Day 11 - Discovered in the Tinsel and Glitter - "Dressed to Kill for Christmas"

[lrhbalzer.livejournal.com]

I have here, on my first post, my story for the "Discovered in the Tinsel and Glitter", Day 11. Thank you to those who helped me figure this out... at least I hope this is right!

Dressed to Kill at Christmas

(8,379 words)

This is an out-take of “Dressed to Kill”, an upcoming sequel to two of my stories “The Trainer” --how they met in October 1975-- and the followup “Thunder and Lightning” --their first case in November 1975. I'll be posting the full version of this story on AO3 before Christmas, but this is an almost self-contained part of it.

The series this is in is "The Unity of Opposites" It might be worth reading the first two stories to follow along in what Doyle and Bodie are referring to, but whatever you prefer. https://archiveofourown.org/works/58839313/chapters/149958472

This is Gen — buddy fic — who knows where they'll end up, but this is where they are at this time.

---

Dressed to Kill at Christmas

Raymond Doyle, newly minted CI5 operative and partner to William Bodie, frowned at his calendar on the wall of his kitchen, then took it down and changed it to a new month. December 1975. In thirty-one days, he would need a whole new calendar for 1976, and 1975—with all its pain, betrayals, craziness, and triumphs—would be behind him.

He was surprised at how it had come to be December already. Time had been so unfriendly to him for the last year or so, each day dragging out in uncertainty and resolution—often in fear, but never regret. For the past month and a half though, time had begun to move at a certain, steady pace; George Cowley, the CI5 Controller, had brought him under CI5’s umbrella, battered and rejected, and William Bodie, a CI5 Trainer, had brought him to life again. Doyle felt free and safe and valued and... healed.

In the past ten days, he was, unbelievably, officially partnered with the man who had become his friend and his mate. Bodie. A trusted partner to whom he owed so much.

The wall calendar Doyle was studying was one of those free ones handed out by grocers with generic pictures, each month highlighting seasonal foods likely to be purchased from the store. December’s photo had an enormous roasted turkey with stuffing, roast potatoes and turnips, carrots, and Brussel sprouts all on a large platter on a festive table. Examining the picture carefully, Doyle could see there were bowls of gravy and cranberry sauce, and bottles of red and white wine, and waiting mince pies and Christmas pudding for after. An out-of-focus Christmas tree and a blazing fireplace were way in the background. The picture was very inviting and stirred in him a sudden loneliness that he quickly pushed down and away.

There was a tab along the bottom of the calendar with the shop’s name and address, advertising the local corner grocer. He’d been in that shop before, several streets away. Strange that the photo seemed to suggest the grocer sold frozen turkeys and freshly baked pies. They sold a lot of things, but he didn’t think they sold things like that. Potatoes, maybe. Some vegetables. He’d go to that corner shop, usually at night, for milk, bread, eggs. Bog roll. And then he’d end up with another bag full of odds and sods that he’d see and randomly purchase: sweets, light bulbs, yogurt, a corkscrew, nail clippers, chewing gum. Magazines.

When Doyle had first come to this CI5-owned flat, when George Cowley had brought him here, it had been mid-October, and he had been only marginally aware that a calendar was hanging on the wall of kitchen; drugged up, he’d only been marginally aware of anything because of a vicious beating from a group of his Metropolitan Police coworkers who didn’t like him reporting on his bosses Preston and Montgomery. There were names for people like him, and they weren’t good.

Back in October, it was the man in the flat next to his, a CI5 trainer and medic named Bodie, who had been charged by Cowley to take care of Doyle; he’d helped him with showers, bandaged and wrapped his injuries, fed him, and ferried him to appointments and treatments. Bodie had gone beyond that, though. He’d talked to him, shared meals, watched footy on the telly, basically treated him as a human and a friend. Then, when he was ready, Bodie privately took him through CI5 training, because Cowley had plans for Doyle, Cowley wanted him, Cowley was convinced CI5 needed him. Him. Doyle. He was valued, and he hadn’t felt valued since Syd Parker had... gone.

The calendar photo for the month of October, Doyle saw now by flipping backward, had been a closeup image of a large, sliced purple and white cabbage. Artistic, maybe, but not too inspiring. Not much was written in the daily blocks below the photo other than some cryptic notations during the last two weeks in Bodie’s careful handwriting.

Doyle didn’t remember turning the calendar from October to November and likely that had been Bodie’s actions as well, the man casually taking care of him when he’d hardly the strength or awareness to do so himself. The November photo of the month he knew. It was of bins of apples and quince and squash and turnips in what looked to be a farmers’ market of some kind. It was a bright colourful picture, and as the month went on, the handwriting in the daily squares below the photo changed from Bodie’s writing to his own, as Bodie had returned to his role as Trainer, and Doyle had become more involved in the world around him, in the things he was doing and some of the classes he had then been taking with the other CI5 recruits.

Most of the time, though, in November, he’d just been with Bodie. Evenings and weekends, and walks and dinners together. There were private sessions helping Doyle catch up, such as his tandem parachute jumps with Bodie, as Bodie was the recruits’ parachute trainer. On November 7 and 8, Doyle had marked for swimming, Bodie teaching him as he’d never learned. On November 9, Doyle had just written: ROVER, as he’d signed out his first CI5 car, a brown 1971 Rover 2000 SC. Technically it was CI5’s car, but the registration was put in his name, because if he was undercover, it couldn’t be CI5’s if he was pulled over, or so it was explained to him. Usually in these matters he just nodded.

