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discoveredinaljHappy Festive Season all! I hope you had a brilliant time at Christmas and my best wishes for a Happy New Year.
A short vignette set after the episode ‘In the Public Interest’
I'm sorry, but if you want to hear more of the Story of Raymond Doyle as a Young Man, you'll have to use hypnosis, or truth serum, and even then I don't like your chances. Believe me I tried. "So, when you and Annette got together, did you make the first move, or did she?" And so on. If he didn’t do it for the first time in that particular location, when and where did it happen, and with whom? Why did he leave Derby for school (he sounded particularly cagey about that one)? Also, whether he felt even a little bit guilty about breaking the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885 (rather hypocritical of me, as one of the most interesting aspects of learning the British legal system in detail - for work purposes, of course - has been finding out how many times I could have been arrested before I signed on to my first ship).
Now I know my interrogation technique isn’t as sophisticated as that of a real expert like Cowley, but I’d been watching and learning – however despite my efforts the secret history of the former copper known as Doyle remained a mostly closed book. Doyle's trap was as firmly shut as the window of our room at The Star Hotel - and that'd been nailed in place. As it takes two to keep a conversation going I eventually left off asking questions. I dozed off for a bit, then took my turn driving while Doyle did the same.
Although neither of us wanted to admit it, we were pretty tired. Mostly this was a reaction to that final standoff with Chives, although if I dug a bit deeper I fancy us giving ourselves up to Green’s foot soldiers in the first place also had something to do with it. Our experiences with that police force and their methods had hardly given me confidence that they would treat us decently, even if they hadn't been carrying firearms.
And thinking about that - maybe questions should be asked about the number of so-called "trained" officers that were issued revolvers in order to round up a pair of dangerous perverts from the Gay Youth Organisation, who were apparently and allegedly masquerading as armed CI5 operatives? Probably Mary Whitehouse would end up agreeing with Green about the way they did that, the moral fibre of the nation being more important than a centre for gay youth where they might learn a thing or two about Cooking On A Budget.
You can see my eyebrows lifting, can't you?
Anyway, Doyle's 'one good copper' came through in the nick of time, which doesn't mean I've become a fan of the boys in blue. The one who rescued us - or two really, he brought back-up, which was sensible of him - was all right, but my personal exception to the rule that most of 'em are dodgy is the ex-copper who's lolling in the seat beside me, head propped on that white jacket of his, snoring ever so slightly. He had faith in an unknown plod, and I in turn had faith in him. It was a damn close-run thing, as they say. Scared a year or two off my life, which I don't take kindly to - I'm looking forward to every one I've got left, even if I don't know how many that is.
Especially with him in the picture now.
Yeah, you heard me. Want to make something of it? Nothing's happened, not as yet. But something about the undercover job, sharing that cheap room together with the beds so very close, him so close, really got to me. I tried to cover it up, turned my nose up at the accommodations, chuntered on about missing me girlfriend and generally complained a lot (some of it completely justified, mind).
I know, takes two to tango.
Let's just say I have a feeling about this. 'Sides, who else do you know who's tall dark and handsome (and engagingly modest) - he hasn't got a chance.
Okay, it scares me half to death. Not just the part about him being male - believe me, the opportunities are there if you look good in a dress uniform. Of course it's very discrete, and almost completely soulless. Clean up, button your flies, a quick check in the mirror to ensure everything is in regimental order again, and out the door you go.
Nor the part about us being partners. We were thrown together, got up each other’s nose on a regular basis - still had to learn to meld minds and make it work with discipline, skill and intelligence. Brute force helps sometimes too, I'm good at that.
DON'T say I love him. That never turns out well. I'll do anything to protect him (well, that's the being partners part of it), but I also want to be with him. Touch him, lay lips on his and my tongue on his body. Take his prick into my mouth and suck on it, make him spill and take it all in. Have his arse if he'll let me, or offer mine.
Fucking hell… I need my head read. Time to stop this nonsense before…
Thank Christ we've almost reached his flat. Now I can leave him to rest up and try to forget all this bollocks...
*****
"Oi, sunshine. Time to wakey-wakey. You’re home!"
Indistinct noises, followed by yawning and as much stretching as is practically possible in the front of an Escort with me already occupying half of it.
Then he gets out of the car, in order to tilt the seat forward and rummage around for his bag, which is actually in the boot.
"I’ll get it," I say, and get out of the vehicle myself. I open the boot and remove his case, which involves pulling one of my own bags out to get at his. Then I go to put mine back in.
"Hang on," he says. “Dunno about you but I could use a drink and about ten hours kip. And Cowley'll expect his reports in the morning. Why don’t you come up? We can get some takeaway for dinner and go over our notes.”
Am I seeing things, or did he do something with his eyebrows, just then? My concentration must be shot.
"As I recall," I say slowly, "Your sofa is lumpy and a spring’s worked its way through in the middle, about where my tender bits would go."
He shifts about from one foot to the other. Trying too hard to look casual.
"Thought about that. You can share the bed. There'd be about as much space between us as there was at the Star."
Oh. Well, what to do now, that’s a good question. Do I say thanks, no, and head for home? Or do I take a chance?
"Yeah, okay." I grab the third bag and slam the lid of the boot, before locking the car. “Could murder a cup of tea.”
He nods and walks off, with that long lean stride of his. I watch for a moment. Then I pick up the remaining bags and follow.
Title: Musings on the M1
Author: KWS
Slash or Gen: Always slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes
Author's Name for Archiving (if different to above):
Disclaimer:
Notes: A short vignette set after the episode ‘In the Public Interest’. This episode has come up in a couple of places recently, but the big questions (still relevant today) were mostly set aside for this piece.
Also, not my usual POV, and there’s a bit of a tangle between things that happened earlier today, thinking about things that happened earlier, and things now. I tried, but I’m happy for concrit.
