discoveredinalj | Here's the first half of the goodies I promised

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Stranded

In his mind's eye he pictured their bed, the cream and brown pattern duvet kicked to the bottom of the mattress, his pillow rumpled and hanging off the edge, the bottom sheet un-tucked, creased and bunched where Doyle been tossing and turning, as he slept fitfully the night before. It would be just as they had left it that morning, soiled, dishevelled, and oh so bloody welcoming right now.

And right now, he longed for it, he longed to be there with Ray, holding him close, feeling the weight of him as he lay across his body, head tucked under his chin, that warm torso within easy reach, so his hands could play tenderly up and down that strong back and spine.

Oh God, warmth. What he wouldn't give for some warmth right now.

He tried once more to move his limbs and found that they still weighed far too much to gain any semblance of mobility. How long had he been lying like this? How long could he go on lying here like this, feeling every bruise and every ache where his worn-out naked body pressed hard into the unforgiving solid floor, while the cold stole what little energy he had left, draining it from him like grains of sand through an hour glass. He was more than tired and the pain in his leg where his femur had been shattered was growing.

Tempted to let lethargy smother him like a warm comfortable blanket and drift him away, his eyelids briefly fluttered closed, heavy with exhaustion. He became aware of the sounds beyond the small window: cars in the distance, the hiss of tyres on the slush covered roads, a faint tap and rattle on the window pane. So it had started to snow again, no wonder it was so bleeding cold. And then came that constant cold heavy splash against the lino covered concrete upon which they lay, a repetitive and steady dripping that was beginning to grate on Bodie‘s nerves.

He fought it, that inevitable need for sleep, and forced his eyes open again. He couldn't sleep, not yet, not until he had got them both out of here. But he couldn't remember the last time he had slept, not properly, anyway. Not the whole night through without some kind of interruption. And here he was fighting it? What kind of fool was he?

Summoning the energy, from where he wasn't sure, he felt the bruised base of his spine protest as he slid a slow and trembling hand out across the freezing linoleum floor in search of his partner.

As his fingers met with cool sticky fluid puddled on the floor, a wave of memory, like an icy blast from the depths of winter, washed over and through him. The thick and viscous slipperiness of it took him back to that day, to vivid images of Ray lying on the floor in his flat, motionless, struggling to breathe, life pouring from him into the carpet. For a moment Bodie felt again the sudden panic that had left him speechless then as he worked, struggling, to think and not to think while he tried desperately to save Doyle’s life. It played through his body, a ghost from the past.

To this day he couldn't remember what he had done, and for that he was somehow grateful. All that ever came back to him were flashes of images, snatches of memory, but it was the hopeless sinking feeling, that first jolt of panic when he had been sure he was too late, that he hadn‘t done enough, and then the fear that Ray would never make it to the hospital, that haunted him. It was the one nightmare that never faded with time; it still scared him that it could fill him with that same blinding panic whenever he remembered, never lessening. Trying to clear his mind, he took a cleansing breath, his lungs filled anew, all the way down to the cold pit of his stomach.

"Ray?" He whispered.

No answer.

"Ray, you git?" he called breathlessly.

His plea was met with a faint snore. Trust Ray, the bloody infuriating antagonistic ball of contradictions that he was, to fall asleep. They were stuck here and he goes and falls asleep, even while Bodie himself was fighting the very need, the bloody injustice of it all. But he couldn't help the smile that filled his cheeks as warm emotions welled in his belly, he couldn't be angry, not now.

"Ray!" His hand met with damp and rapidly cooling skin and he squeezed it hard. He was answered with a sniff, a snuffle and a moan.

"Wake up!"

"'m tired. Leave me alone.” Doyle pulled his arm away and Bodie let it slip slowly from his fingers.

"I'm not surprised. Come on mate, you can't go to sleep just yet." Bodie shivered as the cold floor leached more heat from his abused body. "You can sleep to your heart's content, when we get out of here."

"When? Don't you mean if?"

At last Bodie turned his head to face his partner. "Like that is it?

"Hmm..."

