Bodie was right. Now wasn’t the right time. He decided to let Bodie off the hook.
“Fair enough. Come on, then, I’ll be chauffeur and we’ll toast the season with a pint or three. See if Ruthie behind the bar can rustle us up a turkey sandwich. And we’ll forget all this till tomorrow.”
“You’re on. First pint’s on me.”
“Bollocks to that. All the pints are on you, Sunshine.”
“Yus, your Lordship. How could I refuse when you ask so nicely?”
Bodie pushed himself one-handed off the bed, and together they headed off into the night.
Title: Jubilo
Author:
bistokidsWord count: About 5,600
Archive: Yes
Genre: slash
Pairings: Bodie/Doyle; Doyle/omc
Warning: Dubcon
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Date: 2014-12-24 12:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-24 02:25 pm (UTC)