discoveredinalj | Discovered in the Wassail Bowl - December 18th

A Bodie Christmas Letter
(written by Bodie for Doyle)

Happy Christmas, Ray.

This letter's my present to you. One of them, anyway. The other one involves me, you, and my hands taking proper care of you.

But right now I've got something important to tell you, and I'll muck it up if I try saying it out loud.

Now, don't start taking the mickey, all right? I know you'll spot this where I left it for you, tucked under your mince pies, and get that smug grin going. Just try, for once, not to laugh your fool head off.

I know what you're like. You're probably already planning to frame it and wave it under my nose every time we have a row. Don't deny it.

I'm writing this because… well. Because you matter.

And admitting that to your face is a non-starter. I can see it now… you'd lean on the doorframe, fold your arms, and give me that look. The one that says, Go on then, impress me.

And seeing as Cowley's actually given us Christmas off, miracle of the bleeding decade, I figured I'd best write this down now before he changes his mind and hauls us back in for some crisis he's been saving up.

The Cow practically keeled over, like giving us two whole days might trigger national collapse.

But we got it.

You and me.

Christmas in our flat.

No shoot-outs. No surveillance freezing our bollocks off. No Cowley bellowing down the corridor. Just us.

Thing is, sunshine, I never thought I'd end up living with someone again. Not properly. Flats were always stopovers, somewhere to kip, store my stuff, and nothing more. But this one's different.

Because you're in it.

Even with the dodgy wiring, the kettle that screams like it's being throttled, and the pair of us tripping over your books and my socks, it feels like home. A proper one. Not the pretend sort.

Before you, Christmas was a right slog. All pub racket, fake cheer, paper hats that never fit, and fruitcake nobody in their right mind would eat.

Now I wake up to you banging about in the kitchen, slamming the cupboard door with the stuck hinge, swearing at the radio because "Merry Xmas Everybody" is being played again, and somehow it all adds up. Our flat, full of your noise and life. It feels right.

And here's the bit you'll hang onto and hold over my head till we're old and grey.

Right then… here it goes.

I love you. So bloody much.

There. I've said it. Don't swoon. Sit down if you must.

I love you more than I've ever loved anyone, more than I thought I could, and a damned sight more than's sensible in our line of work.

You get under my skin like nobody else. Drive me round the bend. And it's exactly where I want to be. With you.

You see straight through me. Past all me charm and clever cracks. And instead of legging it, you stay.

You come home to me.

You kick the front door shut, gripe about my shoes cluttering up the hall, then you kiss me and nick half my chips like they're yours by right. That's the stuff I live for, sunshine.

Truth is, life without you doesn't bear thinking about. I'd be lost. Plain and simple.

You're what makes this flat feel warm, even when the bloody radiators pack it in.

You're why I look forward to knocking off every day.

You're the reason I keep my nerve when things go sideways. Because you're always there, backing me up, grumbling in my ear, being a right pain in the arse and the best things in my life all rolled into one.

And before you start… no, I haven't gone soft. Not entirely. Just… softer where you're concerned. Don't let it go to your head.

I'll be waiting in the bedroom when you read this. Door shut, lights low. Thinking about you.

About the feel of you under my hands, your body pressed to mine. About knowing exactly how to make you go still, how to make you come, how to make you mine. I like that I can do that. That you let me.

So, when you fancy coming to collect what's yours, you know where to find me.

Try not to dawdle too long. I've got plans for us. I owe you that other present, and I intend to give it to you properly.

There you have it. All written down. Every word true, even if I did waffle on like a right prat.

I love you, Ray.

I'm yours.

Completely. Stupidly. Hopelessly.

Christmas or not.

Today, tomorrow, all of it.

Love, Bodie

Title: A Bodie Christmas Letter
Author: Ankaree
Genre: Slash, Holiday
Archive at ProsLib: Yes
Warnings: None
Notes: Thanks to LilyK for the beta.

Summary: A sweet Christmas letter for Doyle written by Bodie.