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discoveredinaljIt doesn't rain but it pours - one more fic from me on Christmas day (again, this has been seen in a different format by a few people *g*)
A Quiet Night in on Christmas Eve
by Slantedlight
The sky was leaden grey, the wind cold and sharp as a whip, promising nothing so prosaic as rain. Hail and possible sleet, Bill Kettley had said, and there seemed no reason to doubt him. Doyle opened the door to the safehouse with fingers already raw from too long outside, and let it close behind him with a snick. He paused by the radiator in the hallway, central heating blistering blissfully through it, dropping his carrier bags to the floor.
“That you?” a voice called down the stairwell.
“No, it’s the KGB!” Doyle shouted back. “Got any national secrets goin’ spare?” He wrenched himself away from the warmth, rubbing his hands together, and took the stairs three at a time. Sure enough, Bodie stood in the doorway of the front bedroom, room dark behind him, gun unholstered and deceptively casual by his side. He saw Doyle, alone, and tucked it back beneath his arm.
“Alarms set?” Bodie asked.
“Yes, mum.” He rolled his eyes.
“Can’t be too…”
“…careful. Yeah, alright.” He deserved it, he knew, still kicked himself every time he felt a twinge in his back, or picked up a bottle of milk. On the other hand, it had been almost a year ago now. “Give it a rest, will you?
Bodie just smirked at him - for the tease, or because he was still alive, Doyle didn’t know. He slid past him and into the bedroom, noting with approval the thickly laced nets at the window, letting in the orange glow of the streetlight outside, and the dark velvet curtains at the end of the rails, waiting to be pulled closed. They’d keep the night out alright.
Bodie had made up the bed, all crisp white sheets, and one of those duvets instead of blankets - he’d always had strange ideas when it came to bedding, Doyle thought, remembering a faux fur quilt from years ago.
Bodie’d seen him looking, of course, and raised an eyebrow. “I’ve made up the box room next door for you.”
Doyle gave that the glare it deserved. “Thanks a lot.” He twitched at a curtain. “’ow’s it looking out there?”
“Quiet,” Bodie said, moving to stand beside him at the window. “But then we’re not really expecting Allen to try it on, are we? Not on Christmas eve.”
“Could be that’s what he reckons we’ll think,” Doyle replied, because in this job you had to have everything covered. If you got lax then that’s just what you’d be - lax and dead.
“Doyle…”
“Yeah, alright. The last reported sighting of that lot was drowning their sorrows at the Old Duck, but that doesn’t mean we’re in the clear, does it?”
“They’ve already got our reports,” Bodie said sullenly, a familiar complaint.
“It’s the testimony that counts, you know that.”
Bodie grunted, but there was nothing they could do. Allen might be safely inside, but for now it was anyone’s guess whether his bully boys would still take their orders from him. He’d been nicely caught, there wasn’t much in it for them, but old ties could run deep.
“Christmas is a lousy time for a hit,” he said, attempting consolation. “We’ll be stuck here for a few days, and by Thursday they’ll ‘ave forgotten all about him.”
“On the bright side…” Bodie took a step back, to stand behind him, and Doyle felt arms under his leather jacket, sliding around his waist. “On the bright side, we’re stuck here for a few days. Can’t get out.” He leaned in and kissed Doyle under his ear. “Just the two of us.” He did it again. “Christ, even your neck’s cold!”
“Tell me about it!” Doyle let himself lean back against the warm, solid length of Bodie. “Shouldn’t be allowed, this cold and no snow.”
“We’ll get Cowley to have a word,” Bodie suggested, nuzzling into him again, kissing his neck this time, just the way Doyle liked, and then, cruelly, pulling away. “Did you get the grub? Feels like days since we had those sausage rolls.”
“Gannet,” Doyle complained. “I know where your heart is alright.”
“You’re a good second!” Bodie kissed him suddenly and loudly on his cheek. “Get the dinner on, I might bump you up to first!”
Ah well, he was hungry himself - the caff had been hours ago, and it felt more like days, a hard chase after Allen in between.
“What d’you get then?” Bodie asked, crowding him to the stairs, and down towards the light. “I’m picturing steak, chips…”
“It’s Christmas eve, Bodie! They had a couple of scabby chicken thighs, two bags of carrots, and a packet of frozen peas.” He glanced back to see the fallen expression on Bodie’s face. Bump him up to first! The supermarket had been brightly lit and crowded with last minute shoppers stocking up on their Brussel sprouts - but it was well used to the panic-buying of workers who suddenly remembered the shops were going to be closed for two whole days in a row, and even just a couple of hours before closing it hadn’t been a problem finding what he wanted, right down to the Toblerone that Bodie liked. “You’ll ‘ave to toast the bread an’all,” he said, “But they ‘ad some liver sausage left.”
Bodie looked so genuinely stricken that Doyle rolled his eyes, heaved a long-suffering sigh, and stepped to one side so that Bodie could see the shopping bags - there was a whole chicken and a French stick poking out of one, and five others all set together on the floor in fluff of white plastic.
“You bastard!” Bodie’s grin made the prank worthwhile, like the sun bursting out from clouds.
“You’d only complain all week if…” Doyle began, but Bodie reached out and pushed him back against the wall.
“You know, maybe I’ll bump you up early,” he said, and moved his hips against Doyle’s to suit actions to words, his mouth meeting Doyle’s mouth, hands sliding under Doyle’s jacket again.