He hadn’t had a car of his own before, just a series of motorbikes, and with that thought, Doyle grimaced, as it occurred to him that his current bike was likely still in Syd Parker’s garage. Syd’s widow Nancy had said he could leave it there, and then life had happened and somehow that detail had slipped away from him. Nancy and the boys had slipped away from him. He hadn’t seen them since a few months after the funeral.

He stared at the calendar page for November 1975, studying the other dates that had notes on them. Once he’d begun to go through the various recruit training courses, time had picked up quickly after that, but the thing that had scared him during that time was that he’d come to the uneasy realization that he didn’t want to be partnered with Gary Lester, the much-lauded A-Squad agent whom George Cowley had in mind for him, the cream of the crop, and Doyle wasn’t sure what to do about that. He could hardly afford to be ungrateful, not when Cowley had done so much for him, so he’d kept quiet and kept on learning all the skills Cowley had mandated a top-tier, potential CI5 recruit had to have.

As the November days and weeks scrolled by, Doyle became convinced that no matter how good an agent this star A-Squad bloke Gary Lester was, nor how nice and fair the man was to him, Lester was second best. And Doyle didn’t want second best; he wanted the best. He wanted to be partnered with Bodie. He deserved Bodie. But Bodie, the man who had cared for him and then trained him—well, that was the problem right there. Bodie was a Trainer, not an agent. Doyle had found out that Bodie had been hired on his own stipulation that he wouldn’t become an agent, because Bodie hadn’t wanted a partner, refused to have one. Instead, he’d become, in six months, one of the most respected Trainers Cowley had.

So, that meant it was Lester for Doyle. He had resigned himself to being grateful for being in an organization like CI5 and grateful to Cowley for providing Bodie to care for him body and mind... and soul... as he’d recuperated. He’d always remember that. He’d always appreciate it.

But... Bodie... Bloody hell, he wanted Bodie... There was something larger than life about the man.

Doyle might know all about Metropolitan London, but Bodie... Bodie had been all over the world: Belfast, Dakar, Angola and Biafra, Jordan, the Netherlands and so many other places.

Doyle had been a Detective Constable with the Metropolitan Police, while Bodie... Bodie had been in the Merchant Navy, had been a gunrunner in Africa, a mercenary soldier, and so many other things... then back the UK, he’d been in the Paras and the SAS.

What would Bodie even want with him, anyway? What had he to offer?

Friday, November 21, was circled on his calendar. 9:00 AM. That was when Doyle had to report to Cowley to sign papers to become conditionally employed by CI5 and find about the details of partnering with Gary Lester as the CI5 Chief wanted them to start training together right away. Cowley wanted agents assigned to each other; he felt it would benefit the A-Squad as a whole, and two dedicated partners would build a chemistry together, a shorthand as it were, combining knowledge, experience, and abilities. Two heads being better than one. Their knowledge was even: Doyle knew London where half of their assignments would likely be, and Gary Lester knew the rest of the UK, it seemed.

However, at 8:45 that morning, fifteen minutes before the meeting with Cowley, Doyle had dragged Bodie aside and admitted to the man who had become such an important mate to him just how he felt, that he wished that Bodie was an agent and that they could be partners. And at 8:46 that morning, Bodie had stared at him in disbelief, then said he felt the same; he wanted Doyle as a partner. Bodie’d had his own misgivings, feeling Doyle would not be interested in someone from such a wild and murky background as his.

They’d stared at each other in dismay then, silently trying to figure out what to do, and as 9:00 approached, they’d presented themselves to Cowley. Before they even got the words out, Cowley had looked sharply from one to the other, as though reading their intentions, and had asked them suddenly if they would consider becoming A-Squad partners.

Yes. Yes, they would.

Their first assignment together was also circled and starred on his November calendar. It had been a few days later, on November 24, 1975. It had been a Monday, a week ago now, and that day had been everything Doyle had imagined being partners with Bodie would be. Each had brought their own skills to the assignment. They’d been equal, been intense, had laughed, and joked, and swore, and been afraid for their lives, and trusted each other, and they’d survived.

The man they’d been sent after—who had subsequently been killed—had been an infamous deadly Cypriot assassin, which had led to some unexpected complications later about how they’d found him, who the man had been in the UK to kill, and who had sent him, and—since his body had washed out to sea—was he really dead? Had that really been him? All of those questions had involved a lot of lawyers from different organizations over the past week; and now that some of the legalities had been sorted, Bodie and Doyle now had meetings with Cowley and Interpol and other government security organizations on December 2 and 3, which is why Doyle had noticed the calendar was still on November.

Today was Monday, December 1. And the December picture of the turkey dinner. He turned and studied the cooker in his kitchen, trying to picture a turkey roasting inside it. Maybe a small turkey would fit. A very small one. He’d never made a turkey before. Usually he made simple pasta dishes, but he’d cooked a small chicken a few times. He’d made a chicken for him and Bodie one night, and he’d made roast beef with gravy another night. And he’d even expanded his meager cooking skills to a roast lamb just the previous week for them. Doyle wasn’t surprised to find out Bodie liked to cook, too, in his own fashion, so they decided to tradeoff between cooking and takeaway since they still lived side by side.

Again, Doyle examined the picture. He could do the little roast potatoes and roasted turnips, and make gravy, but he’d never tried making pies. Maybe Bodie had but probably not. Bodie was more into rice and quick stir-fries. He’d never figured Bodie for anything with vegetables in it, but Bodie had a strict vegetables-are-for-dinner policy and the rest of the day he ate whatever fancied him.

