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discoveredinalj...or, a Christmas acrostic in nine linked drabbles. Actually, the last is a double drabble, bringing the word count up to a round thousand. The first letters of each drabble should build up to a suitably festive word!
Cowley's tone was sterner and more incomprehensible than ever before. As the radio crackled into life, the two agents instinctively jumped to attention. Bodie, already seated in the car, rubbed his head ruefully.
“Foooor faive! Threeeee saivun! In heeere. NOOOOO! En ef yeve hard a harnd en theees shenanigans, yeh wee dreechits, ye'll be nae moor than a messy steen on the rog. Understood?”
Bodie and Doyle gazed at each other, mystified.
“No idea, mate,” Doyle admitted. Must be urgent, though. IRA bomb?”
“With that tone? I reckon her dear Majesty must have been assassinated. At least.”
“Christ. Let's go!”
“Hev ye pair o jessies onny aideeea hoos behaind thes oootredge?” Cowley fumed, as Bodie retrieved the Encyclopaedia Brittanica (vol 3: Bi-Ch) from its new resting place beside the door, and checked on his partner's gradual return to full consciousness. Satisfied that all was well, he turned to face his incandescent boss.
“Sir, you need to calm down. We can't help unless we can understand.”
From the floor, mopping blood from his temple, Doyle concurred. “We can handle it, sir Tell us the worst.”
Cowley took a deep breath. “Et's ma guid Malt Scotch. Jura. 24 yeers auld. It's gone!”
“Rudi Kokkini?” Doyle was horrified. Bodie could understand why – he knew a little about his partner's history with the Athenian Angel of Absolute Anarchy and Aggravation, as he was pithily known. Bodie held the opinion that people really should not be allowed to choose their own nicknames, having himself met with utter failure in his attempt at self-titling.
“Looks like,” he answered now, trying without success for a sympathetic tone. “Not to worry. I'll watch your back.”
Doyle snorted derisively. “Oh thanks. That's a great comfort, Big Bad Bodie.”
“I told you never to call me that again,” Bodie sulked.
“I got nothing to do with no whisky,” Rudi Kokkini insisted, as Bodie drew back his fist menacingly, Doyle covering them both from a safe distance. “Please,” squeaked the Athenian Archangel of Absolute Anarchy and Aggravation. “I know nothing. You gotta believe me!”
Privately, Bodie felt that, but for his partner's terrifying anecdotes, he could easily consider this snivelling, weeping creature pathetic. Hard to imagine him as a ruthless killing machine. Still, if Doyle said so...where was Doyle, anyway?
From behind a lamppost thirty yards away, Doyle yelled, “Don't mess us about, mate. You must know something. Where's the booze?”
“So, I still don't understand why you had to shoot him.”
“Come on, Bodie. He was giving you the evil eye.”
“Looked like a wink to me.”
“Anyway,” Doyle said firmly, “he told us us what we needed to know.”
“And you believed him? Our own dear Murphy, huddled in a stairwell behind HQ? Draining a bottle of Scotland's finest malt?”
“Course I believed him,” Doyle nodded. “Murph could have sneaked into the Cow's office while he was arranging his baubles with Betty.”
Bodie sniggered.
“Don't be childish, Bodie. Anyway, I reckon it's time for a friendly chat with Murphy.”
The Brown Lion was packed with revellers. Bodie and Doyle shoved their way through the increasingly irritated partygoers, eventually tracking Murphy, Jax and Anson down at a table in the corner.
Murphy hauled himself up to an approximately vertical position, arms spread wide in a brief gesture of welcome, before collapsing onto Jax's lap.
“Merry Chrishmus, lads!” he slurred happily. “Drinks all round!”
Doyle eyed him with benevolent annoyance. “Think you've had enough, mate, don't you?”
“Enough? This is only my shecond pint!”
“Maybe so,” Bodie interjected quietly, but what about...Cowley's whisky?”
The room fell silent. Somewhere, a dog barked.
“Mate, please.”
Murphy had sobered up surprisingly quickly, considering his rapid consumption of Scotland's finest not three hours previously. “You can't do this. He'll kill me!”
“Sorry, Murph,” Bodie, knowing this to be literally true, answered reluctantly. “But we really don't have a choice.”
“Wait! I'll replace it!”
“How will you manage that? You can only get it from a tiny shop in the Western Isles, accessible only by rowing boat.”