Doyle let his eyes close, and felt the day’s tension begin to melt away. If he was going to be stuck in a safehouse in some random suburb in London for a few days, at least he was stuck here with Bodie. More like a holiday than anything else, he thought hazily, as Bodie began to pull his shirt from his jeans. Their first Christmas holiday alone together…
The doorbell rang, loud in the hallway, and they shot apart, hands reaching for guns, safeties off. Bodie flattened himself against the opposite wall, so they were on either side of the passage, and they both stared hard at the patterned glass panels of the front door. There was little to see - a vaguely dark shape against the orange-lit evening.
Doyle glanced at Bodie, eyebrows raised, and Bodie nodded, magnum at the ready. Doyle moved forward, flicking off the door alarm and the hall light as he went, and then yanked the door open suddenly, Browning held close to his waist, ready to…
“Alright, Doyle?”
“Jax.” He frowned. “I thought it was Mick and Allison on duty. Something up?”
“Nothing’s up,” Jax said, stepping forward so that Doyle gave ground and let him in, peering into the street for a moment before closing the door and holstering his gun. “Everything looks quiet. Was on my way home, thought I’d bring you some Christmas cheer since you were stuck here with that lout.”
“’ey!” Bodie looked outraged, but he ushered Jax down the hall to the kitchen, sweeping up carrier bags and following. Doyle turned the alarm back on, left the light off, and joined them.
“So what’s this cheer, then?” Bodie asked, eyeing the brown paper bag Jax was carrying, Safeway stamped across both sides, and a promising clank of glass inside. “Doyle was just about to make dinner, weren’t you, Doyle?”
Doyle glared at him, but there was no chance of being bumped by Bodie now, so he stepped around them to the stove, spotted a chopping board tucked away behind the bread bin, and started opening drawers to find the knives. “I’ll ‘ave whatever ‘e’s having,” he said. “How you doing, mate?”
“Better now that you’ve got Allen tucked up inside,” Jax replied, pulling two bottles of red wine from his bag. “Like a lot of people round my way. Stopped in to tell Auntie Lou the good news, and she started crying all over me. Insisted I bring you this tonight.” He delved into the bag again and brought out a gaily wrapped parcel, all red and green holly, tied up with string.
Auntie Lou had two sons and a daughter, Doyle remembered, and they’d refused to pay Allen’s protection money at first. The boys had been beaten badly enough that they’d both been in hospital, and Reg would never grip a hammer again. He was a carpenter. As for what happened to Leanne…
He passed Jax a corkscrew, paused by the table to see what Bodie was unwrapping. The paper came away, and a strong scent of rum and spices wafted upwards.
“Proper Jamaican Christmas cake,” Jax said, grinning. “No one makes it like Auntie Lou. Got any glasses?”
“On the shelf.” Doyle nodded behind him. “You want some dinner?”
“No, Tania’s waiting for me at home,” Jax said. “Just dropped round for a minute, make sure you’re all tucked up safe for the night.” He accepted a glass of wine from Bodie, pulled out a chair and sat down. “Allen’s mob are still all accounted for, in case you were wondering…”
The doorbell rang, and they all three froze.
“But you never know when one of ‘em might slip away,” Doyle said, putting the knife down. The bell rang again, and one by one they stepped back out into the hall. Another dark shape against the glass - and there’d not been a sound from the RTs, so either Mick and Allison were down and out, or the local carol singers had been struck with a sudden case of laryngitis.
Jax positioned himself on the stairs, Doyle took Bodie’s place by the wall, and they waited for Bodie to open the door.
“Anson?”
“Going to let a bloke in? It’s cold out here, you know!”
Bodie moved back, and Anson appeared in the doorway, smiling around his thin cigar at the lot of them, standing there in the dark. “Like that, is it?”
“Wouldn’t you be?” Doyle asked, heading back to the kitchen, leaving Bodie to lock the door behind them again.
“You never know with Allen’s plug-uglies,” Anson agreed. “Marriott and James have still got them in sight at the pub, but you never know. Did you know you’re hanging out at the back, Doyle?”
“So what are you doing here?” Doyle asked, tucking his shirt in hurriedly, and putting olive oil on to heat. He scraped the onions into it, started pulling the plastic wrapper off the minced beef.
“Wanted to see CI5’s heroes,” Anson said with a smirk. “It’s not every day we catch someone like Allen on the job.”
“Do you mind? Turn my stomach, that!” Bodie took another wine glass from the shelf, tipped it in Anson’s direction, and poured a glass at his nod.
Anson unzipped his jacket and pulled out his own bottle of wine. “Here, one to replace it. Well done.”
Doyle grinned, was even more pleased when he spotted Bodie blushing, though no doubt he’d put it down to the rapidly warming kitchen. “Stay for dinner if you want. Spag bog.”
“Spaghetti Bolognese,” Bodie interrupted, in his best cut-glass tones. “He’s such a philistine…”
“Speaking of philistines,” Jax said, “Did you hear what Lewis said to Cowley this morning…”
The doorbell rang.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Bodie said. “Like Piccadilly Circus!”
“I’m startin’ to get bored with this,” Doyle agreed, catching his eye, comfortable in the knowledge that there were four trained CI5 agents in the room. Hang on - where was Jax?
“…have your guts for garters if you’re not in on time tomorrow,” a voice was saying. A female voice. Ruth, if Doyle wasn’t mistaken.
“I’ll be on time,” Jax said, as they both appeared at the kitchen door. “You worry about laughing boy over there.” He gestured at Anson, who was holding out his glass for more wine.
“I never worry about laughing boys. Hello Ray, hello Bodie. Thought I’d pop in and give you the latest update on Allen’s bunch over at the Old Swan - they’ve started a darts match, so no need to worry yet. Is that food I smell? I haven’t eaten all day! I wish you’d learn to clean up your own admin, but you do seem to have dotted your Is and crossed your Ts on this one. About time someone did. Susan’s right behind me, she was stopping at Victoria Wine.”