His doorbell double-rang, then opened, and Bodie called out, “Where are you? Figured you be in the car already.”

Doyle stepped to the kitchen door. “Making some tea before we go.”

Bodie wandered down the hall to the kitchen in one of his fancy dark suits with an ivory-coloured polo neck and carrying an overcoat. “We need to get going then. We’ve a lot of ground to cover.”

“Clothes shopping,” Doyle said, with a sigh. “What a stupid second assignment together.”

“Not so much an assignment,” Bodie said, dropping down to sit at the kitchen table, “as an order from Cowley. We have to make sure we both have suits to wear for tomorrow.”

“That really cheeses me off,” Doyle said pulling the kettle off the hob and pouring water into two mugs. “It really does.”

“What?” Bodie yawned. “Ta,” he said taking one mug and dunking the teabag.

“That Cowley expects you to supervise me in getting a suit he says I have to have.”

Bodie looked over at him as he sat down. “He already sent you out alone on Friday, and you came back with a large collection of FUS brand shirts and jeans.”

“And some light jackets, and boots,” Doyle declared. “I was following the list Betty gave me!”

“Those boots you bought are city boots,” Bodie said, wrinkling his nose. “You need some good hiking boots. But not today.”

Doyle dunked his teabag a little too energetically and water splashed around the tabletop. “Stupid, though, innit? That we have to have certain clothes to wear?”

“You wore a uniform for years. You had dress uniforms and everyday ones. Winter and summer. Just think of this as having to buy a uniform.”

“I don’t want a bloody uniform. Suit and jacket all nice and matchy-matchy. Looks bloody ridiculous.”

“Thanks, mate.” Bodie got up and helped himself to milk and sugar.

Doyle looked up, shaking his head. “Oh. Not on you. On me. Those things don’t look right on me. Look fine on you, if you’re comfortable in them. I’m not saying that,” he said glumly. “It’s just not me. And I don’t want it to be me.”

“The jacket and trousers don’t have to be the same colour or same material. We can work with that. We can find something you’re comfortable wearing and yet is appropriate for you to wear to official meetings.”

“Yeah?” Doyle added his own milk and sugar. “Doesn’t have to match?”

“No. If not a full suit, it has to coordinate at least. I wear different jackets and trousers usually on the job. Comfortable fabrics, feels good on, gives me room to... er... move,” Bodie said, pulling over the partially crumpled list, then smiled gamely. “We can get you a suit today—something to wear to the interagency meeting tomorrow at the Home Office with Cowley. And then the next day at MI5 with them and Interpol. You and me, we’ll have a day of it shopping today, get lunch somewhere nice, and then charge Cowley for an expensive dinner out. Come on. Bring that new CI5 credit card Betty gave you. Did she give you a limit not to go over?”

“Suggested keeping it under £400 or there abouts. The card is in my name, but they pay it off each month, she said, if I turn in the receipts. Anything not approved or without receipts is deducted from my pay.”

“Same setup as mine, then,” Bodie said, and drank down his tea, then looked over at Doyle. “Let’s go look at your wardrobe here.”

“Why?”

“See what you’ve got. See if there’s anything we can use.”

“Like what?”

“Okay, uh, do you have a black belt?”

“In karate.” Doyle looked back at him straight-faced. “Yes,” he added. “There’s one with my uniform.”

“Dress shoes?”

Doyle shook his head. “Had everyday work shoes for my patrol uniform that I still wore after I became a detective constable and didn’t wear the uniform anymore. But those shoes disappeared at the hospital when I got beat up. Just have my trainers now. Not sure what happened to my uniform’s dress shoes; I think I lent them to someone for a funeral.”

“So, you probably don’t have dress socks?”

“Dress socks?” Doyle laughed, crossing his eyes at Bodie.

“Don’t be daft. Dark socks, good quality. Not multiple-laundered white sport socks.”

“I know what you meant. Had some, had to wear them with the uniforms. Had dark blue and black, but I don’t know where they are now,” he admitted. “Probably had them tucked into my dress shoes. So ‘no’ to dark dress socks.”

“White shirt?”

He grimaced.

“That would be a no...” Bodie studied the rest of the list. “So put on your best white socks and shoes that are easy to get on and off—do you have loafers or just trainers?”

Doyle dropped his head to bang on the table. “I hate this.”

“Well, my son, you’re in the big leagues now. Your job is to talk me through what all these bloody organizations we’re meeting tomorrow and the next are all about, and your highly fashionable partner will get you through buying clothes. Cowley’s mouth will drop when he sees you.”

“Always a goal of mine,” Doyle sniffed.

---

What is that expression? Bodie wondered. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.

That’s what he was dealing with here. He even gone back to his flat next to Doyle’s to change his black suit jacket to a black and white houndstooth jacket, just to prove the point that it doesn’t have to be all matchy-matchy, as Doyle had put it. They’d already been to a shoe store and bought some comfortable dress shoes and dark socks, then grabbed some lunch, so now they were standing at the back of a tailor shop Bodie frequented.

It wasn’t Savile Row, but it was good. With Bodie’s wide shoulders and size, he needed to have everything tailored to fit, especially if wearing a holster, and then the cut was different, at least 3-4 inches added to the waist measurement of the suit jacket. So Bodie had holster suit jackets and non-holster suit jackets and a selection of suit trousers to match or coordinate with them. His goal was to do the same with Doyle.

