Devils on Horseback

[kiwisue.livejournal.com]

With heartfelt thanks and *hugs* to msmoat and shootingtokill for betas and checks and stuff. Any mistakes remaining are mine own.



BODIE: You scared?
DOYLE: Yeah. You?
BODIE: Yeah, all the time.
("Mixed Doubles")

Yesterday had been just another day. They'd wound up the Michalski case with only one casualty – Michalski himself. The Cow was pleased. Like many other ordinary days in CI5, however, this one had had its moments. Two of them, one after the other.

They'd been about to put a collar on Sammy, an East End wide boy who'd set Michalski up with a bunch of contacts within the black economy and who'd raked in a cut of the money afterwards, as a reward for silence. Sammy was the nervous type – careful, not violent. All they'd needed to do was corner him, then go after Michalski.

They struck a lucky double. Michalski had been tracked to Sammy's 'office', the front room of a rotten old house in Canning Town. Doyle picked the lock on the back door, opening it carefully, and they slipped through into the hallway. They heard voices coming from the front room and crept silently towards the door - until Bodie stepped on a loose floorboard. The board creaked, there was a second of silence from the room ahead, then sounds of hasty movement, of chairs thrown back, footsteps racing. Leaving aside caution, they charged into the room in time to see Sammy departing rapidly through the French windows at the front and Michalski a full half-dozen yards ahead of him.

Doyle was quickest off the mark. He headed after Sammy, tackling him before the front gate. Bodie used Doyle's shoulder as a prop, leaping over the two men struggling on the path. Outside, Helen Tippett, Michalski's tail, ran towards him. He yelled a warning, sending her to assist Doyle while he ran after the other man.

Michalski fled across the road into a laneway between a row of new houses and a fenced off vacant lot and Bodie saw him turn right at the end of the row. The lane led down to the canal. Reaching it he found a footpath that followed the bank as far as he could see, bordered by the backs of houses and high brick walls. Michalski had disappeared. Cursing, Bodie drew his gun and followed, more slowly now, searching for gaps and hiding-places. There was a bridge across the canal about a hundred yards ahead. Reaching it, he saw an opening where drainage pipes led from the road above to the canal. He entered the narrow passage. There was little chance that Michalski had managed to conceal himself there but he needed to check. A few steps into the cut he decided it was a waste of time. He turned, only to see Michalski in front of him, gun in hand, aiming at him. He heard a shot, tensed in anticipation of the hit, but it was Michalski who dropped like a stone.

He took a deep breath, sloughing off the quick adrenaline panic and moved to inspect the body. Dead – a chest shot, entrance wound, no exit. Then Doyle was standing beside him and Bodie rose to his feet, wondering at how quiet Doyle seemed.

"Thanks." How many times had he said that to Doyle? Or Doyle to him?

Doyle's face was grave and he regarded Bodie with cool eyes. But there was something else in the look, something that was warm, that drew Bodie in.

"Reckon you owe me," Doyle said lightly, matter-of-factly, like he'd say it if Bodie owed him a beer, or a couple of quid for lunch. As he moved past to look at Michalski, his hand brushed Bodie's hip.

"Reckon I do," Bodie answered, too quickly, before the touch and the look registered fully. Then his RT squawked – Tippett had called it in and their back-up was on its way.

He wanted a drink, but it wasn't to be. They'd no sooner returned to headquarters and given a verbal report than Cowley had sent them out again. Hobbes and McAlister had got themselves into a stand-off with a terrorist cell they'd been working on breaking. The agents were bunkered down inside a warehouse while half a dozen men took pot-shots from the mezzanine level without success. A police tactical unit arrived and was deployed around the perimeter with strict instructions not to fire unless ordered. A negotiator was brought in, and the team, settled down to wait. For hours. At eleven thirty four they heard gunfire inside the warehouse - Hobbes radioed afterwards that there had been an argument and one of the terrorists had been shot by his own side. More waiting. At ten past two the siege broke and the terrorists came out, hands on heads. Mission over.

Bodie was exhausted. They both were. Doyle was whiskery and bleary-eyed, but he roused enough to make an invitation.

"Wanna do a pub crawl tomorrow night?"

"Yeah. Give me a call." Days off at last. And a night out with Doyle tomorrow. He couldn't think of anything better. He crawled into bed at four o'clock and, despite one startlingly vivid dream, he didn't stir until well into the afternoon.