The doorbell rang.
Half an hour later, Doyle found himself buttering French stick and crushing garlic to help feed what he was starting to think of as the hordes. So much for his quiet night with Bodie, velvet curtains pulled closed to shut the world out, celebrating underneath that duvet - he’d not been able to get near his partner since McCabe and Lewis arrived, and they were eating him out of house - safehouse - and home.
“’ey, Doyle!” Speak of the devil. Susan and Julie had nabbed Lewis and were telling him something that involved gesticulating wildly, and voiceless protests from Lewis, and there was Bodie in front of him. “A Roman walks into a bar, holds up two fingers, what does he say? Five pints, please!”
“Oh my god…”
“Good, innit!” Bodie grinned at him, and took another swig of his wine.
“How much have you had?” Doyle asked, enjoying this relaxed Bodie. It had been a long week, but Bodie’s grimness had leached away, and he seemed warm and pliable.
“Not as much as McCabe.” Bodie slung an arm around Doyle’s shoulders, leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “He brought the Cow’s scotch!”
“’e did what?” Doyle pulled back and stared suspiciously into his mate’s slightly muzzy eyes. “The old man’ll love that - left without on Christmas eve!”
“That’s the best bit…” Bodie yanked him in close again, and Doyle went with it, bending his head as if to listen, leaning against him, warm and alive and his - no matter how many CI5 agents were here too. “…he brought six bottles - he found the Cow’s iron rations! Must buy it in by the crate!”
Doyle chuckled dutifully, sliding a hand up to rest on Bodie’s back as if supporting him. The strap of Bodie’s holster ran under his palm, and he imagined following it along, the leather warm from Bodie’s body. For a brief moment he pictured peeling back Bodie’s shirt until it was caught around the holster, licking his way down to Bodie’s stomach - and then stopped himself. No point thinking about that until everyone was gone.
“What d’you reckon are the odds this lot leaves before midnight?” he asked into Bodie’s ear, and when Bodie looked up at him he smiled wryly.
“Is that the doorbell?” he heard someone shout suddenly. “Could have sworn I heard the doorbell! Who’s got the scotch?”
It was the doorbell again - Stewart and Liz, intriguingly arriving together, and with news that Allen’s mob were on their eighth round, and Marriott and James had pronounced Barbican the worst thing they’d been forced to drink all year.
Doyle shoved garlic bread, wrapped in tinfoil, into the oven and reached for his own glass. If you couldn’t beat ‘em…
He looked around the room. There’d be no one left at hq at this rate, half the A squad here, and looking cheerful. He’d thought he was keen to put Allen away for good, but he’d been slapped on the back so many times that he’d swear he was bruised.
Nice to feel like you’d got it right for a change. No deals to be done, no diplomatic immunity, just a straight-forward bust with nice tight evidence, and the world a better place.
He’d drink to that. He looked up in time to catch Bodie’s eye from across the room, raised his glass to him, and let Benny draw him into a discussion about Man United’s chances. The room was fugged with steam from the cooker, and a dozen cheerful, laughing agents, the tension positively falling away from them. Allen was gone, and he’d have Bodie safely to himself as soon as people stopped bringing replacement bottles. Speaking of which… He set off on a wander around the room, stopping with this group and that group to chat, picking up empty bottles and gathering up a few full ones at the same time to stash safely away. Christmas Day tomorrow, they’d want something then.
The doorbell rang. Doyle almost didn’t hear it over the CI5 cheer in the kitchen. Half Allen’s gang could turn up and this lot wouldn’t notice, he thought. He looked around thoughtfully. Everyone who could be here seemed to be here - maybe Mick and Allison were getting bored and hungry. He scooped up a handful of mince pies, and followed Ruth out the kitchen door, licking icing sugar from his fingers.
Completely oblivious to the starving hordes outside, Ruth carried on up the stairs towards the bathroom, and Doyle eyed the front door. There was someone out there, sure enough, a fuzzy silhouette bobbing between the glass panels. Well, it’d been parky enough out there a few hours ago, it was probably freezing now. The least he could do was fill their hip flasks for them. Could see if there was any spag bog left, bring them a couple of bowls if they wanted it. He opened the door with a grin on his face, mince pies held out.
It wasn’t Mick or Allison.
“You’re Doyle,” the figure said. “You bastard.”
Terry Mulligan, nephew to Mike Allen, barely out of his teens - and he was holding a butcher’s knife, long blade shining softly in the dim light.
Fuck.
“You back up nice and easy, now,” Mulligan said, gesturing at Doyle with the blade, and stepping inside. “Where’s your bastard mate?”
“Kitchen,” Doyle said. “You don’t wanna do this.”
“Says who? Everything was alright until you two came and stuck your noses in!”
“Alright for you maybe - you might not have noticed, but your uncle wasn’t a particularly nice man.”
“He was alright to us,” Mulligan said. “He was alright to everyone who counted. You lot don’t care about us!” He smelled strongly of beer and cigarette smoke, and Doyle wondered why no one had let them know he’d snuck out of the pub.
“That’s not true. You’ll ‘ave a better chance now your uncle’s off the streets, you know. Not as many people wanting to kill you, for a start.”
“Is Bodie in there?” They’d reached the end of the hallway, and Mulligan gestured at the kitchen door with the knife. “Get him out here. What’s that noise?”
“Radio,” Doyle said solemnly, reaching behind him to turn the doorknob. The door swung slowly open, slowly enough that it caught the attention of most of the agents in the room. Bodie looked up. Jax and Anson and Benny and Murphy, Susan and Julie and McCabe and Lewis, Smith and Stewart and Liz all looked up.
