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discoveredinaljOnce More, With Feeling
The blast from the bomb exploding in mid-air shoved against Bodie’s eardrums, percussive force slamming through his skull. His entire body shuddered from the impact.
But he was alive. Because Doyle had tackled him from behind, ripped the explosive filled rucksack from his back and flung it skyward. A stunning save.
“Are you out of your mind?” Bodie bellowed, the words bashing through his throbbing brain like a thrown cricket ball. He bounded to his feet, still in flight or fight mode, heart galloping like a charging horse. “You could have been killed!”
“Me?” Doyle shouted at him, eyes ablaze with light. He was livid.
Bodie could barely hear him but reading his lips was quite sufficient.
“You were the daft sod strapped to a bomb!” Doyle stabbed his finger at the lingering pyrotechnics falling to the ground from the bomb. “C’mere.” He roughly grabbed Bodie’s bound hands, jerking the ropes off.
Took a millimeter of pale Bodie flesh, too. He glared at his partner, both overjoyed that they had survived and fuming at Doyle’s disregard for his own life. “Berk,” he shouted angrily, rubbing the sting on his left wrist.
“So sorry I saved your fucking life,” Doyle retorted, clutching his arm to plunge them into the battle around the grounded plane.
Bodie shook his head irritably to clear his ears. Smoke from the bomb billowing through the chaotic scene, he was aware of the sound of shots from a hidden long range rifle, proving that CI5 agents were situated around the area.
Seeing Cowley take aim at a fleeing Klaus, Bodie veered left, trailing Doyle. The scene morphed into a shifting cinematic montage, smoke thick as London fog concealing and revealing, glimpses of the terrorists’ bodies spread across the airfield interspersed with escaping fugitives vying for the airplane.
Klaus went down from Cowley’s bullet just as Christina shot Karen in the back. Her agonized cry fragmented into atonal chords from Bodie’s faulty hearing.
Doyle dashed through the residue smoke, centring on Karen. She was down, huddled over Klaus’ unmoving body, showing unrelenting determination to grab the pistol he’d dropped just beyond her hand.
Bodie saw her seconds after his partner did, blonde curls tangled over her duplicitous face. He had no sympathy for her whatsoever, keen only to protect his partner’s safety.
Doyle stomped a Frye boot onto the gun inches from Karen’s outstretched fingers, leveling his own weapon at her neck. Bodie swooped in, hauling her away from the dead man’s body.
“Plan didn’t go according to, eh?” Bodie sneered into her ear.
She tried to jerk away, but with Doyle’s gun trained on her, she didn’t have a chance, especially considering she’d already been shot once.
CI5 agents poured onto the field, transport vehicles and ambulances arriving to take the injured and dead away. Karen was immediately whisked off by the medics.
Cowley stalked over, grim-faced and hair unusually rumpled. “Neither of you able to obey an explicit order, eh?” he groused, hard blue eyes scanning Bodie from head to toe. “You’ve survived?”
“Yes, sir,” Bodie responded dutifully, pulling his sleeve down over the reddened scrape on his wrist. “Already writing up a report in me head.” He tapped his temple, taking care not to wince. There was no way they were dragging him to hospital because of a bloody headache.
Doyle tilted his chin, eyes on the wounded wrist Bodie was trying to hide.
“Och, go home, the both of you,” Cowley ordered with a wave of his hand. “Start in tomorrow.”
“You drove,” Doyle pointed out, flicking his finger toward the Major’s car.
“So I did.” Cowley snorted inelegantly. “So I did.”
In the back of the car, on the long drive into central London, Bodie dozed, inordinately exhausted from the fallout. He leaned into the upholstery, neck at a crooked angle. As Cowley took a right onto a different road, Bodie shifted, his head lolling onto Doyle’s shoulder where it remained until they arrived at CI5 headquarters.
Coming awake, Bodie felt Doyle’s fingers cradling his injured wrist and smiled. Such a simple gesture, and yet so vital.
~~**~~
As happened so many times, Doyle freed himself. Bodie, overcome with worry for his captured partner, was never sure how Ray managed the feat so often all on his own. Sure, Bodie always arrived to sweep up the debris, as it were, but Doyle seemed inevitably able to wriggle out of ropes or perilous situations without a great deal of rescuing. No languishing prince was he.
Catching his breath, not quite able to shed the dread and anger that ground into his gut, Bodie was still grateful when Doyle came to him, looking remarkably good. Fantastic, even. There was a bruise directly over his misaligned cheekbone and a stiffness in his gait completely at odds with his usual grace. No surprise at all, proving Bodie’s hypothesis that he’d most probably been slugged repeatedly in the torso, but he never shed the beauty, grace, and insouciant poise of a model in a glossy magazine fashion spread.
They both watched as Ojuka’s wife was escorted to a waiting car to be charged with a host of crimes against Betan and the UK. Cowley glanced at them before taking Ojuka in the opposite direction to join the conference where he would speak.
Doyle shook his head, rubbing his wrists before presenting them for Bodie to see. Bright red marks marred both slender joints.
Not a gash or cut, Bodie thought. “How’d you cut the ropes?” he asked, noting the ligature chaffing on Doyle’s wrists. His own stung in sympathy, memories of being tied up more than once coming into his daytime thoughts instead of his nightmares.
“Not cut.” Doyle grimaced slightly, some of the pain leaking through his tough demeanour. “Had a lighter in m’pocket. Burned the bleeding ropes.”
“Bugger,” Bodie snarled, angry all over again without Cowley or the kidnappers around to focus his emotions. He hooked his arm under Doyle’s left one, hauling him to the car. Doyle’s weight pressing into his right side was slight but perceptible. “You don’t smoke. When have you kept a lighter?”