One of the shop clerks was busy putting up Christmas decorations, while one of the other two clerks was dealing with several customers. Surprising that there were this many people in the shop on a Monday morning, but there was something about it being December now—the Christmas sales starting in full swing. Two for one on dress shirts and trousers, he’d nodded appreciatively.

Doyle looked like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights. The store clerk had him wearing some dark grey trousers and fortunately had some that Doyle could wear off the peg, rather than having them taken up or taken in. Not bad, Bodie thought, as Doyle had those skinny hips that he definitely needed a good belt for.

They were having more trouble with the jackets, until Bodie took over from Doyle’s shrugs, and decided on a ready-to-wear navy striped jacket that fit his partner nicely, a crisp white shirt, and a dark tie. He could see Doyle eyeing a finely woven white shirt and got him one in his size to try on.

“This feels nice,” Doyle said, looking at himself in the long mirror, his fingers trailing down his chest. He undid a few buttons. The high-thread-count cotton shirt was almost completely transparent yet silky smooth. Bodie got him to put on the navy jacket and Doyle nodded, settling into it. “This is okay.” Doyle turned one way, then the other. “Comfortable.”

“Not for tomorrow, mind you, mate,” Bodie said. “That shirt’s for going out with the birds. They’ll think you look sexy as hell,” he whispered.

That got his partner’s attention. Finally, a purpose for these clothes.

Doyle put on his empty holster, and the clerk found a size up of the same suit jacket would also fit Doyle without alterations for when he needed to be armed. Bonus. Bodie pushed his partner back into the fitting room and took the two white shirts and both suit jackets to the counter. For insurance—and taking advantage of the sale—he picked up another identical pair of dark grey trousers for Doyle, a pale blue shirt that would also work, then two different ties. He added a third tie for himself to the rest of what was being purchased. Cowley and CI5 were paying for it, after all. They wanted a man dressed to kill—well, Bodie had provided them with one.

Two of them, actually, Bodie thought, checking out the mirror.

---

Doyle was glad to be home after the long day. The suits—the jackets and trousers—had come in a plastic zipped bag that Bodie had put on the back seat of his car. When they’d got to their building, Bodie had come into Doyle’s flat and had with him special hangers for the trousers, and Bodie had hung up the two jackets—with a red elastic band over the top of the hanger for which one to wear with a holster. There was the CI5 good white shirt and a pale blue version of the same shirt that Doyle didn’t remember seeing before. The transparent white shirt was also hung up with a stupid lecture about keeping it looking nice because you never know when you’d need it. Doyle had been about to sound off at him when Bodie had wiggled his eyebrows, and Doyle had remembered about the other uses of a nice suit.

“How did I end up with two pairs of trousers the same, and that blue shirt?” Doyle asked scowling at the added new clothes.

Bodie responded, “You’re CI5 now. Never know when you’re wearing a suit and end up rolling in the mud one day and have to bodyguard a foreign princess the next.”

“Didn’t know CI5 was so posh.”

“Oh, we are,” Bodie said with a laugh. “And tomorrow, no weapons allowed, you told me, so wear the jacket without the red elastic on the hanger top.”

Doyle glowered at him. “What? Are you still a trainer or you me partner?” he griped. “Training me to dress appropriately? Wear this, not that. Wear a holster, don’t wear a holster?”

Bodie said nothing for a moment, staring at him stunned. “Sorry, mate. I didn’t mean to— I didn’t think—"

“Just joking,” Doyle said quickly. “Bodie... Really, mate, I don’t know what I’d do without you and your expertise in all this clothing nonsense. I feel like a right bumpkin, not the one who’s been in London all this time while you sloshed around in the jungle. I’ve got along just fine without a suit.”

“You had a dress uniform which covered any time you had to appear more formal. But we’re even here, mate, remember, ‘cause I’m counting on you to get me through all these bloody different agencies over the next two days. Your explanations at dinner tonight were invaluable—you understand that, don’t you? I’m going to be following your lead there.”

Doyle thought about that and nodded. When Bodie left, Doyle wandered around his flat still thinking of the next day and going to the Home Office at Whitehall, and MI5 at Leconfield House. It had been maybe five years since he’d been to MI5, going with Syd Parker as they had to be interviewed in person about a case they had that MI5 was interested in. Doyle had been nervous and rather impressed with all the fancy tools the interviewers had. The difference in budgets and resources made the two coppers feel like they were working out of a county office. Doyle gathered it would be the same, with CI5 like the bad, uncouth cousin to MI5, and he had the suspicion that the spooks looked down their collected noses at George Cowley and his motley crew.

So maybe the suit made sense. And the right attitude. Head high, shoulders back, hands on hips, feet apart firmly. Eye contact, handshake firm and dismissive. Syd Parker always said to speak in a lower register, slowly, clearly, precisely. And not to fidget.

Doyle went over it all, feeling distanced from Syd. He’d have to tell Bodie about Syd one day, but telling your brand-new partner about your old one getting murdered because you were sitting down in the car, that was hard.

Coffee, Doyle thought, and went looking through his cupboards. He was out of coffee and milk and bread and eggs. All the staples. It was already 8:00 PM, and according to the writing at the bottom of the calendar, it said that the small grocer he would go to a few streets away was open until late, although it wasn’t clear how late that meant.

Doyle grabbed his wallet and keys and hurried down to his car. He wasn’t tired and didn’t want to be caught short at breakfast. He almost stopped at Bodie’s to see if he needed anything or wanted to go with him, but he shrugged off the idea and got in his car. If Bodie ended up coming along, they’d be at the store for twice as long.