**********


He was riding, riding fast, on a dapple horse the shades of morning mist over deep water. Moon and stars above whirled out of alignment, their silent music discordant. His mount was deep-chested, sure-footed: the road shimmered with frost and reflected, sharply, the pounding gallop of hooves.

He felt a scratching of unfamiliar fabric at his wrists, his neck. Clothes of another age; of highwaymen, cavaliers, King's men and outlaws. Who was he? Fragments of lines learned in childhood taunted him. The stanzas eluded him, confused him;

"I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three... Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon… And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed…"

Over the sound of hooves, of breath blowing, saddle creaking and heart thumping, an echo rose. A shadow drew close, riding, riding with him, gaining on him. Fear struck through him; he glanced over his shoulder at his pursuer. A figure made of darkness; black horse, black cloak, stark against the glistering night. Iron-clad hooves beat the ground raising sparks; hot breath snorting from nostrils like smoke from a fire. He urged his mount on, forward, faster, wanting only to run from the devil at his side. His dream unravelled its seeming reality and bound him with time slowed to a crawl.

A shot cracked through the night – he felt a hit, a hard knock that threw him gasping onto the high pommel of his saddle. His horse plunged onwards, shaking him with every stride. He gripped the saddle, tried to stay upright but felt himself falling away. Before he fell, strong hands grasped him, held him steady. They rode on, shoulder against shoulder, together, as the dream faded into the blackness of deep slumber.


**********


They started out at the Imperial Arms in Fulham Road with a vague plan of heading towards South Kensington, maybe Knightsbridge even. The beer was fair, the company low-end Sloane Rangerish and the service quick – Richard-at-the-bar was a livewire who made insults sound like compliments and compliments like insults, and who managed to squeeze in a sentence or two about his planned trip to Australia between pouring drinks and clearing glasses.

"I'm taking my cousin – dozy sod's never been more than fifty miles from Rickmansworth… hello luv, you're looking good tonight," (this to a standard-issue blonde with a Princess Di look-alike cut, like half the women in the pub), "…you ever travelled?"

"A bit," Bodie answered, "Europe, Africa…" but his reply was mostly lost on the barman, who took it in with a nod of recognition and acknowledgement – here we are, men of the world – and went on to serve new customers. They moved away from the serving area and Bodie turned to Doyle.

"So… how did it go, Ray? Really?"

"Ah… Helen was good. Yelled at him like a fishwife and he went quiet. Got him in handcuffs, then I came after you. That's it."

"Yeah." Then simple, like an afterthought, "Glad you did, mate."

Doyle's eyes drifted over Bodie and he smiled, affectionately. "What I'm here for isn't it? That …and the next round. We staying or going after this?"

It was a good start to the evening. They refused a second round and made their way outside into the crisp air, full of the tang of winter – of gas fires, stoves in kitchens, and the reek of over-used fat in deep-fryers. They had a brief discussion about where to go next, with Doyle wanting to head off for a meal at Dragon Palace and Bodie arguing that he didn't feel like walking a mile to mix in with a bunch of homesick, drunk Aussies. In the end Doyle won and they walked up Redcliffe Gardens to Earls Court, where they had a halfway decent meal and Doyle regaled him with the latest story in the never-ending saga of his motorcycle rebuild.

"So he had the sump covers in a box on the top shelf, only he didn't use the ladder, he just reached up for them: the whole shelf came down and he got hit on the head by a piece of exhaust pipe. I had to bandage him up and everything. Know the worst part?"

"No – what?"

"He still wouldn't give me a discount!"

Bodie chuckled, feeling warm inside. Cosy this, just the two of them, the way he'd hoped it would be. It had been weeks since they'd had a good night out together. He wondered, a little fretfully, if they'd end up splitting up at the end of it. They were headed for bird-hunting territory now, although Doyle hadn't said anything about trying to pick up – and he usually dropped a hint or two, just to make sure Bodie knew. With some luck, though, they'd wind up back at his flat for a nightcap, like they had the last time, full of booze and so relaxed that it had seemed completely natural to wrap his arms around Doyle, let him slump against his chest so that they'd been entwined together on the settee. That night Doyle had said something that had challenged Bodie's kissing ability and he'd retaliated by giving him a demonstration which had turned into a full-on snog, tongues included, but by then they'd both been well past the point of getting turned on by it. In the end he must have fallen asleep because next morning he was still lying on the settee with a blanket over him and Doyle was curled up in his bed like Goldilocks. Yet Doyle hadn't said a single word about any of it after he woke.

