These Daylight Hours

Discoveredinalj
presents
Discovered in the Fairylights
Christmas Special
2010
http://community.livejournal.com/discoveredinalj/
presents
A Discovered in a Livejournal
Christmas Special
2010
Contents
Superman...............AngelCI5
Dog Eat Dog..........................................................Foxcat
Dawntreaders....................................Jaycat
Bodie and Doyle.....................................SAC
Brushes......................................AngelCI5
These Daylight Hours.............................. Slantedlight
Home Truths...............................Luka
Doyle..............................................SAC
Word is Out...................................Jojo
Bodie and Doyle...............................SAC
Q & A - William Andrew Phillip Bodie...................Jojo
The Football Drabbles...........................Probodie
Chinese Whispers..................................Slantedlight
's No Comfort........................Foxcat
Q & A - Raymond Doyle....................................Jojo
Days Like These...............................Sally Fell
Watching His Back..............................CornishCat
Neverwinter.............................Slantedlight
Superman
by AngelCI5
"Chances?"
"Fifty-fifty," the doctor replied.
Doyle had faced worse - he'd be okay - have to be okay. He was too strong, he was too bloodyminded, too alive to not survive. He had to live, because Bodie needed to tell him he felt the same
way. Stupid bastard, taking that bullet. His bullet. Meant for him. He'd never forgive Doyle.
"Bodie!"
"Right here, Ray."
"What happened?"
"You decided you're superman."
"You mean I'm not?"
"Not so far, mate."
"Pity that. You alright?"
"I am now."
"You trying to tell me something?"
"Yup."
"Took your bloody time."
Bodie smiled with relief, and kissed him.
Dog Eat Dog
by Foxcat
Doyle picked up the kettle and reached behind Bodie for the box of matches lying on the kitchen
table. He turned the gas switch on the cooker and struck the match, snatching his fingers away as
the hob ring lit up in a huge burst of blue flame. He shook the match out with a curse. That damn
cooker had always been temperamental.
A nice cup of tea and a sit down, Bodie said they needed. He rubbed at a small patch of dried blood
smeared on the inside of his thumb and snorted. According to Bodie, nothing said “fuck me, isn’t it
crap that you had to shoot a raving psychopath right between the eyes at close range” like a
soothing cup of PG Tipps.
He glanced across at Bodie, perched on the corner of the kitchen table, his arms folded across his
chest. He raised his head when Doyle turned to face him.
“You did the only thing you could, Ray. If you hadn’t taken the shot, then God knows what could
have happened.”
Doyle turned away and retrieved two dirty, chipped mugs from the sink, rinsing them out with a
quick splash of water. He dropped a teabag into each one, followed by several spoonfuls of sugar
for Bodie, and watched as the crystals slowly congealed at the bottom of the cup. Bodie was right,
of course. Standing in front of a crazed lunatic with two hostages, there was only one clear shot and
less than a split second to make a decision. There was nothing else he could honestly have done.
Doyle dried his hands on a faded tea towel hanging by the sink. Bodie was always right about this
sort of thing. But then Bodie wasn’t the one with that poor bastard’s blood drying on his
shirtsleeves.
Bodie persisted. “I mean, it was his own wife and kid, for God’s sake!”
Doyle stabbed at the sugar sticking to the bottom of the mug with his spoon, wondering vaguely if
he should speak to Bodie about cutting down on sweet drinks. It couldn’t be healthy, the amount of
sugar he shovelled in.
Bodie’s voice floated in the air behind him. “At least they’re alive, Ray. If it wasn’t for you they’d
could both be dead.”
On the hob, the kettle began to screech and whistle, steam rattling noisily out of the spout. Doyle
reached over and poured the boiling water into the mugs, stirring the teabags around until the liquid
turned a reddish-brown colour. He reached into the cupboard above the countertop and opened the
biscuit tin, picking out a couple of crumbling garibaldis.
His own bloody wife and child… Jesus Christ. A woman so fucking terrified she pissed herself
right there in the street with everyone watching. And their four year old son, half hidden behind
her, crushed awkwardly between his parents as the three of them stumbled forwards.
Doyle swallowed. It all came down to one clear shot. One tiny fraction of a second, and Danny
Briggs ended up with a hole where his face used to be. Stupid, fucking Danny Briggs, who just
hadn’t been able to keep his bloody trigger finger steady, even when the gun was pressed to his own
wife’s throat.