He parked in one of four slots at the car park along the side of the market & off licence store and walked quickly around to the entrance. The shop was long and narrow and sold everything, it seemed, all in a small area. The entrance way was crowded with tiered bins on the left side with items like that November photo on the calendar—pumpkins in one bin, apples in another, and some strange kinds of squash in a third. But it was the two tiers of goods to his right that caught his eye—the usual collection of flower arrangements was on the upper shelves but on the lower shelves were pine branches tied with string and large pine wreaths and rings of holly, and leaning up against them were bound Christmas trees wrapped in plastic. Some were quite small, just four feet tall, and others were seven feet or more.

The Indian grocer came out when he saw Doyle was staring at them. “We just got them today,” the man said, smiling politely. “Would you like to buy one?”

“I’m surprised you’re selling them already. Isn’t it too early?” Doyle asked. “It’s only December 1.”

“We’ve been told the best time to buy a tree to celebrate the Christmas holidays is in early December, so the tree has time for the branches to drop more. Do you have a family? How big a tree would you want?”

“No. Just me,” Doyle said, looking up at the six-foot-high trees. Would be nice to have one like that, he thought. Syd Parker had one like that for his family—his wife and kids. Ray wondered if anyone had bought a tree for Syd’s family after he’d died. He’d never thought of it. Maybe someone had. It should have been him, though.

“If it’s just you, in a small flat, then there is a little blue spruce in a container here,” the man told him and showed him some three-foot-high potted trees. “It’s got its roots, so it’s still alive.”

That sounded nice, it being alive. Doyle bent over and smelled it, when the man told him to. Spruce smelled lovely. Calming. He stood and smiled at the man. “Thank you. I’ve come for milk and coffee, though,” he said. “Maybe another time.”

The man nodded courteously and followed him inside. Doyle picked up the few items he wanted and took them to the cash area. He had his wallet in his hand when he went back out and looked at the little spruce tree again, all wrapped up in plastic. He went back to the cash desk, waiting while someone else was being helped, and then the man rang up his purchases.

“And,” Doyle said, his voice wavering, “I’ll take one of those potted spruces. And a wreath. And a holly ring for the door. Two of them,” he heard himself add. He caught his breath, then nodded, his heart pounding. “Do you have... uh... later... do you have frozen turkeys?”

No, he’d have to go to Tesco, the man said with a knowing smile, the December calendar with the photo of the turkey dinner hanging on the cluttered wall behind him. He rang up his purchases and helped him get the Christmas items to his car.

Bloody crazy, Doyle thought. What am I doing?

At his flat building, he went in quickly with the bag of groceries in one hand and in the other, he carried the two small holly wreaths and the larger pine wreath that had ribbons and a bow on it, then he ran back for the little spruce tree. Once inside all he could think of was hiding them all. He tucked his groceries away, and then frowned down at the wreath and the holly rings. He put a light dishtowel over them—two towels it took—and slid them under his bed out of sight. The little spruce tree, still with plastic around it, went out on the fire escape for now, carefully watered as instructed.

Why am I hiding this from Bodie? he wondered, feeling rather silly about it. It was his flat; if he wanted to put a Christmas wreath up, he could. If he wanted a little live Christmas tree, he could have one.

It was Bodie’s fault, after all. At the men’s store, the one clerk was putting up the tree and wreaths and branches along the ledges and they’d smelled nice.

Now I’ll have to buy decorations for the little tree, he thought with a dejected sigh. It seemed once he’d started down this path, there would be no end to it all.

---

Early the next morning, Tuesday, December 2, Doyle stared at himself in the mirror. There was just the one mirror in his flat, and it was over the sink in the loo, so he’d had to bring in a chair from the kitchen and stand on it way back in the bathroom’s doorway to see if he looked okay. He’d never been one for getting all fancied up beyond the dress uniform he’d needed to wear a few times a year, and the rest of the time, especially while as a detective undercover or in relaxed settings, a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and his leather jacket was all he’d needed.

Still, the suits were okay to have, he admitted; at least there was something to hang in his wardrobe now besides his old Met uniforms crushed to one side and his FUS shirt collection.

He carefully took off the jacket and tie and went into the kitchen to rescue his bread under the grill. It was a little dark, but good enough. He stood at the counter eating his meager breakfast, then quickly checked the little spruce, still with plastic over it. The man at the grocers said it would be okay for a day or so outside still wrapped in plastic, which was good as Doyle didn’t have time to deal with it. Not today.

He went back to his bedroom aware of how much the wreath’s pine leaves and the holly ring combined to smell so fresh. It had soothed him to sleep.

He got dressed again, fussing with the tie and the jacket from the hook without the red elastic on it. He understood why he needed two jackets. While no weapons were allowed by MI5, in the Home Office, or even Scotland Yard, for most of his assignments CI5 was different. A-Squad was expected to carry a weapon while on duty and Cowley said they were never really off-duty, so that meant wearing a holster most of the time. He’d have to get used to that.

Bodie came by his flat and nodded appreciatively at him. “Looking good, Ray.” Bodie was wearing a grey-coloured long overcoat over his suit, because it was cold and raining out, but Doyle didn’t have anything like that. “Do you have an umbrella?” Bodie asked, and Doyle shook his head.

“Smells like pine aerosol spray in here,” Bodie said, sniffing the air. “Or are you hanging those Forest Fresh little car air fresheners around your place in the Christmas spirit?”

“Sod off,” Doyle grumbled, then went back and shut his bedroom door. As they headed out, Bodie ducked into his flat and came out with two black umbrellas, and he had left behind his overcoat.