Christ, how did he do it? He wondered to himself, as he looked into eyes that had hardly changed through the passage of time, still bright and full of mischief. Bodie loved the way his partner looked, almost every second of every day, he even got a thrill from the angry ugliness that seemed to sit so well upon his lover’s face, when he lost his temper. But nothing, nothing at all compared to the sleep-softened big-eyed just-woken-up look when his mate had been pulled from sleep. All eyes he was, slightly tousled and wholly adorable. Looking at the full and slightly swollen, perfectly defined lips, he felt a smile of appreciation spread across his own face.

"That's my lad, the cup's always half empty."

"It looks a bloody sight more than half empty from where I’m lying."

Bodie followed Doyle's line of sight and couldn't help but grin. The cup was actually broken in two by the leg of the table. It was quite amazing how far eight ounces of hot chocolate could spread across one small kitchen floor, especially when it had two bodies writhing in it. That and the added complication of it being mixed with the salad oil that had been dripping slowly from the upturned bottle balanced on the edge of the table. But it was still strangely better than doing it on satin sheets and a damn sight more fun. He looked at Doyle‘s very sated, very smug expression. "You do know you're lying in it all, you clumsy oaf."

"Me clumsy? You're the one who knocked it off. That‘s my… was my favourite mug."

"Well, never mind, eh." He patted a firm if rather sticky shoulder.

“I’ve had that for years.”

"Ra-ay, you nicked it from work, you sentimental sod, and if you will go knocking me into the table." A long slow smile creased his cheeks at the memory and, finally able to get his legs - which ten minutes ago had been up by his ears - underneath him, Bodie took the weight off his abused back and rolled his hips until he could turn and face his partner. He paused as he felt the slip and slide between his buttocks, the fading physical memory of Doyle loving him, pushing into him, pressing deep inside, and now he luxuriated in the echoing thrum of orgasm through his body. A few moments passed as he lost himself to the pleasure, before slowly refocusing on his surroundings. "Not that I'm complaining mind," he added.

"Eh?" Doyle seemed to have been lost in his own far away thoughts.

"Come here," Bodie reached out and grabbed a skinny arm and with the help of the slippery liquid-covered floor slid Doyle closer and wrapped his arms around him. "You're bloody freezing. Urgh, slimy and sticky to boot!"

"You think I don't know that?" Doyle complained sulkily under his breath.

Bodie hugged him tightly and kissed a hot chocolate flavoured cheek, “Stop bristling about your mug,” he chided gently and instantly felt loss as Doyle struggled out of the tight embrace.

Doyle pulled away and tried to get an elbow under his body, it was like seeing a foal stand for the first time, only on an ice rink. Bodie felt the corners of his lips curl.

“Slippery character, aren’t you?”

At that moment Doyle slipped once more, this time landing heavily on Bodie himself, knocking the air from his lungs with a ‘oomph‘.

“I suppose I deserved that?” he enquired breathlessly, looking into amused green eyes, and reaching out a hand to help. “You’re completely coated in… I think we used too much lube, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” Doyle said, preoccupied with trying to balance his weight on his elbow. This time he was successful.

Looking up at a dopey Doyle, damp charcoal-grey curls kept shorter of late, now weighted with oil and cascading around the usually hard features, he smiled, sharing the warm glow of accomplishment. His partner still looked on the very verge of sleep. His eyes were heavy, his lips soft and inviting, pouting slightly.

"We must be getting too old for this," Bodie said lovingly. "Look at us, both of us lying here, barely able to move. You can hardly keep your balance. You'd think we'd just gone ten rounds with old Mack, not just had celebratory sex on the kitchen floor." He raised his head a couple of inches and kissed the pout away, smiling when he was rewarded with a lazy affectionate pull of lips.

Doyle moved back after stealing another kiss, shifted and, suddenly animated, propped himself with a hand either side of Bodie's head. "Speak for yourself mate. I was just resting my eyes. I didn’t want to make you feel like an old man by jumping up and running off to a nice hot shower.”

"That right? You did that for me?" Bodie questioned, all feigned surprise. "How kind. My hero. All that just to keep me company. And there was me thinking the poor old thing had gone and exhausted himself. Well now I know better, eh?"