Mulligan swallowed, sniffed once, and began backing up again, knife waving in front of him to keep Doyle away.
He stopped after three paces, Ruth’s gun planted firmly in the small of his back.
“You’ve not had a mince pie yet,” Ruth said, and nudged him forward again, towards the assembled strength of CI5. Doyle relieved him of his knife on the way past, and then followed them into the kitchen.
“Fuckin’ ell…” Mulligan’s eyes were everywhere, but there was clearly no way out.
“Quite,” said Susan, reaching over to cuff him. “Mind your language.”
“Police brutality, that,” Mulligan said darkly, rubbing his head.
“No it isn’t,” Bodie interrupted silkily. “We’re not police.” He looked across at Doyle, who had a strange feeling he knew what was coming. “And how the hell did he get in?”
The room fell strangely silent.
“You opened the door to him, didn’t you!”
There wasn’t much he could say to that, so Doyle opted for a shrug and another wry grin.
“You stupid bastard,” Bodie began, which had Mulligan grinning until Bodie’s description of Doyle’s shortcomings expanded into all the possible punishments Allen’s gang might have inflicted.
“We wouldn’t have done that,” Mulligan complained at last. Bodie stopped mid-sentence, and the room refocused its amused attention. “Well we wouldn’t! Those dozy buggers wouldn’t even come wiv me tonight! Bloody Frank’s talking about opening a video shop!”
“So why did you decide to try your luck?” Doyle asked quickly, before Bodie could so much as breathe out again.
“More to the point, four-five - how did he know to try his luck here, at this safehouse, and why did none of you just now see me come in through the front door?”
George Cowley stood in the kitchen doorway, the focus of thirteen pairs of appalled eyes, and one pair that had gone back to grinning at everyone else’s horror.
“Well?” Cowley turned on Mulligan.
“Wasn’t hard,” Mulligan said. “Was down the Swan wiv me cousins, and saw these two blokes at a table. Strangers in the pub.” He paused.
“Go on.” Cowley’s tone didn’t bode well for Marriott and James.
“Well, this is Peckham, you get strangers. But these two kept having people come in and then go out again. Report to them, like. So I listened in, heard two of ‘em talking about Uncle Bill, and the next time it ‘appened I followed ‘em back here.” He paused again, glanced at Doyle, and then at Bodie, a wicked light in his eyes. “Where ‘e let me in!”
Doyle glared at him. “David having a go at Goliath,” he said. “Only I’m not Goliath.”
“No,” Cowley agreed, “You’re not. But we might need to talk to young David here about a future career in security. You said you’re unemployed just now… a video shop?”
Mulligan hadn’t, of course, but Doyle could see where this was going, and if nothing else it sounded like they would sleep safe in their bed tonight - if they could ever get to it.
“They’d never ‘ave me,” Mulligan said.
“Oh, they might if I had a word,” Cowley replied, glancing briefly at Doyle and pointedly at the glass in his hand. “Now, tell me about…”
Doyle turned to track down the bottle of whisky, and found himself nose to nose with Bodie, who was still glowering. The rumble of voices had picked up around them again, so Doyle put out a hand to Bodie’s shoulder, on the pretext of moving past him.
“An’ good will to all men?” he suggested. “Trust Cowley to turn it into a recruitment drive.”
Bodie’s gaze didn’t waver, but after a moment he breathed in, nostrils flaring. “Prefers people pissing from inside the tent,” he agreed.
“It’s a good solid tent.” Doyle gestured with his glass to the crowd around them, to CI5, close and cosy indoors together on a cold winter’s night, and all because they’d been keeping a close eye on two of their fellow agents.
Bodie gave him a final disapproving glare, and then took him by the sleeve of his shirt and led him past Cowley and Mulligan, deep in conversation, and out into the dim hallway. He closed the door behind them, kept a tight hold on the doorknob with one hand, and pulled Doyle close to him with the other. Kissed him, hard and long, lips certain and commanding and warm on Doyle’s own. Eventually Bodie drew back. “Lock your bloody doors,” he said.
“Yes mum.”
“I’m serious, Ray! When I saw that knife… Lock your doors, set your alarms…”
“And get a good guard dog?” Doyle suggested, then leaned in and rested his face against Bodie’s, foreheads together, cheeks brushing. “It’s alright, you know. Allen’s gone. Cowley’s pleased - I could tell by the way he glared at us - and somewhere in this safehouse there’s a bed big enough to hang our stockings on.”
God rest ye merry gentlemen?” Bodie took another deep breath, so that Doyle felt it all the way through his own body, tightened his arms around Bodie’s waist, and nodded.
“I reckon we deserve it, don’t you?”
Behind them the door rattled, and a voice could be heard complaining “But I need the bathroom!”
“Yeah,” Bodie said, starting to pull away. “You could be right. Come on then, Christmas Angelfish, let’s go back inside and join the cheer.”
Doyle resisted for a moment, turned just enough to kiss Bodie’s cheek, in the way that he knew made Bodie blush for being gentle and heartfelt and meant, and then he stepped back so that the door could open.
Benny rushed past them to an accompanying cheer, Susan waved a bottle in their direction, and together they went back in to enjoy the party.
~*0*~
Title: A Quiet Night in on Christmas Eve
Author: Slantedlight
Slash or Gen: Slash - B/D
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Certainly!
Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle and the CI5 universe belong to their original creators, and I'm just writing them because they're wonderful. *g*
A Quiet Night in on Christmas Eve
by Slantedlight
The sky was leaden grey, the wind cold and sharp as a whip, promising nothing so prosaic as rain. Hail and possible sleet, Bill Kettley had said, and there seemed no reason to doubt him. Doyle opened the door to the safehouse with fingers already raw from too long outside, and let it close behind him with a snick. He paused by the radiator in the hallway, central heating blistering blissfully through it, dropping his carrier bags to the floor.