They were back late afternoon, and Bodie made dinner at his flat, which was just as well, as Doyle’s was by now excessively smelling of pine. Doyle relaxed back with a beer at Bodie’s kitchen table, feeling wonderful being back in jeans again. Bodie was frying up something—his standard chicken and veggies with rice—and it made Doyle think about the turkey again. He’d been thinking about it on and off all day. He really wanted to make one this year. He wanted to have Christmas. At his place. Not the gifts and all that rot, but that... smell. That feeling. The food and sitting around. Maybe he could do it not just for Bodie, but for Benny and the others without families. They could put Bodie’s table and Doyle’s table together in the lounge room, put a bed sheet over them and they could get maybe six people there. Maybe even invite Cowley.

A turkey. Maybe get a big one and cut it in half and roast half in his cooker and half in Bodie’s. Roasted potatoes, he could do that, and roasted turnips and other veggies. He didn’t know about making pies, but he could get Bodie to buy some from a bakery.

“What are you thinking about?” Bodie asked him. “You look miles away.”

Doyle shrugged. He wasn’t sure why he was embarrassed about Christmas, but he was. Those years with Syd and his family, they’d had him over for Christmas dinner each December to share that special festive time with them, as though he was part of their family, and he’d brought over a nice bottle of wine for Syd and Nancy, and some gifts for the kids. Four years later now, the boys would be... 10, 13, and 15 now, Ray figured.

It had all been new to him. Growing up, Christmas was not something celebrated. Before his mum died, when it was just the two of them and they were desperately poor, the days before Christmas were usually spent curled up together eating sweets and watching Christmas movies on the telly. And as an adult, he generally worked over the holidays—before and after Syd—because he was frustrated by all the craziness of the year and the same five songs everywhere and... frustrated at being alone.

He had no family left to celebrate it with.

But... Bodie... Bodie was...

“Bodie?” he said now.

“Hmm?” Bodie turned from where he was dishing food onto plates for them.

“I’m going to eat and then dash. Have somewhere to be.”

Bodie brought a plate for him, and then went back for his own. “And where might that be?” he asked with light curiosity.

“I just have to take something somewhere.”

“Need a ride?” Bodie asked.

Doyle shook his head. “Just a quick trip. I won’t be late.”

“Be as late as you want,” Bodie said with a laugh. “I’m not your nanny.” But Doyle thought he sounded hurt, because these days they talked about stuff, and they did almost everything together.

“This looks great,” Doyle said, quickly changing the subject.

“You were going to bring some wine?” Bodie prompted.

“Oh, right.” Doyle jumped to his feet, then thought a moment, and sat down again. “Thought I had a spare bottle but...”

“No problem, mate,” Bodie said, and pulled a bottle from his cupboard. “You’re okay, though?” he asked as he opened and poured the wine. “Ray?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Just have some errands to run.”

“At six at night?”

“Won’t take long.” Doyle tried again to change the topic to how did Bodie decide which tie to wear when he had more than one.

The food was good, Bodie was a fair enough cook, but driving away twenty minutes later, Doyle couldn’t have said what it was.

It was all rather shocking, Doyle thought as he drove, what had happened today at the Home Office wearing a suit. He’d felt more in control of the room by his mere presence wearing a suit, than by his usual intimidation and threats in his jeans and leather jacket. Doyle had talked in his authoritative voice and walked around the room, in full command and CI5 authority, and the ministers and others had followed his movements and had listened to his words. And standing behind them, Bodie had smiled at him with that odd supportive grin the man would get when he was pleased with what he was seeing, as though Doyle was his exceedingly clever child.

Now Doyle loved his jeans, and the smoothness of his leather jacket, and the comfort of his T-shirts, and how he could melt into a crowd if he needed to. He and Bodie had not melted into the crowd when they’d walked side by side in their suits that day down the hallowed halls. People had turned to look at them. Women and men alike had stared at them. There was a powerful energy between the new partners that they could tangibly feel and that the other officers and agents and secretaries and ministers at the Home Office and at Leconfield House had felt.

Even George Cowley’s mouth had fallen open when he saw them approaching him, walking together in step, shoulders brushing up against each other as they came up to him in the corridor at Whitehall.

Doyle drove towards his flat, thinking about how strange it was that wearing a suit should help him find his swagger. It was as though the pain of the past eighteen months had stripped him of it and now his swagger had found him again.

It was almost thirty minutes across London streets on a rainy night. He had to make a stop at Tesco, but that didn’t take long, and he was back in his car. And Tesco had frozen turkeys. He’d bought a really big one.

Another fifteen minutes. He drove down a few streets before he could find the house. He’d come here on his motorbike before, in daylight, and... what if they didn’t live here anymore? Four years? Had it really been four years?

He found a place to park nearby and made his way to the door emptyhanded. He could hear laughter inside, voices, then he heard Nancy’s laugh, and he ran back to the car and pulled the large wreath from his backseat. He hurried back and resolutely knocked on the door.

“Who’s there?” Nancy called out, as a young man opened the door.

“Ray?” the young man—could this be Roger, the oldest? He’d changed in four years. Grown up. The beginnings of a mustache on his upper lip. “Ray Doyle? Is that you?”

Doyle nodded. “Yeah. It’s me. Is your mum—?”

And then Nancy was in the doorway. She looked lovely, he thought. “Bloody Ray Doyle!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing standing out in the rain? Come in, come in!”