Doyle yanked open the fridge and picked up the single, empty bottle of milk which was nestling
inside the door next to a box of out of date eggs and a half drunk bottle of wine. He kicked the door
shut and slammed the milk bottle onto the kitchen counter. Absolutely bloody typical, that was! So
much for Bodie’s precious cup of tea. What the hell was it with Bodie being too lazy to go to the
corner shop to buy a pint of milk every now and then. Doyle chucked the half-made tea down the
sink and dumped the mugs on the draining board . He’d even made a point of telling Bodie he
needed milk this morning, but had he bothered to actually go out and get some? No, of course not.
That would take far too much effort.
Doyle turned to Bodie. He’d just have to go without his stupid cup of tea and his nice sit down.
Still perched on the edge of the table, Bodie’s head was slumped forward on his shoulders, his eyes
now closed and his lips drawn in a thin line. Doyle frowned and took a step forward.
He reached out and threaded his fingers through Bodie’s hair, moving closer when Bodie leaned in
to the touch. He leaned down and pressed a kiss onto Bodie’s forehead. What a hell of a day they’d
had. He closed his eyes as well.
… Danny Briggs’ 22 year old wife, screaming in terror as her husband’s blood splattered across her
face. And his child – just four years old - standing next to his mum, staring up at the hysterical
woman in complete bewilderment.
Doyle wrapped his arms around Bodie’s shoulders and pulled him up from the kitchen table so that
they were standing together, holding on to each other tightly. All that noise and confusion, and
Bodie had been the one who had quietly picked up the little boy and carried him away so he
couldn’t see the body of his dead father. Doyle rocked Bodie gently, the same way that Bodie had
rocked the terrified child in his arms that afternoon. Always the hero, his Bodie.
He took hold of Bodie’s hand, leading him silently from the kitchen to the bedroom upstairs.
Tomorrow they would get up and live the same day all over again. There’d be more terrorists and
drug dealers, more killers and arms dealers, and no doubt there’d be another Danny Briggs throwing
his life away for the sake of his next quick fix.
Doyle held on to Bodie’s hand as they slowly made their way up the stairs. Right now, what they
needed more than anything was to sleep and to be together. Then in the morning, when it started all
over again, they’d be able to face it.
And maybe at the end of the day they’d get to have a cup of tea after all.
Dawntreaders
by Jaycat
The cabin was airless and smelled of diesel and rust and paint. Doyle lay on his back under a thin
blanket in the narrow bunk. He needed to sleep so he could take over the watch from Bodie in a few
hours, but he just kept staring into the blackness. How on earth was he supposed to sleep tonight,
after Bodie had kissed him?
It had happened while Doyle was standing at the cooker. He’d put together some grub from the
provisions left behind by the usual occupants of the barge, who were away spending their first night
as reluctant guests of CI5. The enticing aroma of tinned baked beans and sausages inevitably
attracted Bodie, who hovered bee-like closer and closer to the galley.
You could tell how pleased Bodie was to be on this op. It took them ages to find the moorings, out
on the Essex coast, at the end of a rutted track the Capri was never designed to handle. It was a hot
and dusty drive, but the moment they caught sight of the old barge, Bodie’s mood lifted. Once
aboard he took great delight in every detail of the vessel. He stood on deck to admire the view of
mud and wading birds, and the opposite shore hazy in the distance. He spent a happy hour bending
over charts and tide tables, pencil in hand, tip of tongue poked out in rapt concentration. These
apparently told him when it was going to be high water, in the small hours, and consequently when
the motor boat might arrive for the arms drop off.
Doyle was stirring the instant mash when Bodie came up close to peer over his shoulder and sniff at
the various pans simmering on the hob. What surprised Doyle was that Bodie stayed, and started to
nuzzle his hair, hands resting on Doyle's jeans, a very warm groin against his bum.
“Smells good,” Bodie breathed hotly into the nape of his neck. Doyle held his breath for a moment,
not at all sure how to respond, afraid of making the wrong move, while hoping those hands weren’t
going to stop at his hips. That was until a gushing and spitting came from the cooker and he had to
lunge forwards to rescue the boiling-over peas.
Bodie chuckled and let go, back to normal – a state Doyle didn't find quite so easy to regain.
"Is it nearly ready?" Bodie asked, cheerfully.
"What?.. oh yeah… food… yeah…”
Bodie was hunting for cutlery and plates and setting the table.
Nothing more was said about The Kiss while they ate, then made ready for a visit from the
gunrunners that might happen tonight, or tomorrow, or not at all.
Doyle's eyes were still wide open in the inky blackness when he heard movement in the cabin.
"You awake, Ray?" Bodie’s voice came softly from the doorway. He felt Bodie get on the bed next
to him.
"Nah… But I'm hoping that's not your idea of foreplay, mate."