“I don't know!” Murphy panicked. “I'll hire a helicopter or something Just – please! If you ever loved me. Give me a chance to save myself!”
Bodie and Doyle sighed.
Angrily, the Controller slammed his cut crystal glass down onto the polished mahogany desk, then flung it to shatter among the shards of several other glasses which had met a similar demise.
“Whit dae ye meen, ye cannae find it?” he screeched, Bodie and Doyle wincing at this assault on their already battered eardrums.
Bravely, Bodie answered him. “Sorry, sir. The suspect's gone to ground, and all we could find of the stolen property was this.” Tentatively, he held up the label – Jura. Oak Cask. Aged 24 Years.
Cowley turned purple. “Hoots, laddies! Ah'll have booth yer haides fer thess!”
“Sir, be reasonable,” pleaded Doyle as Cowley, clearly beyond reason, stalked towards them. Not proud of himself, but feeling the end in this case justified the means, he hid behind Bodie, peeking over his partner's shoulder. They awaited the inevitable.
Suddenly, the door was flung open. “Hold everything!” came a familiar voice.
“Murph!” Bodie ejaculated hoarsely.
Murphy grinned. “Mr Cowley, sir, I found this. I believe it belongs to you.”
Cowley, his hands tightly clasped around Bodie's throat, seemed unaware of the intrusion. “D'ye ken ma dreeft, ye young rapscallion?” he muttered menacingly. Bodie, past speech, could only flap feebly.
It was left to Doyle to save the day. Reaching over Bodie's shoulders, he grasped the Controller by the upper arms and shook him violently. “Cowley! Listen!”
Cowley finally came to his senses, releasing Bodie to slump back against his partner.
“Mah Jura!” he exclaimed. “Well done, Murphy! Have a wee dram on me.”
“Sir?” Bodie asked. “Does that include us?”
“Ach, get oot of it, ye cheeky young whelps,” Cowley growled.
Doyle and Bodie shared a rueful glance. “Festive pint in the Dog?” suggested Bodie. “Why not? Your shout,” Doyle answered.
And the two agents made good their escape.
Words: 1000
Pairing: None
Gen/slash: Gen
Cowley's tone was sterner and more incomprehensible than ever before. As the radio crackled into life, the two agents instinctively jumped to attention. Bodie, already seated in the car, rubbed his head ruefully.
“Foooor faive! Threeeee saivun! In heeere. NOOOOO! En ef yeve hard a harnd en theees shenanigans, yeh wee dreechits, ye'll be nae moor than a messy steen on the rog. Understood?”
Bodie and Doyle gazed at each other, mystified.
“No idea, mate,” Doyle admitted. Must be urgent, though. IRA bomb?”
“With that tone? I reckon her dear Majesty must have been assassinated. At least.”
“Christ. Let's go!”
“Hev ye pair o jessies onny aideeea hoos behaind thes oootredge?” Cowley fumed, as Bodie retrieved the Encyclopaedia Brittanica (vol 3: Bi-Ch) from its new resting place beside the door, and checked on his partner's gradual return to full consciousness. Satisfied that all was well, he turned to face his incandescent boss.
“Sir, you need to calm down. We can't help unless we can understand.”
From the floor, mopping blood from his temple, Doyle concurred. “We can handle it, sir Tell us the worst.”
Cowley took a deep breath. “Et's ma guid Malt Scotch. Jura. 24 yeers auld. It's gone!”
“Rudi Kokkini?” Doyle was horrified. Bodie could understand why – he knew a little about his partner's history with the Athenian Angel of Absolute Anarchy and Aggravation, as he was pithily known. Bodie held the opinion that people really should not be allowed to choose their own nicknames, having himself met with utter failure in his attempt at self-titling.
“Looks like,” he answered now, trying without success for a sympathetic tone. “Not to worry. I'll watch your back.”
Doyle snorted derisively. “Oh thanks. That's a great comfort, Big Bad Bodie.”
“I told you never to call me that again,” Bodie sulked.
“I got nothing to do with no whisky,” Rudi Kokkini insisted, as Bodie drew back his fist menacingly, Doyle covering them both from a safe distance. “Please,” squeaked the Athenian Archangel of Absolute Anarchy and Aggravation. “I know nothing. You gotta believe me!”
Privately, Bodie felt that, but for his partner's terrifying anecdotes, he could easily consider this snivelling, weeping creature pathetic. Hard to imagine him as a ruthless killing machine. Still, if Doyle said so...where was Doyle, anyway?
