![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
jat-sapphire.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
discoveredinaljDoyle has a reputation for falling into a dark mood, anger or depression, at the end of an op. Sometimes even if they've won, if they didn't win the right way, by his standards. Bodie usually shrugs it off, laughs and stands a round down the pub, pulls the prettiest birds and winks over his shoulder on the way out.
It's not always that way.
This holiday season has been especially hard: bad enough that they were too late once, still speeding toward the bomb when they heard the blast, but then the next day there was a time-delay device they had no clue about, and two days after that, they were backing up Lucas and McCabe and the four of them were caught wrong-footed when a children's choir turned up carolling at the terrorists' rural hideaway, setting off a shootout. And there were drugs in a shipment of dolls to several Women's Institute charity gift-giving events, and a grass they were hoping to reach was dead of an overdose, and another was kidnapped and left dead on the street. Just outside their own CI5 car park.
There's still too much to do tonight, but there comes a time when even Cowley's best team is too worn out to do it. “Tomorrow, nine a.m.,” the old man says; he's too tired even to give them one of those sharp looks, and limps off to his car. Pettifer's down to a thread as well, her face like paper and her hair mussed, but she'll get him home.
Doyle takes a look at Bodie, the way his shoulders aren't as straight as usual, the way he's not moving though Cowley has dismissed them. “Oi,” He puts one hand on Bodie's arm, then shakes it a little. "Turned to stone? Decided to just wait here for morning?”
“Eh?” There's no point even taking the piss when Bodie's like this.
“Come on, Superman, time for your phone box.” That doesn't quite make sense either, but Doyle is just as tired. They get into the silver Capri, shining in the wet night, and make their way to Bodie's, where there's more likely to be food of some kind, and Doyle gets a parking spot right in front of Bodie's block of flats.
They sit and look at the stoop.
“What are we doing?” Bodie asks at last.
“Going to bed.”
Bodie swings around as if shocked, and Doyle just stares back until it occurs to him what his partner thought he said.
Doyle would love to have an actual conversation about the way they've sometimes brought one another off, mostly frottage but once a sixty-nine, the way they can't keep their hands off each other during every day and fend off the ragging in the rest room while knowing that every word is true. He'd love to ask, “What are we doing?” himself and mean, “What do you want us to be?” or even, “Can't we stop the double dates and flirty looks and call this a relationship and not just Bisto Kids?” But he doesn't believe Bodie meant any of that.
“You don't want to get some sleep?” Doyle asks instead.
“I don't want to have days like this. Look forward and see days like this. You did notice you almost died today, you … ” and Bodie shuts his mouth tight, as if whichever of their common insults was on his tongue was fighting to get out.
“And you the other day,” Doyle concedes. “And maybe both of us tomorrow.”
“It's nearly New Year's.”
“D'you want to make a resolution?” He's still trying to speak lightly. It's still not working.
Bodie stares at him for another moment, then gets out of the car and slams the door. Doyle follows him to the front entrance, through it, to the end of the hallway where Bodie's flat is, then through that door too. Bodie turns and looks as if he didn't expect to be tailed like this, but there's no time tonight for any of that nonsense. “Locks,” Doyle says with a gesture, and flicks the lounge lights on before walking over to plug in the fairy lights.
There's no tree, but Bodie stuck the light-string up above the window, on the inside of the bay. The last time Doyle came for dinner so they could study files together, the little points of white were reflected in the glass, visible from the street on the side of the building. They looked hopeful.
Bodie turns off the overhead fixture in the lounge, leaving a dim background with shadow blocks for furniture. He stands in the door with the hall light behind him, outlining his head and shoulders, showing that they still look beaten.
“Food?” Doyle asks, but Bodie shakes his head. Then, extraordinarily, he reaches out one hand and waits for his partner to come take it. When Doyle does, he knows his face is exposed, while Bodie's is still hidden.
“What are we doing?” Doyle asks softly.
Bodie takes a deep breath, puts his other hand on Doyle's shoulder, then his jaw, then cupping his cheek. He steps, leans, until his head shadows Doyle's, until even that dimness can't cover the expression in his eyes, and Doyle grips his wrist overhand. Their kiss is tentative, too chaste.
“Come sit on the—” and this next kiss isn't in the least tentative. Doyle eats Bodie's words and wraps their bodies together.
They do end up on the sofa. Doyle has been starving for food and rest and victory, but he takes and gives the feeling they have not named, and it seems enough then, more than a late night snack: sustenance. Holding Bodie's head in both hands, the soft dark strands between his fingers and catching in his bracelet, Doyle feels Bodie gripping his curls at the back and palming the necklace and the pelt on his chest. Murmuring wordlessly, Doyle is pierced by longing for another world and time to hold Bodie in; the closest he can come is to drink from Bodie's mouth until he feels drunk. At last, the big, solid body relaxes. Doyle works into the layers of Bodie's clothes, above and below, loosening zips and buttons to find the hard prick as it stirs, rises and jumps with the living force their mutual passion renews, that makes Doyle laugh with joy and brings out Bodie's pouting smile, his low chuckle.
Bodie falls asleep on Doyle's chest, in the circle of his arms. They're home at last, both their resolutions made. Tomorrow they'll talk about notice, letters, new work, and maybe they will even say “love.” But now, Doyle finds that with his cheek in Bodie's hair, he can see the fairy lights in their brave, small promise, and he watches them, not long, until he drops off too.
Title: All the Weary World
Author: jat_sapphire
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes
Author's Name for Archiving (if different to above):
Disclaimer: Not my boys, no $ made.