“That you?” a voice called down the stairwell.
“No, it’s the KGB!” Doyle shouted back. “Got any national secrets goin’ spare?” He wrenched himself away from the warmth, rubbing his hands together, and took the stairs three at a time. Sure enough, Bodie stood in the doorway of the front bedroom, room dark behind him, gun unholstered and deceptively casual by his side. He saw Doyle, alone, and tucked it back beneath his arm.
“Alarms set?” Bodie asked.
“Yes, mum.” He rolled his eyes.
“Can’t be too…”
“…careful. Yeah, alright.” He deserved it, he knew, still kicked himself every time he felt a twinge in his back, or picked up a bottle of milk. On the other hand, it had been almost a year ago now. “Give it a rest, will you?
Bodie just smirked at him - for the tease, or because he was still alive, Doyle didn’t know. He slid past him and into the bedroom, noting with approval the thickly laced nets at the window, letting in the orange glow of the streetlight outside, and the dark velvet curtains at the end of the rails, waiting to be pulled closed. They’d keep the night out alright.
Bodie had made up the bed, all crisp white sheets, and one of those duvets instead of blankets - he’d always had strange ideas when it came to bedding, Doyle thought, remembering a faux fur quilt from years ago.
Bodie’d seen him looking, of course, and raised an eyebrow. “I’ve made up the box room next door for you.”
Doyle gave that the glare it deserved. “Thanks a lot.” He twitched at a curtain. “’ow’s it looking out there?”
“Quiet,” Bodie said, moving to stand beside him at the window. “But then we’re not really expecting Allen to try it on, are we? Not on Christmas eve.”
“Could be that’s what he reckons we’ll think,” Doyle replied, because in this job you had to have everything covered. If you got lax then that’s just what you’d be - lax and dead.
“Doyle…”
“Yeah, alright. The last reported sighting of that lot was drowning their sorrows at the Old Duck, but that doesn’t mean we’re in the clear, does it?”
“They’ve already got our reports,” Bodie said sullenly, a familiar complaint.
“It’s the testimony that counts, you know that.”
Bodie grunted, but there was nothing they could do. Allen might be safely inside, but for now it was anyone’s guess whether his bully boys would still take their orders from him. He’d been nicely caught, there wasn’t much in it for them, but old ties could run deep.
“Christmas is a lousy time for a hit,” he said, attempting consolation. “We’ll be stuck here for a few days, and by Thursday they’ll ‘ave forgotten all about him.”
“On the bright side…” Bodie took a step back, to stand behind him, and Doyle felt arms under his leather jacket, sliding around his waist. “On the bright side, we’re stuck here for a few days. Can’t get out.” He leaned in and kissed Doyle under his ear. “Just the two of us.” He did it again. “Christ, even your neck’s cold!”
“Tell me about it!” Doyle let himself lean back against the warm, solid length of Bodie. “Shouldn’t be allowed, this cold and no snow.”
“We’ll get Cowley to have a word,” Bodie suggested, nuzzling into him again, kissing his neck this time, just the way Doyle liked, and then, cruelly, pulling away. “Did you get the grub? Feels like days since we had those sausage rolls.”
“Gannet,” Doyle complained. “I know where your heart is alright.”
“You’re a good second!” Bodie kissed him suddenly and loudly on his cheek. “Get the dinner on, I might bump you up to first!”
Ah well, he was hungry himself - the caff had been hours ago, and it felt more like days, a hard chase after Allen in between.
“What d’you get then?” Bodie asked, crowding him to the stairs, and down towards the light. “I’m picturing steak, chips…”
“It’s Christmas eve, Bodie! They had a couple of scabby chicken thighs, two bags of carrots, and a packet of frozen peas.” He glanced back to see the fallen expression on Bodie’s face. Bump him up to first! The supermarket had been brightly lit and crowded with last minute shoppers stocking up on their Brussel sprouts - but it was well used to the panic-buying of workers who suddenly remembered the shops were going to be closed for two whole days in a row, and even just a couple of hours before closing it hadn’t been a problem finding what he wanted, right down to the Toblerone that Bodie liked. “You’ll ‘ave to toast the bread an’all,” he said, “But they ‘ad some liver sausage left.”
Bodie looked so genuinely stricken that Doyle rolled his eyes, heaved a long-suffering sigh, and stepped to one side so that Bodie could see the shopping bags - there was a whole chicken and a French stick poking out of one, and five others all set together on the floor in fluff of white plastic.
“You bastard!” Bodie’s grin made the prank worthwhile, like the sun bursting out from clouds.
“You’d only complain all week if…” Doyle began, but Bodie reached out and pushed him back against the wall.
“You know, maybe I’ll bump you up early,” he said, and moved his hips against Doyle’s to suit actions to words, his mouth meeting Doyle’s mouth, hands sliding under Doyle’s jacket again.
Doyle let his eyes close, and felt the day’s tension begin to melt away. If he was going to be stuck in a safehouse in some random suburb in London for a few days, at least he was stuck here with Bodie. More like a holiday than anything else, he thought hazily, as Bodie began to pull his shirt from his jeans. Their first Christmas holiday alone together…
The doorbell rang, loud in the hallway, and they shot apart, hands reaching for guns, safeties off. Bodie flattened himself against the opposite wall, so they were on either side of the passage, and they both stared hard at the patterned glass panels of the front door. There was little to see - a vaguely dark shape against the orange-lit evening.