“Used to, didn’t I?” Doyle gave him a half smile, obviously hurting and exhausted. “When I was a copper. Since we’re to change houses again soon… I went through some old clothes, to donate to Oxfam. Found it in a jacket and dropped it into my jeans for safekeeping.”
Where it had waited until needed to keep him safe.
“Didn’t know you returned clothes to Oxfam,” Bodie teased gently, pretending he wasn’t helping Doyle bend to get into the low-slung car. “Thought everything you owned came from the shop in the High street.”
“Pillock.” Doyle tossed at him, leaning carefully against the passenger seat. “Yours, then?”
“Expect so, since the cleaners will have been at your flat by now.” Bodie steered out into the country lanes past the other CI5 vehicles parked haphazardly on the verge. “You have the new address yet?”
“Nah.” Doyle wriggled in his seat as if trying for a position that didn’t ache and turned slightly to the right so that he could see Bodie. “You’re next, yeah? That nice place with the dormer windows and a view of the little park no more after the end of Friday.”
“Some are much nicer than others,” Bodie agreed, keeping his eye on Doyle. It was always a toss-up whether to have a check-in at an A&E or to let the injured party soldier on. Doyle was decidedly uncomfortable, but except for the burns on both wrists, not likely to be bleeding internally or severely wounded. A minor concussion was so common neither of them considered it an obstacle. Even without questioning his partner on date, who sat on the throne, and whether he knew his full name, Bodie was confident that Doyle was oriented and as stroppy as usual.
“Cowley’s told me that I’ll be out just after you’re installed in your new place.” Bodie grinned slightly. Doyle’s eyes were drooping, sleep coaxing him under. “Didn’t quite like your last flat, with only the one window opening onto a brick wall.”
Doyle’s snoring comforted Bodie the entire drive into the city.
~~**~~
Bodie grumbled under his breath, fidgety and anxious, anger boiling just under the surface. He’d managed to take down one of the bullyboys, the knife fight garnering him a shallow gash across his left wrist. Dripping blood, he’d slashed at his opposite, putting a long, wicked slice into the baddie’s right bicep which caused the bloke’s arm to go limp as boiled spaghetti.
Aiming a kick straight into his goolies, Bodie scooped the blade he’d dropped, as well as his own Webley with an empty clip, and raced down the dark hall.
Baddie recruitments were crashing down the stairs from the upper story in pursuit, but Bodie had one goal: find Doyle. Logic said either in a locked room or a basement of some kind.
The house was old, mid 19th century, with the usual eccentricities of the era. A low door cut into the landing just before the kitchen beckoned. The sort that led to a space meant for storing coal or root vegetables.
Because the kidnappers were one floor above, Bodie dared not use the r/t to contact Murphy and Jax waiting in the van disguised as one of those effing plagues that trolled council housing for telly license scofflaws. From the loud outcry upstairs, the baddies had stumbled upon their knifed comrade.
Bodie was on his own. Using a skeleton key, he snicked the lock and ducked into the door, closing it quietly as a thunder of boots on the stairs passed by. With any luck, he wasn’t stuck inside this hellhole for long term.
A phantom shape loomed large the inky blackness. The rising sun in London town glowed around what had to be a grate or opening in the wall, highlighting shaggy curls on the phantom’s head. Bodie froze, relieved that Doyle was ready for him.
“Bodie?” Doyle whispered.
“One and the same, here to rescue…” Bodie belatedly brought out his torch, shining it over his loved one. He appeared to be enrobed in soot from head to toe.
Doyle blinked, raising a hand to shield his eyes, rope dangling from his beautiful, narrow wrist. “Point it the other direction, nutter.”
Raising the beam above Doyle’s head, Bodie traced the width of the chute. Just might accommodate them. “Think we can wriggle out through there?” he mused.
Doyle shifted with a mild curse, bracing himself against the filthy wall. “Might do. Never noticed that in the night.”
“Me Gran had one just the same.” Bodie came down the remainder of the stairs, reaching out to touch Doyle, simply because he could.
Doyle inhaled raggedly, proving he probably had a cracked rib or two, but that was a lesser matter than immediate escape.
The grate was above Bodie’s head. He could boost Doyle on his shoulders but how would he climb out after?
“Your wrist bleeding?” Doyle clasped the hand against his sleeve. In the light from the torch, there was an obvious slick of blood on his Bodie’s jacket. “Playing with knives again?”
“Perfecting my butchering skills.” Bodie shone the torch around the enclosure, searching for anything to climb up on to reach the grate.
“Wooden box,” Doyle identified, pointing.
“Indeed, Bunny.” Bodie grinned, feeling slightly mad with relief. He’d located Doyle with only a minimum of fuss, and they’d make it out of this prison on Christmas day, if the risen sun was any indication.
“You’re Raffles?” Doyle asked dubiously, kicking the box until it was directly over the grate.
“I own a skeleton key,” he defended himself, stepping onto the improvised stool. “Up you go, then.” He could hear muffled shouts from the lot inside the building but the coal room must have thick walls because he couldn’t make out what they were going on about. Fairly easy to postulate that they were on the search for him and would check this little room soon. Before cupping his hands as a step for Doyle, he shoved his r/t into his partner’s hand. “Take mine and rally the troops once you’re out.”
“You’ll come immediately after,” Doyle insisted, one foot poised on Bodie’s palms. “No being a hero, yeah?”
“Not bloody likely.” Bodie snorted, his heart trip-hammering. “I’m bleeding, remember? Not staying here.” Still, his main objective was getting Doyle to safety.