Maybe he doesn't remember, Bodie thought, watching Doyle dig his share of the bill out of his wallet, lips pursed in concentration. Maybe he's too embarrassed to talk about it – and he almost laughed, because he knew he was ten times more likely than Doyle to keep a thing like that under wraps, just as he had done. And a good thing too. Tonight was sweetened by possibilities unread by anyone other than himself.

He stood back, allowing his companion to go through the restaurant doors first, taking the opportunity for a good look at Doyle's assets along the way. It was inclined to drive him a little crazy these days, imagining what it would be like to have his hands on that arse without the barrier of clothing between them, maybe slide his fingers into the crevice between those rounded cheeks. He wasn't sure if he'd get that far, but it was intensely arousing to dwell on it sometimes, with Doyle so completely unaware of what Bodie was thinking. He wondered how far he could push Doyle, how much Doyle would let him get away with, given the chance.

A couple of pubs later they were both in a grand mood, amicably jostling each other at the bar then locking arms to wedge their way through the mid-evening crowd, drinks held high. As Doyle sipped slowly at his beer, Bodie realised there was little chance of him getting trashed - in fact he recalled that Doyle had only had one glass from the bottle of wine they'd shared over dinner. He supposed Doyle didn't have to invite a hangover he didn't want, although he'd been counting on him being more than a little squiffy by the end of the night. At least he didn't seem to be looking for female company – they'd both had looks from attractive girls and even the odd comment or two, which Doyle had fended off with a smile and a bit of backchat. Bodie was still feeling confident. He had a bottle of very good Scotch back at his flat and he didn't think Doyle would refuse a nightcap.

When Doyle bypassed several lively looking venues and searched out the quiet Nag's Head in Belgravia with less than an hour to go before last orders, curiosity got the better of Bodie.

"D'you want to go on from here? We've time for another place if you drink up."

Doyle shook his head. "Thought we'd stay here. It's nice, innit?" It was a small pub, all wood grain and hanging brass.

"Not bad. All the same to me, mate. What then?"

"Go back to your flat."

Now that was what he'd been hoping to hear. "And then, Raymond? You planning to drink my fifteen-year old Scotch and crash out, is that it?"

Doyle hesitated. "Thought we might take up where we left off last time."

Bodie felt his stomach tighten and for a minute he held himself very still. "I...see." It felt, suddenly, like he couldn't breathe. "And when did this thought occur to you, then? Eh?"

"Yesterday. By the canal." Doyle rubbed at a temple with two fingers, nervous as a cat.

"When you saved me," he said flatly, remembering.

"Yeah" Doyle looked at him, as he'd looked at him at the canal. "When you forgot every rule in the fucking book and didn't check your flank, I saved you. I do remember what happened, you know."

"So payment's due, is it? I owe you?" Anger flared, freeing up the constriction he'd felt in his throat.

"That wasn't what I meant, Bodie!" Doyle looked stunned. "That had nothing to do with it!"

He was in shock – he could feel the crawling chill of it. Everything was wrong. The only way out was to stop things here, now. The warmth, the camaraderie of the previous hours was completely gone.

He rose, swallowed the last of his pint and set the glass down on the table, carefully. It took all of his self-control to find something to say calmly, something that wouldn't completely wreck the evening, wreck them. "Find someone else to do, if that's what you fancy. I'll see you Monday."

He strode out the door. He heard Doyle behind him, felt his hand on his arm. "Bodie! It's not what you think, listen to me!" He ignored him and stalked out into the night.

Doyle was following, he knew, but he blocked him out and concentrated on finding a pub, one that didn't look pricey. Down the King's Road he found one, went in and ordered a whisky, any kind. He got Johnny Walker Red and was glad of it, tossing the glass back as soon as he had it in his hand. At his side he heard Doyle, urgently whispering, but he didn't listen, concentrating on the burn in his throat and the warmth blossoming in his stomach.

Out into the night again, Doyle doggedly tailing behind. Another pub, same drink. Same Doyle, silent this time, just standing there, watching him as the scotch slid down and the feelings churned his gut along with the booze. Then Doyle turned on his heel and left, and Bodie was alone.

He left that pub behind and started the long walk home, taking a winding route through side streets. Now Doyle was gone some of the tension in his gut ebbed away and he was able to think. What had happened? The night had been good, the connection perfect. He'd started to believe that it was really going to happen between the two of them. But Doyle coming out with it, blatantly, just like that was nothing that he'd expected. What had gone wrong?