Doyle glanced at Bodie, eyebrows raised, and Bodie nodded, magnum at the ready. Doyle moved forward, flicking off the door alarm and the hall light as he went, and then yanked the door open suddenly, Browning held close to his waist, ready to…
“Alright, Doyle?”
“Jax.” He frowned. “I thought it was Mick and Allison on duty. Something up?”
“Nothing’s up,” Jax said, stepping forward so that Doyle gave ground and let him in, peering into the street for a moment before closing the door and holstering his gun. “Everything looks quiet. Was on my way home, thought I’d bring you some Christmas cheer since you were stuck here with that lout.”
“’ey!” Bodie looked outraged, but he ushered Jax down the hall to the kitchen, sweeping up carrier bags and following. Doyle turned the alarm back on, left the light off, and joined them.
“So what’s this cheer, then?” Bodie asked, eyeing the brown paper bag Jax was carrying, Safeway stamped across both sides, and a promising clank of glass inside. “Doyle was just about to make dinner, weren’t you, Doyle?”
Doyle glared at him, but there was no chance of being bumped by Bodie now, so he stepped around them to the stove, spotted a chopping board tucked away behind the bread bin, and started opening drawers to find the knives. “I’ll ‘ave whatever ‘e’s having,” he said. “How you doing, mate?”
“Better now that you’ve got Allen tucked up inside,” Jax replied, pulling two bottles of red wine from his bag. “Like a lot of people round my way. Stopped in to tell Auntie Lou the good news, and she started crying all over me. Insisted I bring you this tonight.” He delved into the bag again and brought out a gaily wrapped parcel, all red and green holly, tied up with string.
Auntie Lou had two sons and a daughter, Doyle remembered, and they’d refused to pay Allen’s protection money at first. The boys had been beaten badly enough that they’d both been in hospital, and Reg would never grip a hammer again. He was a carpenter. As for what happened to Leanne…
He passed Jax a corkscrew, paused by the table to see what Bodie was unwrapping. The paper came away, and a strong scent of rum and spices wafted upwards.
“Proper Jamaican Christmas cake,” Jax said, grinning. “No one makes it like Auntie Lou. Got any glasses?”
“On the shelf.” Doyle nodded behind him. “You want some dinner?”
“No, Tania’s waiting for me at home,” Jax said. “Just dropped round for a minute, make sure you’re all tucked up safe for the night.” He accepted a glass of wine from Bodie, pulled out a chair and sat down. “Allen’s mob are still all accounted for, in case you were wondering…”
The doorbell rang, and they all three froze.
“But you never know when one of ‘em might slip away,” Doyle said, putting the knife down. The bell rang again, and one by one they stepped back out into the hall. Another dark shape against the glass - and there’d not been a sound from the RTs, so either Mick and Allison were down and out, or the local carol singers had been struck with a sudden case of laryngitis.
Jax positioned himself on the stairs, Doyle took Bodie’s place by the wall, and they waited for Bodie to open the door.
“Anson?”
“Going to let a bloke in? It’s cold out here, you know!”
Bodie moved back, and Anson appeared in the doorway, smiling around his thin cigar at the lot of them, standing there in the dark. “Like that, is it?”
“Wouldn’t you be?” Doyle asked, heading back to the kitchen, leaving Bodie to lock the door behind them again.
“You never know with Allen’s plug-uglies,” Anson agreed. “Marriott and James have still got them in sight at the pub, but you never know. Did you know you’re hanging out at the back, Doyle?”
“So what are you doing here?” Doyle asked, tucking his shirt in hurriedly, and putting olive oil on to heat. He scraped the onions into it, started pulling the plastic wrapper off the minced beef.
“Wanted to see CI5’s heroes,” Anson said with a smirk. “It’s not every day we catch someone like Allen on the job.”
“Do you mind? Turn my stomach, that!” Bodie took another wine glass from the shelf, tipped it in Anson’s direction, and poured a glass at his nod.
Anson unzipped his jacket and pulled out his own bottle of wine. “Here, one to replace it. Well done.”
Doyle grinned, was even more pleased when he spotted Bodie blushing, though no doubt he’d put it down to the rapidly warming kitchen. “Stay for dinner if you want. Spag bog.”
“Spaghetti Bolognese,” Bodie interrupted, in his best cut-glass tones. “He’s such a philistine…”
“Speaking of philistines,” Jax said, “Did you hear what Lewis said to Cowley this morning…”
The doorbell rang.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Bodie said. “Like Piccadilly Circus!”
“I’m startin’ to get bored with this,” Doyle agreed, catching his eye, comfortable in the knowledge that there were four trained CI5 agents in the room. Hang on - where was Jax?
“…have your guts for garters if you’re not in on time tomorrow,” a voice was saying. A female voice. Ruth, if Doyle wasn’t mistaken.
“I’ll be on time,” Jax said, as they both appeared at the kitchen door. “You worry about laughing boy over there.” He gestured at Anson, who was holding out his glass for more wine.
“I never worry about laughing boys. Hello Ray, hello Bodie. Thought I’d pop in and give you the latest update on Allen’s bunch over at the Old Swan - they’ve started a darts match, so no need to worry yet. Is that food I smell? I haven’t eaten all day! I wish you’d learn to clean up your own admin, but you do seem to have dotted your Is and crossed your Ts on this one. About time someone did. Susan’s right behind me, she was stopping at Victoria Wine.”
The doorbell rang.
Half an hour later, Doyle found himself buttering French stick and crushing garlic to help feed what he was starting to think of as the hordes. So much for his quiet night with Bodie, velvet curtains pulled closed to shut the world out, celebrating underneath that duvet - he’d not been able to get near his partner since McCabe and Lewis arrived, and they were eating him out of house - safehouse - and home.