A short vignette set after the episode ‘In the Public Interest’
I'm sorry, but if you want to hear more of the Story of Raymond Doyle as a Young Man, you'll have to use hypnosis, or truth serum, and even then I don't like your chances. Believe me I tried. "So, when you and Annette got together, did you make the first move, or did she?" And so on. If he didn’t do it for the first time in that particular location, when and where did it happen, and with whom? Why did he leave Derby for school (he sounded particularly cagey about that one)? Also, whether he felt even a little bit guilty about breaking the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1885 (rather hypocritical of me, as one of the most interesting aspects of learning the British legal system in detail - for work purposes, of course - has been finding out how many times I could have been arrested before I signed on to my first ship).
Now I know my interrogation technique isn’t as sophisticated as that of a real expert like Cowley, but I’d been watching and learning – however despite my efforts the secret history of the former copper known as Doyle remained a mostly closed book. Doyle's trap was as firmly shut as the window of our room at The Star Hotel - and that'd been nailed in place. As it takes two to keep a conversation going I eventually left off asking questions. I dozed off for a bit, then took my turn driving while Doyle did the same.
Although neither of us wanted to admit it, we were pretty tired. Mostly this was a reaction to that final standoff with Chives, although if I dug a bit deeper I fancy us giving ourselves up to Green’s foot soldiers in the first place also had something to do with it. Our experiences with that police force and their methods had hardly given me confidence that they would treat us decently, even if they hadn't been carrying firearms.
And thinking about that - maybe questions should be asked about the number of so-called "trained" officers that were issued revolvers in order to round up a pair of dangerous perverts from the Gay Youth Organisation, who were apparently and allegedly masquerading as armed CI5 operatives? Probably Mary Whitehouse would end up agreeing with Green about the way they did that, the moral fibre of the nation being more important than a centre for gay youth where they might learn a thing or two about Cooking On A Budget.
You can see my eyebrows lifting, can't you?
Anyway, Doyle's 'one good copper' came through in the nick of time, which doesn't mean I've become a fan of the boys in blue. The one who rescued us - or two really, he brought back-up, which was sensible of him - was all right, but my personal exception to the rule that most of 'em are dodgy is the ex-copper who's lolling in the seat beside me, head propped on that white jacket of his, snoring ever so slightly. He had faith in an unknown plod, and I in turn had faith in him. It was a damn close-run thing, as they say. Scared a year or two off my life, which I don't take kindly to - I'm looking forward to every one I've got left, even if I don't know how many that is.
Especially with him in the picture now.
Yeah, you heard me. Want to make something of it? Nothing's happened, not as yet. But something about the undercover job, sharing that cheap room together with the beds so very close, him so close, really got to me. I tried to cover it up, turned my nose up at the accommodations, chuntered on about missing me girlfriend and generally complained a lot (some of it completely justified, mind).
I know, takes two to tango.
Let's just say I have a feeling about this. 'Sides, who else do you know who's tall dark and handsome (and engagingly modest) - he hasn't got a chance.
Okay, it scares me half to death. Not just the part about him being male - believe me, the opportunities are there if you look good in a dress uniform. Of course it's very discrete, and almost completely soulless. Clean up, button your flies, a quick check in the mirror to ensure everything is in regimental order again, and out the door you go.
Nor the part about us being partners. We were thrown together, got up each other’s nose on a regular basis - still had to learn to meld minds and make it work with discipline, skill and intelligence. Brute force helps sometimes too, I'm good at that.
DON'T say I love him. That never turns out well. I'll do anything to protect him (well, that's the being partners part of it), but I also want to be with him. Touch him, lay lips on his and my tongue on his body. Take his prick into my mouth and suck on it, make him spill and take it all in. Have his arse if he'll let me, or offer mine.
Fucking hell… I need my head read. Time to stop this nonsense before…
Thank Christ we've almost reached his flat. Now I can leave him to rest up and try to forget all this bollocks...
*****
"Oi, sunshine. Time to wakey-wakey. You’re home!"
Indistinct noises, followed by yawning and as much stretching as is practically possible in the front of an Escort with me already occupying half of it.
Then he gets out of the car, in order to tilt the seat forward and rummage around for his bag, which is actually in the boot.
"I’ll get it," I say, and get out of the vehicle myself. I open the boot and remove his case, which involves pulling one of my own bags out to get at his. Then I go to put mine back in.
"Hang on," he says. “Dunno about you but I could use a drink and about ten hours kip. And Cowley'll expect his reports in the morning. Why don’t you come up? We can get some takeaway for dinner and go over our notes.”
Am I seeing things, or did he do something with his eyebrows, just then? My concentration must be shot.
"As I recall," I say slowly, "Your sofa is lumpy and a spring’s worked its way through in the middle, about where my tender bits would go."
He shifts about from one foot to the other. Trying too hard to look casual.
"Thought about that. You can share the bed. There'd be about as much space between us as there was at the Star."
Oh. Well, what to do now, that’s a good question. Do I say thanks, no, and head for home? Or do I take a chance?
"Yeah, okay." I grab the third bag and slam the lid of the boot, before locking the car. “Could murder a cup of tea.”
He nods and walks off, with that long lean stride of his. I watch for a moment. Then I pick up the remaining bags and follow.
Title: Musings on the M1
Author: KWS
Slash or Gen: Always slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes
Author's Name for Archiving (if different to above):
Disclaimer:
Notes: A short vignette set after the episode ‘In the Public Interest’. This episode has come up in a couple of places recently, but the big questions (still relevant today) were mostly set aside for this piece.
Also, not my usual POV, and there’s a bit of a tangle between things that happened earlier today, thinking about things that happened earlier, and things now. I tried, but I’m happy for concrit.
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