Bearing Doyle’s full weight, Bodie braced himself against the brick wall, fearing that at any minute the wooden crate would collapse with both of them standing on top. He felt Doyle scramble for the opening, moaning loudly when he must have banged his already bunged ribs.
Doyle gave a desperate kick that just missed bashing in Bodie’s front teeth and clambered through the tight opening.
“Come up!” Doyle whispered from above, shoving both hands through to give Bodie some leverage.
Grimacing at the thought of Doyle hauling him up with cracked or broken ribs, Bodie clamped his fingers around the bottom edge of the grate. Planting one foot on the vertical wall, he made like Spiderman, alternating feet going upward. His lungs close to bursting, he finally heaved himself forward and through the hole.
Doyle had both his hands, keeping him from sliding backward.
The early morning sky looked silvery-bright, clouds obscuring the sun and casting long shadows across the proper terraced houses. He caught a glimpse of Murphy racing towards them as Doyle enfolded him in a hug that dragged what was left of the air clean out of him.
“Happy Christmas,” Doyle gasped, sounding like he was crying.
But Doyle didn’t cry, did he?
Nah. Just as Bodie never had. This was what they did. Their job, and then moved on to the next impossible op and equally impossible save. It was why they both had pale scars on their wrists and bullet wounds in places they never showed anyone but each other.
~~**~~
Doyle was asleep in the car when Bodie drove the Capri into the underground parking that was the prize of his latest flat. He’d never had a designated spot for the car before. Bodie sat looking at his love, debating on whether to wake him or grab a kip himself, the two of them sleeping side by side in the car on Christmas morning.
They’d decided against a visit to A & E. There was nothing less festive than waiting for a harassed doctor on a holiday along with a dozen children under six, all with some sort of contagious respiratory ailment.
No, far better to retreat to shelter, clean up, and regroup. That was how it went—and how it would go into the next year.
A bit of rejuvenating sex would not go amiss, though.
“It’s all over then?” Doyle muttered around a yawn, shifting and moving his arms as if he was cramped and hurt all over. He was black as a Moor in a Pantomime play, liberally covered in coal dust.
“You’re filthy,” Bodie said, resolving to get them both up to his sixth floor flat and into the shower forthwith. He wasn’t much cleaner after crawling up the dirty brick wall.
“Yeah.” Doyle bared his teeth in a gruesome smile. “But you love me anyways.”
“That’s left to interpretation.” Bodie cocked an eyebrow, both of them chuckling for God knows why after their latest perilous assignment. “Into the shower with you, golly.”
“You just want your way with me, priapic monster that you are.” Doyle climbed carefully from the car, right arm held tightly against his side to protect his ribs. “And here I am, all feverish and consumptive, only able to languish on a chaise in the late afternoon and eat…”
“Bonbons,” Bodie said brightly, pressing the button for the lift. “Which I’ve got. Bought all sorts of Christmassy delights at Tesco’s on Saturday.”
“You? Prepared at Christmas?” Doyle leaned on the shiny metal wall of the ascending lift. “Pull another one, old son.”
“You wound me, you do.” Bodie placed a hand over his dirty jumper, raising a cloud of coal dust, but happy all the same. Which was mad.
The shower was their first stop, both shedding clothes on the linoleum floor. No sense trying to launder those grimy duds. Into the dust bin, every last thing they’d worn.
With hot water sluicing down on his head, Bodie kissed Doyle, grateful to have him in his arms once again.
Doyle hissed when Bodie gently palpated the blue/purple bruise on his right flank. Bodie didn’t feel any raw edges or bogey spots where blood might have accumulated. Doyle’s wrists, once soaped and clean, gave mute evidence of abrasive rope burns. Strange that one of the additional perks of their job had been the equivalent knowledge of a second year medical student.
“You’ll live.” Bodie kissed the sweet spot where Doyle’s neck and collar bone met. Reaching up, he threaded his fingers through Doyle’s hair, fluffing out the wet curls. The slice on his own wrist stung in the hot water but had long since stopped bleeding.
“Feels like it,” Doyle said, as if resigning to the inevitable, He pressed his lips onto Bodie’s, kissing him with desperate longing. “Doubt it would hurt this much if I’d slipped off my mortal coil.”
“Passed on, ceased to be, expired, and gone to meet your maker.” Bodie nodded, turning the faucet off. “Not an ex-parrot from what I see.” He swathed Doyle in his largest towel, drying him
fastidiously.
“Lucky I’ve tucked a few things in your closet, eh?” Doyle kicked at the clothes on the floor.
“We could remain starkers…” Bodie suggested. “Cowley’s undoubtedly at a Christmas morning service at his local…”
“Kirk,” Doyle finished, giving the word a Scottish burr. “Looking forward to a comfortable afternoon sipping the fine malt we gave him.”
“Listening to the Queen’s speech,” Bodie agreed. “Won’t be calling us in for a debriefing ‘til Boxing day.”
“Rather eat something, myself.” Doyle rummaged through the closet, extracting a deep blue shirt and black trousers. “And before you express shock and surprise, it’s been nigh on to three days since we had that Spag Bol at the Italian place off Leicester Square.”
“You didn’t eat breakfast the morning before the obbo?” Bodie asked, donning a warm, woollen jumper and tweed trousers. Made him feel like a chap from a movie set in the thirties. All he needed was an ascot, narrow moustache, and a martini glass. He added a gauze bandage around his left wrist for a dash of savior-faire.
“You know I didn’t,” Doyle said irritably, buttoning the shirt without tucking the tails into his waistband.
He was clearly peckish, hitting the kitchen well before Bodie, and investigating the contents of the refrigerator. Pulling out sliced turkey meat, tomatoes, pickles, and lettuce, he constructed a thick sandwich. “You bought a tree?” Doyle asked in amazement, taking a huge bite.