“’ey, Doyle!” Speak of the devil. Susan and Julie had nabbed Lewis and were telling him something that involved gesticulating wildly, and voiceless protests from Lewis, and there was Bodie in front of him. “A Roman walks into a bar, holds up two fingers, what does he say? Five pints, please!”
“Oh my god…”
“Good, innit!” Bodie grinned at him, and took another swig of his wine.
“How much have you had?” Doyle asked, enjoying this relaxed Bodie. It had been a long week, but Bodie’s grimness had leached away, and he seemed warm and pliable.
“Not as much as McCabe.” Bodie slung an arm around Doyle’s shoulders, leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “He brought the Cow’s scotch!”
“’e did what?” Doyle pulled back and stared suspiciously into his mate’s slightly muzzy eyes. “The old man’ll love that - left without on Christmas eve!”
“That’s the best bit…” Bodie yanked him in close again, and Doyle went with it, bending his head as if to listen, leaning against him, warm and alive and his - no matter how many CI5 agents were here too. “…he brought six bottles - he found the Cow’s iron rations! Must buy it in by the crate!”
Doyle chuckled dutifully, sliding a hand up to rest on Bodie’s back as if supporting him. The strap of Bodie’s holster ran under his palm, and he imagined following it along, the leather warm from Bodie’s body. For a brief moment he pictured peeling back Bodie’s shirt until it was caught around the holster, licking his way down to Bodie’s stomach - and then stopped himself. No point thinking about that until everyone was gone.
“What d’you reckon are the odds this lot leaves before midnight?” he asked into Bodie’s ear, and when Bodie looked up at him he smiled wryly.
“Is that the doorbell?” he heard someone shout suddenly. “Could have sworn I heard the doorbell! Who’s got the scotch?”
It was the doorbell again - Stewart and Liz, intriguingly arriving together, and with news that Allen’s mob were on their eighth round, and Marriott and James had pronounced Barbican the worst thing they’d been forced to drink all year.
Doyle shoved garlic bread, wrapped in tinfoil, into the oven and reached for his own glass. If you couldn’t beat ‘em…
He looked around the room. There’d be no one left at hq at this rate, half the A squad here, and looking cheerful. He’d thought he was keen to put Allen away for good, but he’d been slapped on the back so many times that he’d swear he was bruised.
Nice to feel like you’d got it right for a change. No deals to be done, no diplomatic immunity, just a straight-forward bust with nice tight evidence, and the world a better place.
He’d drink to that. He looked up in time to catch Bodie’s eye from across the room, raised his glass to him, and let Benny draw him into a discussion about Man United’s chances. The room was fugged with steam from the cooker, and a dozen cheerful, laughing agents, the tension positively falling away from them. Allen was gone, and he’d have Bodie safely to himself as soon as people stopped bringing replacement bottles. Speaking of which… He set off on a wander around the room, stopping with this group and that group to chat, picking up empty bottles and gathering up a few full ones at the same time to stash safely away. Christmas Day tomorrow, they’d want something then.
The doorbell rang. Doyle almost didn’t hear it over the CI5 cheer in the kitchen. Half Allen’s gang could turn up and this lot wouldn’t notice, he thought. He looked around thoughtfully. Everyone who could be here seemed to be here - maybe Mick and Allison were getting bored and hungry. He scooped up a handful of mince pies, and followed Ruth out the kitchen door, licking icing sugar from his fingers.
Completely oblivious to the starving hordes outside, Ruth carried on up the stairs towards the bathroom, and Doyle eyed the front door. There was someone out there, sure enough, a fuzzy silhouette bobbing between the glass panels. Well, it’d been parky enough out there a few hours ago, it was probably freezing now. The least he could do was fill their hip flasks for them. Could see if there was any spag bog left, bring them a couple of bowls if they wanted it. He opened the door with a grin on his face, mince pies held out.
It wasn’t Mick or Allison.
“You’re Doyle,” the figure said. “You bastard.”
Terry Mulligan, nephew to Mike Allen, barely out of his teens - and he was holding a butcher’s knife, long blade shining softly in the dim light.
Fuck.
“You back up nice and easy, now,” Mulligan said, gesturing at Doyle with the blade, and stepping inside. “Where’s your bastard mate?”
“Kitchen,” Doyle said. “You don’t wanna do this.”
“Says who? Everything was alright until you two came and stuck your noses in!”
“Alright for you maybe - you might not have noticed, but your uncle wasn’t a particularly nice man.”
“He was alright to us,” Mulligan said. “He was alright to everyone who counted. You lot don’t care about us!” He smelled strongly of beer and cigarette smoke, and Doyle wondered why no one had let them know he’d snuck out of the pub.
“That’s not true. You’ll ‘ave a better chance now your uncle’s off the streets, you know. Not as many people wanting to kill you, for a start.”
“Is Bodie in there?” They’d reached the end of the hallway, and Mulligan gestured at the kitchen door with the knife. “Get him out here. What’s that noise?”
“Radio,” Doyle said solemnly, reaching behind him to turn the doorknob. The door swung slowly open, slowly enough that it caught the attention of most of the agents in the room. Bodie looked up. Jax and Anson and Benny and Murphy, Susan and Julie and McCabe and Lewis, Smith and Stewart and Liz all looked up.
Mulligan swallowed, sniffed once, and began backing up again, knife waving in front of him to keep Doyle away.
He stopped after three paces, Ruth’s gun planted firmly in the small of his back.
“You’ve not had a mince pie yet,” Ruth said, and nudged him forward again, towards the assembled strength of CI5. Doyle relieved him of his knife on the way past, and then followed them into the kitchen.
“Fuckin’ ell…” Mulligan’s eyes were everywhere, but there was clearly no way out.