From behind a lamppost thirty yards away, Doyle yelled, “Don't mess us about, mate. You must know something. Where's the booze?”
“So, I still don't understand why you had to shoot him.”
“Come on, Bodie. He was giving you the evil eye.”
“Looked like a wink to me.”
“Anyway,” Doyle said firmly, “he told us us what we needed to know.”
“And you believed him? Our own dear Murphy, huddled in a stairwell behind HQ? Draining a bottle of Scotland's finest malt?”
“Course I believed him,” Doyle nodded. “Murph could have sneaked into the Cow's office while he was arranging his baubles with Betty.”
Bodie sniggered.
“Don't be childish, Bodie. Anyway, I reckon it's time for a friendly chat with Murphy.”
The Brown Lion was packed with revellers. Bodie and Doyle shoved their way through the increasingly irritated partygoers, eventually tracking Murphy, Jax and Anson down at a table in the corner.
Murphy hauled himself up to an approximately vertical position, arms spread wide in a brief gesture of welcome, before collapsing onto Jax's lap.
“Merry Chrishmus, lads!” he slurred happily. “Drinks all round!”
Doyle eyed him with benevolent annoyance. “Think you've had enough, mate, don't you?”
“Enough? This is only my shecond pint!”
“Maybe so,” Bodie interjected quietly, but what about...Cowley's whisky?”
The room fell silent. Somewhere, a dog barked.
“Mate, please.”
Murphy had sobered up surprisingly quickly, considering his rapid consumption of Scotland's finest not three hours previously. “You can't do this. He'll kill me!”
“Sorry, Murph,” Bodie, knowing this to be literally true, answered reluctantly. “But we really don't have a choice.”
“Wait! I'll replace it!”
“How will you manage that? You can only get it from a tiny shop in the Western Isles, accessible only by rowing boat.”
“I don't know!” Murphy panicked. “I'll hire a helicopter or something Just – please! If you ever loved me. Give me a chance to save myself!”
Bodie and Doyle sighed.
Angrily, the Controller slammed his cut crystal glass down onto the polished mahogany desk, then flung it to shatter among the shards of several other glasses which had met a similar demise.
“Whit dae ye meen, ye cannae find it?” he screeched, Bodie and Doyle wincing at this assault on their already battered eardrums.
Bravely, Bodie answered him. “Sorry, sir. The suspect's gone to ground, and all we could find of the stolen property was this.” Tentatively, he held up the label – Jura. Oak Cask. Aged 24 Years.
Cowley turned purple. “Hoots, laddies! Ah'll have booth yer haides fer thess!”
“Sir, be reasonable,” pleaded Doyle as Cowley, clearly beyond reason, stalked towards them. Not proud of himself, but feeling the end in this case justified the means, he hid behind Bodie, peeking over his partner's shoulder. They awaited the inevitable.
Suddenly, the door was flung open. “Hold everything!” came a familiar voice.
“Murph!” Bodie ejaculated hoarsely.
Murphy grinned. “Mr Cowley, sir, I found this. I believe it belongs to you.”
Cowley, his hands tightly clasped around Bodie's throat, seemed unaware of the intrusion. “D'ye ken ma dreeft, ye young rapscallion?” he muttered menacingly. Bodie, past speech, could only flap feebly.
It was left to Doyle to save the day. Reaching over Bodie's shoulders, he grasped the Controller by the upper arms and shook him violently. “Cowley! Listen!”
Cowley finally came to his senses, releasing Bodie to slump back against his partner.
“Mah Jura!” he exclaimed. “Well done, Murphy! Have a wee dram on me.”
“Sir?” Bodie asked. “Does that include us?”
“Ach, get oot of it, ye cheeky young whelps,” Cowley growled.
Doyle and Bodie shared a rueful glance. “Festive pint in the Dog?” suggested Bodie. “Why not? Your shout,” Doyle answered.
And the two agents made good their escape.
Words: 1000
Pairing: None
Gen/slash: Gen
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Date: 2016-12-27 06:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-27 11:36 pm (UTC)You little devil, Murphy
Date: 2016-12-28 04:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-29 06:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-12-31 04:46 pm (UTC)Oh, you clever old thing you! That was such good fun, thank you!
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Date: 2017-01-03 12:09 am (UTC)