He didn't need to see Bodie to feel the appreciative smirk. He wanted Bodie to know they were on
the same wavelength, felt he should've done more, before, to show him it was okay, that he wanted
Bodie too – hell yes.
This time he reached for Bodie and drew him close for a proper kiss, fingers twining in Bodie's hair,
just a thin tee-shirt between him and Bodie’s woolly jumper. Things were just starting to get
interesting when Bodie drew away, with every indication of regret.
"I just came to say," Bodie murmured, "We're afloat now, tide’s in. I'd better go up on deck to keep
watch, and you are gonna get some sleep. See you at five."
Doyle listened to Bodie padding away, up the ladder, opening and closing the hatch and moving
about on deck. His own heart was pounding and his cock throbbing fit to burst. There was no way
he was going to get off at all now without getting himself off, fuelled by imagining what he'd do to
Bodie as soon as the wretched tide went out again and they were safe from interruption.
He woke long before his alarm went off, wondering what he was doing lying in this uncomfortable
bunk when there was so much to explore on deck. He pulled on his jeans and fisherman's jumper,
and made two large mugs of coffee.
When Doyle emerged on deck, the sky was just beginning to lighten across the water to the east.
Bodie was sitting with his back resting against the ship’s wheel, relaxed, alert, binocs around his
neck and Uzi resting on his knees. He took the coffee gratefully as Doyle sat down close beside
him.
"You didn't have to, you could've stayed below for another hour yet," Bodie remarked, gazing
steadily out across the grey estuary.
"Couldn’t sleep, after… after last night."
A soft flush started up from the collar of Bodie's black jumper, but it might have been the reflection
of the sky as dawn began to break. The barge swayed a little as the breeze picked up.
"Wish we were underway,” Bodie mused, “Down the river and out to sea, sailing off into the
sunrise. Always loved being at sea."
Bodie would come over all romantic like this at times. He’d be quoting poetry next, so Doyle
interrupted the reverie.
"Keep sailin’ into the sunrise from ‘ere, mate, and you hit Rotterdam."
"I'd take Rotterdam, or Hamburg, or just what's around the next headland, and the next…” Bodie
looked dreamily into the distance. Then he grinned and squeezed Doyle’s knee, “Be great, wouldn’t
it? One day, you and me – find a boat like this to live on?"
Doyle smiled. Would never need more words of love and commitment from Bodie than this.
by SAC
Brushes
by Angelci5
He closed his eyes, kept his head still, held as it was in gentle hands.
Lips danced over his face, brushed across his nose, a soft kiss on his brow, his lower lip
captured and gently tugged, a butterfly touch over his cheek, his upper lip slowly licked.
His skin tingled from all the sensations and he didn’t move for fear it would stop. But then
suddenly the questing lips were gone, and bereft he opened his eyes.
Alone. No emerald irises looking into his own, no perfect mouth hovering over his. Only a
dream then.
But maybe one day...
These Daylight Hours
by Slantedlight
Day turned to night and it was the only certainty in the world. The streets pounded hard as cement
under his feet, they held him back, soft as treacle, and the air was too thin to breathe properly.
Contacts and whispers and threats and the blood-dull feel of flesh against flesh blurred and peaked
and blurred again.
Bodie was missing, and it had been three days.
There was no time to think, only time to do and so he did, life paused...
Until a telephone rang, shrilled, shouted.
Night turned to day, and the sun rose blazing into the sky.
Home Truths
by Luka
Home? Bodie surprised himself by realising that it was. He'd never lived anywhere for very long or lived with anyone. So six months shacked up with Doyle was a shock to the system.
Oh, the little shit had some unsavoury habits, such as leaving the dishes, or adorning the furniture
with dirty teeshirts. And as for motorbike parts on the kitchen table...
But Bodie knew he'd forgive Doyle anything for the way he smiled at him and for the unrivalled
feeling of those strong arms around him in bed.
He wasn't going to tell Doyle that, though. Smugness was never appealing.
by SAC
Word is Out
by JoJo
“Well I suppose I’d better bloody go inside then.”
Anson smirked into his tea. “You said that ten minutes ago.”
Doyle picked up the pink card sitting inoffensively on the dashboard of the Escort, lifted
his hips and slid it into a back pocket.
“Good luck,” Anson said, the smirk now so wide he looked like a Cheshire Cat.
“Sweetie.”
“Christ, don’t start. I told the Cow you’d be a complete arse about this. I told him.”
Anson tipped tea down his throat. He screwed the damp cup back on to the vacuum flask
and nodded sagely.