“It came with all the baubles and lights.” Bodie surveyed the pretty little evergreen studded with silver and red ornaments. “No pressies underneath.” He was supremely happy that Doyle had noticed the efforts he’d made to give the flat a festive air.
Copying his partner, he assembled an identical sandwich, bringing out some French cheese, clementines, and little mince tarts for after. Plus the chocolate bonbons he’d promised and two bottles of hard cider. Felt more like Christmas every second.
“I have a pressie hidden.” Doyle polished off half of his sandwich, and braced his arms on the sides of his chair to stand with a minimum of bending at the torso.
“When did you?”
“When I came to fetch you for the Spag Bol.” Doyle gave him a grin that was all mischief and good cheer. He pulled out a small drawer in the bottom of Bodie’s desk, one that generally held old envelopes and cancelled cheques. Extracting a small, square box wrapped in red and green tartan, Doyle tucked it under the tree.
“Been there the entire time, since you went under with the Frazier gang,” Bodie said softly, an odd clenching in his chest. Would he have ever found it had things gone horribly wrong? “Doesn’t it seem as if we’re mice caught in the same maze, goin’ through the same motions over and over again?”
“You’re beginning to sound like me.” Doyle laid his hand on Bodie’s cheek, looking down at him. “We may often have similar souvenirs from each case, but the consequences of our actions have longer lasting results.”
“Routing out drug dealers, sex traffickers, and the like?” Bodie nodded, standing to carefully embrace his lover without undue pressure on damaged ribs. The garish scrapes on Doyle’s wrists made him cringe. He kissed Doyle, soaking in the essence of his love. “True. Still a slog. At least Frazier’s guns won’t fall into the wrong hands this Christmas.”
Arm around Doyle’s waist, he slid out the desk drawer above the one Doyle had used. “Didn’t have time to wrap it, and you may have to wait a week or so to wear it…” He dropped the gift he’d bought into Doyle’s open palm.
“Oh.” Doyle breathed in on a sigh, his eyes bright. “It’s beautiful.” He held the bracelet up to the light to examine the workmanship.
Bodie had seen the circlet in Covent Garden whilst tailing a suspect. Once the assignment ended, he’d gone back to the jewelry stall for a second look. Made of silver with a narrow vein of ruby through the middle, the bracelet curved in on itself, so the inside and outside seemed continuous.
Infinity.
“Never ending loop.” Doyle nodded, clearly understanding the reference, not just of their job but their lives, themselves, together as one. “You’ll laugh when you see what I’ve got you.”
“Not the same?” Bodie asked in astonishment. Were they that in sync?
“Open it and find out.” Doyle laughed, stealing a quick kiss before handing over the small box.
Ripping the tartan wrapping in one swipe, Bodie took off the lid with a bark of joy. No, not exactly the same, but also a bracelet. This one harked back to the twists of rawhide or hemp he’d worn in Africa as a mercenary. There were three linked bands: one threaded with round onyx beads, the second made from dark braided leather, and the third of thin, flat, burgundy coloured beads that sparkled in the fairy lights from the tree. The burgundy bracelet coiled around the other two, tying them together.
He slipped it onto his right wrist, smiling when Doyle cupped his hand, tapping his own new bracelet to Bodie’s.
“You and me,” Doyle said with such love and devotion that Bodie was warmed through. “You saved my life.” He inhaled, his Adam’s apple traveling the column of his neck. “Not just today, Bodie-my heart, but every day since we met.” He fit the silver bracelet over his left hand to settle just above the worst of the rope burn.
“And you me, petal,” Bodie whispered, unaccountably affected. They were blokes, they didn’t cry. “You’re mine, for always.”
“Infinity,” Doyle vowed.
They clasped hands, each wearing a bracelet on one arm, and leaned in to kiss.
“Merry Christmas.” Bodie laughed for joy, looking into his beloved’s eyes.
“Happy Boxing day, tomorrow,” Doyle added, fingertips light on Bodie’s lips and chin. “We could go to the shops, buy matching shirts.”
“Never going to happen.” Bodie touched Doyle’s belly, stroking downward. “We could stay in bed the entire afternoon, with much more fun activities.”
“Unless Cowley bellows,” Doyle said regretfully.
“Even if he does, tell ‘im you’re taking a medical day.”
“Will he believe that?” Doyle let Bodie tow him out of the lounge.
“We’ll convince him,” Bodie insisted. “I’m your carer, I know best.”
“You are the best,” Doyle agreed with a chuckle. “As well as tall, dark, beautiful and…”
“Engagingly modest,” they said as one and laughed, arms around each other.
Bodie looked forward to the New Year and doing it all over again—with Doyle beside him.
FIN
Title: Once More, With Feeling
Author: Dawnwind (aka Dawnebeth)
Slash
The blast from the bomb exploding in mid-air shoved against Bodie’s eardrums, percussive force slamming through his skull. His entire body shuddered from the impact.
But he was alive. Because Doyle had tackled him from behind, ripped the explosive filled rucksack from his back and flung it skyward. A stunning save.
“Are you out of your mind?” Bodie bellowed, the words bashing through his throbbing brain like a thrown cricket ball. He bounded to his feet, still in flight or fight mode, heart galloping like a charging horse. “You could have been killed!”
“Me?” Doyle shouted at him, eyes ablaze with light. He was livid.
Bodie could barely hear him but reading his lips was quite sufficient.
“You were the daft sod strapped to a bomb!” Doyle stabbed his finger at the lingering pyrotechnics falling to the ground from the bomb. “C’mere.” He roughly grabbed Bodie’s bound hands, jerking the ropes off.