Notes: Many thanks to BySlantedLight, who gave me edits, and no thanks at all to the enraging editing program for livejournal. Grrrrrrr.
It's not always that way.
This holiday season has been especially hard: bad enough that they were too late once, still speeding toward the bomb when they heard the blast, but then the next day there was a time-delay device they had no clue about, and two days after that, they were backing up Lucas and McCabe and the four of them were caught wrong-footed when a children's choir turned up carolling at the terrorists' rural hideaway, setting off a shootout. And there were drugs in a shipment of dolls to several Women's Institute charity gift-giving events, and a grass they were hoping to reach was dead of an overdose, and another was kidnapped and left dead on the street. Just outside their own CI5 car park.
There's still too much to do tonight, but there comes a time when even Cowley's best team is too worn out to do it. “Tomorrow, nine a.m.,” the old man says; he's too tired even to give them one of those sharp looks, and limps off to his car. Pettifer's down to a thread as well, her face like paper and her hair mussed, but she'll get him home.
Doyle takes a look at Bodie, the way his shoulders aren't as straight as usual, the way he's not moving though Cowley has dismissed them. “Oi,” He puts one hand on Bodie's arm, then shakes it a little. "Turned to stone? Decided to just wait here for morning?”
“Eh?” There's no point even taking the piss when Bodie's like this.
“Come on, Superman, time for your phone box.” That doesn't quite make sense either, but Doyle is just as tired. They get into the silver Capri, shining in the wet night, and make their way to Bodie's, where there's more likely to be food of some kind, and Doyle gets a parking spot right in front of Bodie's block of flats.
They sit and look at the stoop.
“What are we doing?” Bodie asks at last.
“Going to bed.”
Bodie swings around as if shocked, and Doyle just stares back until it occurs to him what his partner thought he said.
Doyle would love to have an actual conversation about the way they've sometimes brought one another off, mostly frottage but once a sixty-nine, the way they can't keep their hands off each other during every day and fend off the ragging in the rest room while knowing that every word is true. He'd love to ask, “What are we doing?” himself and mean, “What do you want us to be?” or even, “Can't we stop the double dates and flirty looks and call this a relationship and not just Bisto Kids?” But he doesn't believe Bodie meant any of that.
“You don't want to get some sleep?” Doyle asks instead.
“I don't want to have days like this. Look forward and see days like this. You did notice you almost died today, you … ” and Bodie shuts his mouth tight, as if whichever of their common insults was on his tongue was fighting to get out.
“And you the other day,” Doyle concedes. “And maybe both of us tomorrow.”
“It's nearly New Year's.”
“D'you want to make a resolution?” He's still trying to speak lightly. It's still not working.
Bodie stares at him for another moment, then gets out of the car and slams the door. Doyle follows him to the front entrance, through it, to the end of the hallway where Bodie's flat is, then through that door too. Bodie turns and looks as if he didn't expect to be tailed like this, but there's no time tonight for any of that nonsense. “Locks,” Doyle says with a gesture, and flicks the lounge lights on before walking over to plug in the fairy lights.
There's no tree, but Bodie stuck the light-string up above the window, on the inside of the bay. The last time Doyle came for dinner so they could study files together, the little points of white were reflected in the glass, visible from the street on the side of the building. They looked hopeful.
Bodie turns off the overhead fixture in the lounge, leaving a dim background with shadow blocks for furniture. He stands in the door with the hall light behind him, outlining his head and shoulders, showing that they still look beaten.
“Food?” Doyle asks, but Bodie shakes his head. Then, extraordinarily, he reaches out one hand and waits for his partner to come take it. When Doyle does, he knows his face is exposed, while Bodie's is still hidden.
“What are we doing?” Doyle asks softly.
Bodie takes a deep breath, puts his other hand on Doyle's shoulder, then his jaw, then cupping his cheek. He steps, leans, until his head shadows Doyle's, until even that dimness can't cover the expression in his eyes, and Doyle grips his wrist overhand. Their kiss is tentative, too chaste.
“Come sit on the—” and this next kiss isn't in the least tentative. Doyle eats Bodie's words and wraps their bodies together.
They do end up on the sofa. Doyle has been starving for food and rest and victory, but he takes and gives the feeling they have not named, and it seems enough then, more than a late night snack: sustenance. Holding Bodie's head in both hands, the soft dark strands between his fingers and catching in his bracelet, Doyle feels Bodie gripping his curls at the back and palming the necklace and the pelt on his chest. Murmuring wordlessly, Doyle is pierced by longing for another world and time to hold Bodie in; the closest he can come is to drink from Bodie's mouth until he feels drunk. At last, the big, solid body relaxes. Doyle works into the layers of Bodie's clothes, above and below, loosening zips and buttons to find the hard prick as it stirs, rises and jumps with the living force their mutual passion renews, that makes Doyle laugh with joy and brings out Bodie's pouting smile, his low chuckle.
Bodie falls asleep on Doyle's chest, in the circle of his arms. They're home at last, both their resolutions made. Tomorrow they'll talk about notice, letters, new work, and maybe they will even say “love.” But now, Doyle finds that with his cheek in Bodie's hair, he can see the fairy lights in their brave, small promise, and he watches them, not long, until he drops off too.
Title: All the Weary World
Author: jat_sapphire
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes
Author's Name for Archiving (if different to above):
Disclaimer: Not my boys, no $ made.
Notes: Many thanks to BySlantedLight, who gave me edits, and no thanks at all to the enraging editing program for livejournal. Grrrrrrr.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}