"Yeah, now you do," Doyle said drowsily, energy suddenly gone again, so that his words didn't have quite the punch he intended them to. He slowly lowered himself onto Bodie, kissing his nose on the way.

“You comfy?” Bodie managed, when he was finally still.

“Hmm.”

“Good.”

They lay like that in silence for a few minutes enjoying the close proximity, Bodie running his hands freely over the narrow back and still round buttocks, dispensing some warmth.

One of Doyle’s hands snaked down between them and rubbed gently over the long scar on his thigh, where the doctors had pinned his femur back together. He must know it would be playing up with this cold. The injury had ended Bodie’s career, and in turn Doyle’s too, a close range gunshot from a .45 that had been meant for his spine. After being held for three days, his usefulness had run out, but Doyle had breached the door just as Abdul finished telling Bodie what was going to happen to him and was raising his .45 magnum. Bodie would never forget Doyle’s cry as Abdul's shot rang out, a split second after Doyle's own, and he found himself crumpling to the ground.

Doyle hadn’t wanted to stay on after Bodie had left. He only had another year on A squad left in him anyway, they had both known it, their test scores dropping off as old injuries caught up with them, making them feel their years. Still 43 wasn’t a bad age for Doyle to leave, and looking back now, neither regretted it. Of course at the time it hadn’t been that straightforward, or gone quite so smoothly.

Strewth, that was years ago. So much had changed, and for the better in a lot of ways.

Bodie snuggled closer, "Happy Anniversary," he whispered close to a curl-covered ear.

A sleepily muffled "yeah" from the vicinity of his shoulder amid a gust of warm air, was his only reply.

Laying a soft kiss on the warm head and taking in a lungful of the wonderful scent that signified life to him, even if it was slightly tainted by chocolate and oil, he relaxed. Funny how the smell of Doyle’s hair still gave him that warm glow, that contented feeling, the one he always got when he had Doyle this close and in his arms. He lay back and stared up at the ceiling, sighing deeply.

Happy, that's what he was, had known it for years. He had never held out much hope for something this good when he was young. He'd always imagined a solitary life, but once he met Doyle, his partner, it had all come together.

“You know what? Next year I think we should break with tradition. I don't mean the salad oil. I quite like the salad oil actually.” he said clenching his buttocks enjoying the warm slip of it between his cheeks. “But the kitchen floor? You're in your sixties now Ray." His face screwed up as a thought suddenly occurred to him.

"Christ, I'm gonna be sixty next year! Don't go making a song and dance of it, Ray, I'm not interested. I'd rather it passed by unnoticed. And if you buy me a walking stick again, I'll beat you around the head with it!" He paused to remember what he was saying. "Oh yes, how about moving this to the bedroom next year, eh? You know, warm duvet, comfortable mattress, heating? Sounds inviting, don't you think? Ray? Ray?”

Doyle twitched in his arms as his breathing deepened.

“I'll take that as a yes, then.” Looking around, he saw his dressing gown over by the leg of a chair, where it had fallen as Doyle slid it from his shoulders. Holding the sleeping form close, he reached out and snagged it to him. The arm was soaked, but what the hell, it’d do. He knew they’d only be here for what, another half an hour? An hour at most. So what if he ached, for the last thirty years he had been willing to die for this man. What was a bit of discomfort?

With a quick flick of his wrist he flung the thick fleecy material over them. As he did, there was the sound of liquid spraying out and hitting something solid. He looked up and raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the ceiling, and then at the kitchen cupboards and walls. Bloody brilliant, he thought, sighing, he’d be cleaning that too. But it was worth it, it had all been worth it, every single day over the last thirty odd years had been worth it, if it meant he had today.

He slid a thigh over Doyle's narrow hips and rested his cheek against Doyle’s matted tangle of hair.

Christ, thirty years, who’d have thought it?

“Here’s to the next thirty, Ray,” he murmured and let his eyes fall closed at last.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The End
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Title: Stranded
Author: Crimson
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Not just yet
Disclaimer: Sadly, they're not mine, but if they were, oh, I'd...
Notes: Many thanks, to my very patient beta.