Took a millimeter of pale Bodie flesh, too. He glared at his partner, both overjoyed that they had survived and fuming at Doyle’s disregard for his own life. “Berk,” he shouted angrily, rubbing the sting on his left wrist.
“So sorry I saved your fucking life,” Doyle retorted, clutching his arm to plunge them into the battle around the grounded plane.
Bodie shook his head irritably to clear his ears. Smoke from the bomb billowing through the chaotic scene, he was aware of the sound of shots from a hidden long range rifle, proving that CI5 agents were situated around the area.
Seeing Cowley take aim at a fleeing Klaus, Bodie veered left, trailing Doyle. The scene morphed into a shifting cinematic montage, smoke thick as London fog concealing and revealing, glimpses of the terrorists’ bodies spread across the airfield interspersed with escaping fugitives vying for the airplane.
Klaus went down from Cowley’s bullet just as Christina shot Karen in the back. Her agonized cry fragmented into atonal chords from Bodie’s faulty hearing.
Doyle dashed through the residue smoke, centring on Karen. She was down, huddled over Klaus’ unmoving body, showing unrelenting determination to grab the pistol he’d dropped just beyond her hand.
Bodie saw her seconds after his partner did, blonde curls tangled over her duplicitous face. He had no sympathy for her whatsoever, keen only to protect his partner’s safety.
Doyle stomped a Frye boot onto the gun inches from Karen’s outstretched fingers, leveling his own weapon at her neck. Bodie swooped in, hauling her away from the dead man’s body.
“Plan didn’t go according to, eh?” Bodie sneered into her ear.
She tried to jerk away, but with Doyle’s gun trained on her, she didn’t have a chance, especially considering she’d already been shot once.
CI5 agents poured onto the field, transport vehicles and ambulances arriving to take the injured and dead away. Karen was immediately whisked off by the medics.
Cowley stalked over, grim-faced and hair unusually rumpled. “Neither of you able to obey an explicit order, eh?” he groused, hard blue eyes scanning Bodie from head to toe. “You’ve survived?”
“Yes, sir,” Bodie responded dutifully, pulling his sleeve down over the reddened scrape on his wrist. “Already writing up a report in me head.” He tapped his temple, taking care not to wince. There was no way they were dragging him to hospital because of a bloody headache.
Doyle tilted his chin, eyes on the wounded wrist Bodie was trying to hide.
“Och, go home, the both of you,” Cowley ordered with a wave of his hand. “Start in tomorrow.”
“You drove,” Doyle pointed out, flicking his finger toward the Major’s car.
“So I did.” Cowley snorted inelegantly. “So I did.”
In the back of the car, on the long drive into central London, Bodie dozed, inordinately exhausted from the fallout. He leaned into the upholstery, neck at a crooked angle. As Cowley took a right onto a different road, Bodie shifted, his head lolling onto Doyle’s shoulder where it remained until they arrived at CI5 headquarters.
Coming awake, Bodie felt Doyle’s fingers cradling his injured wrist and smiled. Such a simple gesture, and yet so vital.
~~**~~
As happened so many times, Doyle freed himself. Bodie, overcome with worry for his captured partner, was never sure how Ray managed the feat so often all on his own. Sure, Bodie always arrived to sweep up the debris, as it were, but Doyle seemed inevitably able to wriggle out of ropes or perilous situations without a great deal of rescuing. No languishing prince was he.
Catching his breath, not quite able to shed the dread and anger that ground into his gut, Bodie was still grateful when Doyle came to him, looking remarkably good. Fantastic, even. There was a bruise directly over his misaligned cheekbone and a stiffness in his gait completely at odds with his usual grace. No surprise at all, proving Bodie’s hypothesis that he’d most probably been slugged repeatedly in the torso, but he never shed the beauty, grace, and insouciant poise of a model in a glossy magazine fashion spread.
They both watched as Ojuka’s wife was escorted to a waiting car to be charged with a host of crimes against Betan and the UK. Cowley glanced at them before taking Ojuka in the opposite direction to join the conference where he would speak.
Doyle shook his head, rubbing his wrists before presenting them for Bodie to see. Bright red marks marred both slender joints.
Not a gash or cut, Bodie thought. “How’d you cut the ropes?” he asked, noting the ligature chaffing on Doyle’s wrists. His own stung in sympathy, memories of being tied up more than once coming into his daytime thoughts instead of his nightmares.
“Not cut.” Doyle grimaced slightly, some of the pain leaking through his tough demeanour. “Had a lighter in m’pocket. Burned the bleeding ropes.”
“Bugger,” Bodie snarled, angry all over again without Cowley or the kidnappers around to focus his emotions. He hooked his arm under Doyle’s left one, hauling him to the car. Doyle’s weight pressing into his right side was slight but perceptible. “You don’t smoke. When have you kept a lighter?”
“Used to, didn’t I?” Doyle gave him a half smile, obviously hurting and exhausted. “When I was a copper. Since we’re to change houses again soon… I went through some old clothes, to donate to Oxfam. Found it in a jacket and dropped it into my jeans for safekeeping.”
Where it had waited until needed to keep him safe.
“Didn’t know you returned clothes to Oxfam,” Bodie teased gently, pretending he wasn’t helping Doyle bend to get into the low-slung car. “Thought everything you owned came from the shop in the High street.”
“Pillock.” Doyle tossed at him, leaning carefully against the passenger seat. “Yours, then?”
“Expect so, since the cleaners will have been at your flat by now.” Bodie steered out into the country lanes past the other CI5 vehicles parked haphazardly on the verge. “You have the new address yet?”