He held out the wreath. “This is for your door,” he told her, perhaps unnecessarily. “And I’ll be right back. Roger, can you help me, mate?”

“Sure.” Roger slipped into some loafers by the door and ran out after him.

Ray handed him the frozen turkey, and Ray got the bottle of red wine he’d had at his place, and the games he’d bought at Tesco for the boys, and he followed Roger into the warm home with the logs crackling in the fireplace, pine boughs over on the mantle with a row of little glass angels and other decorations. The air smelled of pine and hot apple cider.

“The turkey’s for you and the boys for Christmas, and the games are for the boys but I didn’t wrap them,” he said sputtering, suddenly feeling confused.

Nancy thanked him profusely and told Roger to put the turkey in the freezer, then dragged Doyle further inside the house while another boy—either Ralphie or Ronnie, Doyle wasn’t sure—took the games from him. Then they were all in the lounge staring at him in shock. He held out the bottle of wine. “This is for you, Nancy. I’m sorry it has taken me so long to come. And I never called you again much after the funeral. And then things just got intense and—”

“We heard, love,” Nancy said and hugged him. “We’re just all so glad to see you now. Aren’t we, boys?”

The three boys all talked at once as Doyle was pushed back onto the couch next to Nancy. “Can’t believe it, Ray!” and “You were a real hero!” and “You stood up to them, you did!” And Doyle wasn’t sure what they were talking about.

“We followed what was happening at the Met. Your testimony and termination and everything,” Nancy explained. “Ernie kept us in the loop.”

Ernie? Oh, Ernie. He was the officer at the front counter at their police station. Ernie something... Ernie had been a nice guy; Doyle remembered him almost simmering at what was happening there, but there’d been nothing really Ernie could do about it. But Doyle could. And did.

“I’m in CI5 now,” Doyle told her.

“We heard! We’re all so excited for you.”

“We was just talking about you a few days ago at dinner, wondering how you were. Is that your car?” Roger asked. “That Rover? Nice.”

“You went through that horrible time at the Met, and you landed beautifully on your feet,” Nancy said, smiling widely, and he felt himself echo it. “Syd would have been so proud of you,” she added, as tears then ran down his face.

“I think he might have,” Doyle said, rubbing at his eyes with his sleeve.

“You’re looking good. Happy. You have a partner now?” Nancy asked, her hand on his cheek.

He nodded. “I do. Bodie. His name is Bodie.”

“Is he good to you?”

It was a strange question to ask, but he knew the answer. “He is. He takes care of me. And I try to help him. We take care of each other.”

Nancy gave a pleased sigh. “That’s what we wanted to hear.”

He looked around. “It’s lovely in here.”

“No tree yet. Bill and I are taking the boys next weekend to pick one out.”

“Bill?”

“Mom’s getting married to Bill!” the youngest announced. Ronnie.

“Next month. In January,” the middle boy added. That would be Ralphie, Doyle could tell now that the three were together.

“Bill’s a nice guy, Ray. We like him,” the oldest, Roger, put in. He met Doyle’s eyes and nodded to him, as though reassuring him that all was well, and maybe even telling him that Syd would have approved. “Bill’s working tonight. Coming by later.”

“Not a copper, is he?” Doyle asked Nancy.

“He’s at the Yard, in Traffic and Transport. A desk job,” Nancy said, with a smile. “Bill Chadwick.”

“Congratulations,” Doyle said. “Seems like your boys like him, too.”

“Bill’s a good guy. A little quiet, but still fun,” Roger said. “He’d like to play those games with us. Thanks, Ray.”

“So, tell us about this Bodie,” Nancy asked him, then turned to Ralphie. “Get Ray a mulled cider, sweetie.”

He ended up talking about Bodie more than he thought he would, how they’d met, how Bodie had looked after him, then helped him learn to swim, and taken him parachute jumping, which had all three boys open-mouthed in envy.

“You jumped out of a plane by yourself?” Ralphie had asked, wide-eyed.

“It was tandem jumping. Strapped to Bodie, who did all the work. Was fun. Had to jump three times. He is a good teacher.”

“And he taught you to swim,” Nancy said approvingly. “I remember you telling me you’d never learned how when you went with me to pick up the boys after their lessons one time. Sounds like a patient man.”

“He is. And funny. And he’s surprisingly gentle for a former soldier and rough-tough military bloke. And weirdly, he likes wearing suits,” he added with a shrug. “And... he’s been a good mate. A really good mate. Didn’t realize how much I missed having someone like Syd to talk to. But Bodie and me, we talk.”

Nancy smiled softly. “I told you once that the loss of your twin sister when you were a toddler left you profoundly lonely, which is why you’ve kept your distance with others. Syd broke that down. And it sounds like this Bodie’s broken that barrier as well.”

He nodded. “I... Nancy, I feel... I feel like I can breathe again. And I’m so happy you have found someone, too, this Bill of yours.”

Doyle left after another fifteen minutes. It had been a good first visit, and he’d accepted an invitation to Sunday dinner in two weeks, if he was available. He’d wear his suit, he decided. And maybe he and Bodie could go out for dinner closer to Christmas or maybe even for New Years, in their suits, all posh and fancy like. Maybe this Christmas...

He detoured from his route suddenly, going back to Tesco, spending another half hour in the store, then heading back to his flat, two full shopping bags in his arms. He’d found some ready-made mulled apple cider there that he set to warm up on the stove. It smelled of cloves and nutmeg and... warmth.