He couldn't help feeling that he'd just fucked up royally, perhaps even permanently. Why? Because it had seemed a shabby thing that Doyle had said, insinuating that he expected a little gratitude? Under the cold street-lighting he wasn't sure of that at all. Doyle hadn't said anything about the shooting except in response to Bodie himself: he'd been all warm affection earlier in the evening and if he'd seemed a little diffident in the Nag's Head... well, he'd been working up to propositioning his best mate, hadn't he?

The snarly chill of winter burrowed in as he walked, making itself at home in his bones. He'd been thinking about the last time often over the past few weeks, how it would go, how he would trip Doyle. So Doyle had just tried to trip him instead, and it had all turned topsy-turvy, inside out. He'd panicked - and how stupid was he to do that anyway.

Doyle would understand, he'd have to. He'd call Doyle in the morning (and do what, the voice in his head mocked, explain that he’d run away from his partner because he was terrified of him?). No, he argued with himself, Doyle would forgive him, it would be alright.

He realised he was almost home only when he saw the light at the entrance to his block of flats and the figure slouching against the door. Doyle was waiting for him, looking cold and very grumpy. As Bodie got his keys out and went to open the door, he spoke in a low voice.

"About time you got here. Thought you might have decided to walk to Scotland."

Bodie sighed, shoved the door open. “Suppose you’d better come in.”

Doyle didn’t say anything, just pushed himself off the brickwork and followed Bodie. Once securely inside, door shut, however, he launched his attack.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at, you bloody idiot? If you weren’t interested you didn’t need to rub my face in it, you know. A simple no would’ve been enough. And what’s this about you owing me anyway – when have we ever had that, eh?”

Bodie swallowed, dry-mouthed. “I remembered from the canal. ‘Reckon you owe me one’, you said.”

“I said…,” and Doyle raised his eyebrows, as the light began to dawn. “You dumb crud. I owe you my life more than… more than I can count up to, I guess. It wasn’t that I was thinking about… “

He slumped onto the settee, looking miserable. Bodie sat down at the other end, not knowing what to say. There wasn't anything he could think of that would take that look of obvious hurt away from Doyle, no magic that could be worked to put everything back the way it had been an hour ago.

"I wanted to do it again, after the last time." Doyle wasn't looking at him; he was staring at the floor as he spoke. "I couldn't tell you how many drinks I'd had, but I remember every single moment of you kissing me. Then when you never said a fucking word about it, not even a joke, I thought there's no chance. Didn't stop me thinking about it, though. And then you almost got yourself killed yesterday and I made my mind up that I was going to try it on anyway, first chance I got. But I wasn't going to use that against you. I wouldn't do that to you, Bodie, I swear." Now his eyes were on Bodie, wide open, searching.

"I'm sorry, Ray." It was surprisingly easy to say it. "I panicked. I thought I had it all worked out and then you came along and stole the ball. That put the pressure on. I'm not used to it, not normally."

"You mean with girls." Doyle was watching him intently.

"Yeah. Or the occasional bloke… very occasional, OK?" Doyle looked disbelieving. "It's true. Watch for the signals, if the light's green, go for it. Only you weren't giving out any signals. I got the worst case of cold feet I'd ever had in my life. I'm sorry."

Doyle’s voice rose a tone or three. “You had cold feet! How d'you think I felt!” But he regarded Bodie with an exasperated fondness. “I never said anything, did I? Never gave you any warning – no wonder you jumped.”

A bubble of joy was starting to form inside Bodie. “Well, I do prefer a more subtle approach.” He smirked. It was as much to reassure Doyle as it was a reflection of his restored buoyant mood, but it got the desired reaction –laughter. When Doyle stopped chuckling, he said;

“Never, ever change, mate. You’re bloody perfect the way you are. Shuddup.” He held up a hand, forestalling any response. “Now, what do you want to do? Your flat, your rules.”

"And when it's your place?" He was almost home, he could feel it.

Doyle smiled. "My rules – maybe. Expect we'll work something out between us, don't you?"

Doyle was still sitting on the far side of the settee. The closest part of him was at least six inches away. He looked wonderful, and Bodie realised that he finally knew exactly what to do. He scooted over and wrapped his arms around Doyle, who leaned into him, relaxing with a sigh.

“How about,” he said, nuzzling Doyle ear, “we start again where we left off?”

They did.

END
December 2007



Title: (temporary) Devils on Horseback
Author: KWS
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive Proslib/Circuit: Not quite yet. I'll let you know.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.