“Nah.” Doyle wriggled in his seat as if trying for a position that didn’t ache and turned slightly to the right so that he could see Bodie. “You’re next, yeah? That nice place with the dormer windows and a view of the little park no more after the end of Friday.”
“Some are much nicer than others,” Bodie agreed, keeping his eye on Doyle. It was always a toss-up whether to have a check-in at an A&E or to let the injured party soldier on. Doyle was decidedly uncomfortable, but except for the burns on both wrists, not likely to be bleeding internally or severely wounded. A minor concussion was so common neither of them considered it an obstacle. Even without questioning his partner on date, who sat on the throne, and whether he knew his full name, Bodie was confident that Doyle was oriented and as stroppy as usual.
“Cowley’s told me that I’ll be out just after you’re installed in your new place.” Bodie grinned slightly. Doyle’s eyes were drooping, sleep coaxing him under. “Didn’t quite like your last flat, with only the one window opening onto a brick wall.”
Doyle’s snoring comforted Bodie the entire drive into the city.
~~**~~
Bodie grumbled under his breath, fidgety and anxious, anger boiling just under the surface. He’d managed to take down one of the bullyboys, the knife fight garnering him a shallow gash across his left wrist. Dripping blood, he’d slashed at his opposite, putting a long, wicked slice into the baddie’s right bicep which caused the bloke’s arm to go limp as boiled spaghetti.
Aiming a kick straight into his goolies, Bodie scooped the blade he’d dropped, as well as his own Webley with an empty clip, and raced down the dark hall.
Baddie recruitments were crashing down the stairs from the upper story in pursuit, but Bodie had one goal: find Doyle. Logic said either in a locked room or a basement of some kind.
The house was old, mid 19th century, with the usual eccentricities of the era. A low door cut into the landing just before the kitchen beckoned. The sort that led to a space meant for storing coal or root vegetables.
Because the kidnappers were one floor above, Bodie dared not use the r/t to contact Murphy and Jax waiting in the van disguised as one of those effing plagues that trolled council housing for telly license scofflaws. From the loud outcry upstairs, the baddies had stumbled upon their knifed comrade.
Bodie was on his own. Using a skeleton key, he snicked the lock and ducked into the door, closing it quietly as a thunder of boots on the stairs passed by. With any luck, he wasn’t stuck inside this hellhole for long term.
A phantom shape loomed large the inky blackness. The rising sun in London town glowed around what had to be a grate or opening in the wall, highlighting shaggy curls on the phantom’s head. Bodie froze, relieved that Doyle was ready for him.
“Bodie?” Doyle whispered.
“One and the same, here to rescue…” Bodie belatedly brought out his torch, shining it over his loved one. He appeared to be enrobed in soot from head to toe.
Doyle blinked, raising a hand to shield his eyes, rope dangling from his beautiful, narrow wrist. “Point it the other direction, nutter.”
Raising the beam above Doyle’s head, Bodie traced the width of the chute. Just might accommodate them. “Think we can wriggle out through there?” he mused.
Doyle shifted with a mild curse, bracing himself against the filthy wall. “Might do. Never noticed that in the night.”
“Me Gran had one just the same.” Bodie came down the remainder of the stairs, reaching out to touch Doyle, simply because he could.
Doyle inhaled raggedly, proving he probably had a cracked rib or two, but that was a lesser matter than immediate escape.
The grate was above Bodie’s head. He could boost Doyle on his shoulders but how would he climb out after?
“Your wrist bleeding?” Doyle clasped the hand against his sleeve. In the light from the torch, there was an obvious slick of blood on his Bodie’s jacket. “Playing with knives again?”
“Perfecting my butchering skills.” Bodie shone the torch around the enclosure, searching for anything to climb up on to reach the grate.
“Wooden box,” Doyle identified, pointing.
“Indeed, Bunny.” Bodie grinned, feeling slightly mad with relief. He’d located Doyle with only a minimum of fuss, and they’d make it out of this prison on Christmas day, if the risen sun was any indication.
“You’re Raffles?” Doyle asked dubiously, kicking the box until it was directly over the grate.
“I own a skeleton key,” he defended himself, stepping onto the improvised stool. “Up you go, then.” He could hear muffled shouts from the lot inside the building but the coal room must have thick walls because he couldn’t make out what they were going on about. Fairly easy to postulate that they were on the search for him and would check this little room soon. Before cupping his hands as a step for Doyle, he shoved his r/t into his partner’s hand. “Take mine and rally the troops once you’re out.”
“You’ll come immediately after,” Doyle insisted, one foot poised on Bodie’s palms. “No being a hero, yeah?”
“Not bloody likely.” Bodie snorted, his heart trip-hammering. “I’m bleeding, remember? Not staying here.” Still, his main objective was getting Doyle to safety.
Bearing Doyle’s full weight, Bodie braced himself against the brick wall, fearing that at any minute the wooden crate would collapse with both of them standing on top. He felt Doyle scramble for the opening, moaning loudly when he must have banged his already bunged ribs.
Doyle gave a desperate kick that just missed bashing in Bodie’s front teeth and clambered through the tight opening.
“Come up!” Doyle whispered from above, shoving both hands through to give Bodie some leverage.
Grimacing at the thought of Doyle hauling him up with cracked or broken ribs, Bodie clamped his fingers around the bottom edge of the grate. Planting one foot on the vertical wall, he made like Spiderman, alternating feet going upward. His lungs close to bursting, he finally heaved himself forward and through the hole.
Doyle had both his hands, keeping him from sliding backward.
The early morning sky looked silvery-bright, clouds obscuring the sun and casting long shadows across the proper terraced houses. He caught a glimpse of Murphy racing towards them as Doyle enfolded him in a hug that dragged what was left of the air clean out of him.