It was almost nine-thirty when he pulled the little tree from the balcony and carefully unwound the plastic around it. It looked stiff, but he remembered then that it would take a few days for the branches to lower into place and not to try to force them down. He found a box for the potted tree to stand on and put a pillowcase over it and set the tree on it. He’d bought other decorations as well, little ones that would go on the tree later, but he put them aside behind the couch.

He lit a small fire in the fireplace and pulled out the things he’d bought at Tesco. There were a few real pine branches that he spread out on the fireplace mantle, just like they’d been at Nancy Parker’s. And instead of the little angels Nancy had, Ray dug out his porcelain Napoleonic soldiers and generals all in blue and white and red, and he placed them along the back of the mantle, standing in among the pine boughs. He added a row of twinkling lights along the top of the mantle, and the room looked very magical when he plugged them in and turned off the overhead light. Then he took the two twelve-inch-high Nutcracker soldiers he had just bought, and he stood them side by side in the center of the mantle.

Finally, he took out the little 10” round holly rings with their dark green leaves and red berries. The man at the corner store had told him that holly on your door was for protection and good luck for the coming year. He took them out to the hallway and as carefully and as quietly as he could, he hammered a little nail in, then set one of the holly rings on his outer door.

And then he moved to Bodie’s door next to his. Bodie also needed protection and good luck in everything they’d be up against as CI5 agents. And Ray desperately needed Bodie to live. He’d lost Syd Parker and that had been so hard. But losing Bodie? He’d only known Bodie for six weeks. Imagine knowing him for years and... something happening. He felt dizzy and stopped for a moment.

Hearing the renewal of Doyle’s quiet tapping of the hammer on his door, Bodie opened it, his face puzzled. “What are you—” he started to say, then smiled when he saw the little holly ring Doyle was setting on his door, stepping out to see a matching one on Doyle’s flat’s door. “You’ve been busy.”

Doyle smiled, then silently tugged on his arm and brought Bodie into his flat, to the heady smell of hot mulled apple cider and cloves, the little naked spruce Christmas tree in the corner, the cheery crackling of flames in the fireplace, and the twinkling lights and row of porcelain generals among the pine boughs on the mantle, with the two fierce Nutcracker soldiers standing tall side by side in the center.

When Bodie didn’t say anything, Doyle whispered, “Just something I wanted to do. Not finished yet, but...” His voice trailed off and he turned to look at Bodie, surprised at the light from the fireplace reflecting in tears welling in his partner’s eyes. “Oh.”

Bodie sighed deeply, draped his arm over Doyle’s shoulder, and leaned towards him. “Thank you,” he whispered back, the words catching in his throat. “It’s bloody perfect, mate. Bloody perfect.”

---

---

Title: "Dressed to Kill at Christmas" (outtake from longer story "Dressed to Kill" to be posted on AO3 closer to Christmas)

Author: LRHBalzer (Lois)

Slash or Gen: Gen — Buddy fic

Archive at ProsLib/Circuit:

Archive at AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/users/LRHBalzer

Author's Name for Archiving (if different to above):

Disclaimer:

This is a link to just my PROS stories. https://archiveofourown.org/users/LRHBalzer/works?fandom_id=34343110 

Comments

[krisserci5.livejournal.com]

First off--congrats on posting here - yeah!!! And, Thank you for sharing your story (stories).

[lrhbalzer.livejournal.com]

Thanks. It was... interesting... (harrowing) trying to figure out how to join LJ, then I didn't know I had to also join communities and what that meant, and all the rest. I had a few helpful souls that sensed my distress and gave some good advice on how to proceed. 😃

[ali15son.livejournal.com]

I look forward to reading this.

Thankyou.

[lrhbalzer.livejournal.com]

Thanks. I hope you enjoy it!

😀

[sc-fossil.livejournal.com]

Thanks for joining us and posting your fic. The lads are off to a beautiful friendship together. A nice Christmas story in here. Thanks.

[lrhbalzer.livejournal.com]

Thanks for welcoming me. I hope you enjoy the story.

[cloudless-9193.livejournal.com]

Such a warm and cosy Christmas story, I enjoyed it so much! :-)

[lrhbalzer.livejournal.com]

Thank you! So much!

[merentha13.livejournal.com]

Welcome here! Looking forward to your story.

[lrhbalzer.livejournal.com]

I hope you enjoy!

[sw33n3y.livejournal.com]

Well done on creating a little seasonal Pros magic.

I really enjoyed the clothing theme as well as the other Christmas-spiced atmospheric elements.

Happy Christmas!

[lrhbalzer.livejournal.com]

Thanks! The clothing theme is part of a larger story called "Dressed to Kill" that I'm working on and when I saw this December challenge, I took out the Christmas part of it with buying Doyle's infamous suit (the only one for the first few years of the show) and Syd's family and Doyle showing Bodie what he'd done. This is all pre-series, and their bond is just happening. Much fun. I'm glad the "seasonal" elements worked. Happy Christmas, to you, too!

[f-m-parkinson.livejournal.com]

Will definitely read when Life doesn't keep getting in the way!

[lrhbalzer.livejournal.com]

Thanks.

And thank you for your latest Dec 16 story. I can't figure out how to respond, but I did enjoy it. Made me sad, but a little hopeful at the end.

[f-m-parkinson.livejournal.com]

Re. my December 16th story, I'm glad you found it hopeful, because it is. I know they'll get back together in spite of what has gone on.

[ankaree.livejournal.com]

I enjoyed your story! Thanks so much for sharing. Happy Holidays to you!

[lrhbalzer.livejournal.com]

Thank you! Merry Christmas to you and yours.