“Quite,” said Susan, reaching over to cuff him. “Mind your language.”
“Police brutality, that,” Mulligan said darkly, rubbing his head.
“No it isn’t,” Bodie interrupted silkily. “We’re not police.” He looked across at Doyle, who had a strange feeling he knew what was coming. “And how the hell did he get in?”
The room fell strangely silent.
“You opened the door to him, didn’t you!”
There wasn’t much he could say to that, so Doyle opted for a shrug and another wry grin.
“You stupid bastard,” Bodie began, which had Mulligan grinning until Bodie’s description of Doyle’s shortcomings expanded into all the possible punishments Allen’s gang might have inflicted.
“We wouldn’t have done that,” Mulligan complained at last. Bodie stopped mid-sentence, and the room refocused its amused attention. “Well we wouldn’t! Those dozy buggers wouldn’t even come wiv me tonight! Bloody Frank’s talking about opening a video shop!”
“So why did you decide to try your luck?” Doyle asked quickly, before Bodie could so much as breathe out again.
“More to the point, four-five - how did he know to try his luck here, at this safehouse, and why did none of you just now see me come in through the front door?”
George Cowley stood in the kitchen doorway, the focus of thirteen pairs of appalled eyes, and one pair that had gone back to grinning at everyone else’s horror.
“Well?” Cowley turned on Mulligan.
“Wasn’t hard,” Mulligan said. “Was down the Swan wiv me cousins, and saw these two blokes at a table. Strangers in the pub.” He paused.
“Go on.” Cowley’s tone didn’t bode well for Marriott and James.
“Well, this is Peckham, you get strangers. But these two kept having people come in and then go out again. Report to them, like. So I listened in, heard two of ‘em talking about Uncle Bill, and the next time it ‘appened I followed ‘em back here.” He paused again, glanced at Doyle, and then at Bodie, a wicked light in his eyes. “Where ‘e let me in!”
Doyle glared at him. “David having a go at Goliath,” he said. “Only I’m not Goliath.”
“No,” Cowley agreed, “You’re not. But we might need to talk to young David here about a future career in security. You said you’re unemployed just now… a video shop?”
Mulligan hadn’t, of course, but Doyle could see where this was going, and if nothing else it sounded like they would sleep safe in their bed tonight - if they could ever get to it.
“They’d never ‘ave me,” Mulligan said.
“Oh, they might if I had a word,” Cowley replied, glancing briefly at Doyle and pointedly at the glass in his hand. “Now, tell me about…”
Doyle turned to track down the bottle of whisky, and found himself nose to nose with Bodie, who was still glowering. The rumble of voices had picked up around them again, so Doyle put out a hand to Bodie’s shoulder, on the pretext of moving past him.
“An’ good will to all men?” he suggested. “Trust Cowley to turn it into a recruitment drive.”
Bodie’s gaze didn’t waver, but after a moment he breathed in, nostrils flaring. “Prefers people pissing from inside the tent,” he agreed.
“It’s a good solid tent.” Doyle gestured with his glass to the crowd around them, to CI5, close and cosy indoors together on a cold winter’s night, and all because they’d been keeping a close eye on two of their fellow agents.
Bodie gave him a final disapproving glare, and then took him by the sleeve of his shirt and led him past Cowley and Mulligan, deep in conversation, and out into the dim hallway. He closed the door behind them, kept a tight hold on the doorknob with one hand, and pulled Doyle close to him with the other. Kissed him, hard and long, lips certain and commanding and warm on Doyle’s own. Eventually Bodie drew back. “Lock your bloody doors,” he said.
“Yes mum.”
“I’m serious, Ray! When I saw that knife… Lock your doors, set your alarms…”
“And get a good guard dog?” Doyle suggested, then leaned in and rested his face against Bodie’s, foreheads together, cheeks brushing. “It’s alright, you know. Allen’s gone. Cowley’s pleased - I could tell by the way he glared at us - and somewhere in this safehouse there’s a bed big enough to hang our stockings on.”
God rest ye merry gentlemen?” Bodie took another deep breath, so that Doyle felt it all the way through his own body, tightened his arms around Bodie’s waist, and nodded.
“I reckon we deserve it, don’t you?”
Behind them the door rattled, and a voice could be heard complaining “But I need the bathroom!”
“Yeah,” Bodie said, starting to pull away. “You could be right. Come on then, Christmas Angelfish, let’s go back inside and join the cheer.”
Doyle resisted for a moment, turned just enough to kiss Bodie’s cheek, in the way that he knew made Bodie blush for being gentle and heartfelt and meant, and then he stepped back so that the door could open.
Benny rushed past them to an accompanying cheer, Susan waved a bottle in their direction, and together they went back in to enjoy the party.
Title: A Quiet Night in on Christmas Eve
Author: Slantedlight
Slash or Gen: Slash - B/D
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Certainly!
Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle and the CI5 universe belong to their original creators, and I'm just writing them because they're wonderful. *g*
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Date: 2016-12-25 09:40 pm (UTC)I do so like my Bodie tall, dark, and dangerous (as well as engagingly modest, naturally.) *g*
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Date: 2016-12-25 09:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-25 09:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-25 10:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-25 10:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-26 12:21 am (UTC)Hope you had a lovely Christmas day.
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Date: 2016-12-26 12:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-26 01:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-26 05:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-26 07:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-27 08:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-31 05:41 pm (UTC)Totally perfect, thank you! I love the constant ringing of the doorbell, and Cowley's arrival, and Bodie being all menacing... oh hell, I love it all, thank you ever so.
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Date: 2017-01-03 12:15 am (UTC)Thanks for the story
Date: 2017-01-03 03:05 am (UTC)lbc