“Happy Christmas,” Doyle gasped, sounding like he was crying.
But Doyle didn’t cry, did he?
Nah. Just as Bodie never had. This was what they did. Their job, and then moved on to the next impossible op and equally impossible save. It was why they both had pale scars on their wrists and bullet wounds in places they never showed anyone but each other.
~~**~~
Doyle was asleep in the car when Bodie drove the Capri into the underground parking that was the prize of his latest flat. He’d never had a designated spot for the car before. Bodie sat looking at his love, debating on whether to wake him or grab a kip himself, the two of them sleeping side by side in the car on Christmas morning.
They’d decided against a visit to A & E. There was nothing less festive than waiting for a harassed doctor on a holiday along with a dozen children under six, all with some sort of contagious respiratory ailment.
No, far better to retreat to shelter, clean up, and regroup. That was how it went—and how it would go into the next year.
A bit of rejuvenating sex would not go amiss, though.
“It’s all over then?” Doyle muttered around a yawn, shifting and moving his arms as if he was cramped and hurt all over. He was black as a Moor in a Pantomime play, liberally covered in coal dust.
“You’re filthy,” Bodie said, resolving to get them both up to his sixth floor flat and into the shower forthwith. He wasn’t much cleaner after crawling up the dirty brick wall.
“Yeah.” Doyle bared his teeth in a gruesome smile. “But you love me anyways.”
“That’s left to interpretation.” Bodie cocked an eyebrow, both of them chuckling for God knows why after their latest perilous assignment. “Into the shower with you, golly.”
“You just want your way with me, priapic monster that you are.” Doyle climbed carefully from the car, right arm held tightly against his side to protect his ribs. “And here I am, all feverish and consumptive, only able to languish on a chaise in the late afternoon and eat…”
“Bonbons,” Bodie said brightly, pressing the button for the lift. “Which I’ve got. Bought all sorts of Christmassy delights at Tesco’s on Saturday.”
“You? Prepared at Christmas?” Doyle leaned on the shiny metal wall of the ascending lift. “Pull another one, old son.”
“You wound me, you do.” Bodie placed a hand over his dirty jumper, raising a cloud of coal dust, but happy all the same. Which was mad.
The shower was their first stop, both shedding clothes on the linoleum floor. No sense trying to launder those grimy duds. Into the dust bin, every last thing they’d worn.
With hot water sluicing down on his head, Bodie kissed Doyle, grateful to have him in his arms once again.
Doyle hissed when Bodie gently palpated the blue/purple bruise on his right flank. Bodie didn’t feel any raw edges or bogey spots where blood might have accumulated. Doyle’s wrists, once soaped and clean, gave mute evidence of abrasive rope burns. Strange that one of the additional perks of their job had been the equivalent knowledge of a second year medical student.
“You’ll live.” Bodie kissed the sweet spot where Doyle’s neck and collar bone met. Reaching up, he threaded his fingers through Doyle’s hair, fluffing out the wet curls. The slice on his own wrist stung in the hot water but had long since stopped bleeding.
“Feels like it,” Doyle said, as if resigning to the inevitable, He pressed his lips onto Bodie’s, kissing him with desperate longing. “Doubt it would hurt this much if I’d slipped off my mortal coil.”
“Passed on, ceased to be, expired, and gone to meet your maker.” Bodie nodded, turning the faucet off. “Not an ex-parrot from what I see.” He swathed Doyle in his largest towel, drying him
fastidiously.
“Lucky I’ve tucked a few things in your closet, eh?” Doyle kicked at the clothes on the floor.
“We could remain starkers…” Bodie suggested. “Cowley’s undoubtedly at a Christmas morning service at his local…”
“Kirk,” Doyle finished, giving the word a Scottish burr. “Looking forward to a comfortable afternoon sipping the fine malt we gave him.”
“Listening to the Queen’s speech,” Bodie agreed. “Won’t be calling us in for a debriefing ‘til Boxing day.”
“Rather eat something, myself.” Doyle rummaged through the closet, extracting a deep blue shirt and black trousers. “And before you express shock and surprise, it’s been nigh on to three days since we had that Spag Bol at the Italian place off Leicester Square.”
“You didn’t eat breakfast the morning before the obbo?” Bodie asked, donning a warm, woollen jumper and tweed trousers. Made him feel like a chap from a movie set in the thirties. All he needed was an ascot, narrow moustache, and a martini glass. He added a gauze bandage around his left wrist for a dash of savior-faire.
“You know I didn’t,” Doyle said irritably, buttoning the shirt without tucking the tails into his waistband.
He was clearly peckish, hitting the kitchen well before Bodie, and investigating the contents of the refrigerator. Pulling out sliced turkey meat, tomatoes, pickles, and lettuce, he constructed a thick sandwich. “You bought a tree?” Doyle asked in amazement, taking a huge bite.
“It came with all the baubles and lights.” Bodie surveyed the pretty little evergreen studded with silver and red ornaments. “No pressies underneath.” He was supremely happy that Doyle had noticed the efforts he’d made to give the flat a festive air.
Copying his partner, he assembled an identical sandwich, bringing out some French cheese, clementines, and little mince tarts for after. Plus the chocolate bonbons he’d promised and two bottles of hard cider. Felt more like Christmas every second.
“I have a pressie hidden.” Doyle polished off half of his sandwich, and braced his arms on the sides of his chair to stand with a minimum of bending at the torso.
“When did you?”
“When I came to fetch you for the Spag Bol.” Doyle gave him a grin that was all mischief and good cheer. He pulled out a small drawer in the bottom of Bodie’s desk, one that generally held old envelopes and cancelled cheques. Extracting a small, square box wrapped in red and green tartan, Doyle tucked it under the tree.
“Been there the entire time, since you went under with the Frazier gang,” Bodie said softly, an odd clenching in his chest. Would he have ever found it had things gone horribly wrong? “Doesn’t it seem as if we’re mice caught in the same maze, goin’ through the same motions over and over again?”
“You’re beginning to sound like me.” Doyle laid his hand on Bodie’s cheek, looking down at him. “We may often have similar souvenirs from each case, but the consequences of our actions have longer lasting results.”
“Routing out drug dealers, sex traffickers, and the like?” Bodie nodded, standing to carefully embrace his lover without undue pressure on damaged ribs. The garish scrapes on Doyle’s wrists made him cringe. He kissed Doyle, soaking in the essence of his love. “True. Still a slog. At least Frazier’s guns won’t fall into the wrong hands this Christmas.”
Arm around Doyle’s waist, he slid out the desk drawer above the one Doyle had used. “Didn’t have time to wrap it, and you may have to wait a week or so to wear it…” He dropped the gift he’d bought into Doyle’s open palm.
“Oh.” Doyle breathed in on a sigh, his eyes bright. “It’s beautiful.” He held the bracelet up to the light to examine the workmanship.
Bodie had seen the circlet in Covent Garden whilst tailing a suspect. Once the assignment ended, he’d gone back to the jewelry stall for a second look. Made of silver with a narrow vein of ruby through the middle, the bracelet curved in on itself, so the inside and outside seemed continuous.
Infinity.
“Never ending loop.” Doyle nodded, clearly understanding the reference, not just of their job but their lives, themselves, together as one. “You’ll laugh when you see what I’ve got you.”
“Not the same?” Bodie asked in astonishment. Were they that in sync?
“Open it and find out.” Doyle laughed, stealing a quick kiss before handing over the small box.
Ripping the tartan wrapping in one swipe, Bodie took off the lid with a bark of joy. No, not exactly the same, but also a bracelet. This one harked back to the twists of rawhide or hemp he’d worn in Africa as a mercenary. There were three linked bands: one threaded with round onyx beads, the second made from dark braided leather, and the third of thin, flat, burgundy coloured beads that sparkled in the fairy lights from the tree. The burgundy bracelet coiled around the other two, tying them together.
He slipped it onto his right wrist, smiling when Doyle cupped his hand, tapping his own new bracelet to Bodie’s.
“You and me,” Doyle said with such love and devotion that Bodie was warmed through. “You saved my life.” He inhaled, his Adam’s apple traveling the column of his neck. “Not just today, Bodie-my heart, but every day since we met.” He fit the silver bracelet over his left hand to settle just above the worst of the rope burn.
“And you me, petal,” Bodie whispered, unaccountably affected. They were blokes, they didn’t cry. “You’re mine, for always.”
“Infinity,” Doyle vowed.
They clasped hands, each wearing a bracelet on one arm, and leaned in to kiss.
“Merry Christmas.” Bodie laughed for joy, looking into his beloved’s eyes.
“Happy Boxing day, tomorrow,” Doyle added, fingertips light on Bodie’s lips and chin. “We could go to the shops, buy matching shirts.”
“Never going to happen.” Bodie touched Doyle’s belly, stroking downward. “We could stay in bed the entire afternoon, with much more fun activities.”
“Unless Cowley bellows,” Doyle said regretfully.
“Even if he does, tell ‘im you’re taking a medical day.”
“Will he believe that?” Doyle let Bodie tow him out of the lounge.
“We’ll convince him,” Bodie insisted. “I’m your carer, I know best.”
“You are the best,” Doyle agreed with a chuckle. “As well as tall, dark, beautiful and…”
“Engagingly modest,” they said as one and laughed, arms around each other.
Bodie looked forward to the New Year and doing it all over again—with Doyle beside him.
FIN
Title: Once More, With Feeling
Author: Dawnwind (aka Dawnebeth)
Slash
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Date: 2023-12-15 04:42 am (UTC)Ah, that was nice, thank you.
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Date: 2023-12-15 06:23 am (UTC)So happy you enjoyed it!
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Date: 2023-12-15 02:12 pm (UTC)A delightful story, full of lads I love. Thank you!
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Date: 2023-12-15 05:09 pm (UTC)Thank you! Wrist injuries R Us.
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Date: 2023-12-15 03:59 pm (UTC)A perfect Christmas story :-)
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Date: 2023-12-15 05:10 pm (UTC)Bless--I can imagine they never quite carry off a full turkey meal with friends and family around the table.
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Date: 2023-12-15 08:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-12-17 03:41 am (UTC)Thank you! It's always a fraught issue--will they survive to celebrate? Be together?
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Date: 2023-12-15 09:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-12-17 03:42 am (UTC)Thank you! I kept thing wrist injuries and how to link that to Christmas? Voila!
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Date: 2023-12-17 12:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2023-12-17 03:42 am (UTC)Ta! Yes, they may snipe at each other but it's love underneath.
Wonderful images
Date: 2023-12-17 05:33 am (UTC)Thanks so much for this story. It really conjured up a lot of delicious and wonderful images of the lads. Really glad you posted this.
Re: Wonderful images
Date: 2023-12-18 05:20 pm (UTC)Thank you so much--went with a theme, which always helps my thought processes!
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Date: 2023-12-18 08:23 pm (UTC)Aww, I loved this! What a great Christmas story with the lads. Thank you so much for sharing. 😀❤️
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Date: 2023-12-20 09:32 pm (UTC)Thank you! I am so happy you enjoyed.