“You ready for this?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah. How much damage can a disco full of radical nancy-boys do, eh?” Anson
grinned. “Mind out that no-one liberates your front while you’re in there.”
“Such a fucking comedian.”
“Ta-ta.”
Doyle got out of the car and slammed the door. He shrugged into the black leather jacket
that had gone on expenses only this afternoon, and headed across the street. There were
bouncers under the green awning of the Mariachi Bar, but nobody even flicked a glance
at him as he pattered down the steps at the side and strode along the rain-damp alleyway.
He could hear the distinctive bass-y sounds of a disco sound system beating out from
within the belly of the building.
Hold on, he thought to himself, eyeing the blue lamp hanging over the door. Dixon of
Dock Green wasn’t gay, was he?
On the other side of the door there were two men sitting behind a table. One of them, in
black leather trousers, had what looked like a pint of coke in his hand and the other, burly
and moustached, was twirling a pen in his hand.
It wasn’t very glamorous. Bodie had said club nights downstairs at the Mariachi were
glamorous. Being a smartarse - as usual.
Grinning weakly, Doyle dug in his pocket and handed over the pink card. There was a
slight eyebrow raise and then the moustached man took the card between a thumb and
forefinger and nodded at him. His companion gave Doyle a warm smile.
“All right?”
“Fine,” Doyle said. “Thanks.”
The man went on smiling and Doyle knew he wasn’t mistaking it for flirtation. Or
perhaps he was. Just because it was a man and this was an underground gay club didn’t
mean he was flirting. Or perhaps it did. He wiped the weak grin off his own face and
looked at himself in the mirror covering the wall next to him.
“Enjoy yourself, love,” the man said. “But not too much.”
“Thanks,” Doyle said again and set off down the corridor towards the steady thumping
sound. The light became dimmer the nearer he came to the corner and the music became
louder. It reminded him for a moment of a school disco in the gym downstairs at
Ashbourne Comp. However, as soon as he rounded the corner and saw the almost
painfully bright, moving lights coming through frosted-glass doors with large, Art Deco
handles, he changed his mind. Pushing one open he was assailed by the pumping beat
deep in his solar plexus. There was the rushy smell of illegal substances.
First things first, he thought, and made for the bar.
It was packed. Doyle bought himself a drink -- what Anson would have called a namby
half a lager -- and turned to survey the room.
To be honest, it wasn’t quite like he’d envisioned. He’d half expected the place to be a
Village People convention, stuffed to the rafters with construction workers and men in
feathered headdresses, but it just felt like a club. A club full of men, mind, but while
none of them seemed quite like the regular crowd at the Red Lion an hour before kickoff, they weren’t exactly all wearing dresses, either.
According to the game plan, Bodie had already been here a couple of hours and they’d
had word he was confident that he’d have solid information tonight. The kind of solid
information that might, finally, deliver them Gerald Monaghan, Mr. Paramilitary
Moneybags himself, on a plate.
It took five minutes or so of trying to casually peer between bodies in a nonchalant
fashion, but eventually Bodie swung into view. Doyle had to catch himself. Black t-shirt
that looked like it had been painted on, expensive-looking chinos that left nothing nothing - to the imagination, hair cropped smooth and close to his head. Yeah, and there
was more than one bloke giving Bodie the once over through the pulsing lights.
Doyle felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck. He hadn’t laid eyes on his partner for
going on six weeks and it had been hell, the kind of hell Doyle wasn’t sure he’d be able
to explain to Bodie in a million years. An ironic kind of hell given the case and Bodie’s
role in it.
He already knew he hated it when Bodie was on the end of fleeting looks of aggression,
the ones that signalled oncoming violence, but Doyle was surprised that he hated these
looks too. The looks of lust.
They didn’t acknowledge one another of course, although Doyle knew Bodie had clocked
him. Whenever he got the chance, Doyle had to make contact. The fleeting scratch to
the side of his cheek with a thumb-nail was all the evidence Doyle needed to tell him that
his partner had something to impart.
Settling on to his bar-stool, Doyle watched as someone came up behind Bodie from the
shadows and tapped him on the ...
Right.
In another moment Doyle, nibbling his glass, had to adjust to what was before his eyes.
Shit. Bodie dancing with a man.
It was Colin McCreary, the latest boyfriend of the bastard they were all here for. Doyle
recognised him from the photographs he’d seen a few days’ ago in Cowley’s office.
Typical. Bloody Bodie was canoodling with the target of the investigation’s new squeeze.
This was either going to go spectacularly well or spectacularly pear-shaped. And in the
meantime ...
Jesus H. Christ.
In a bun.
Bodie was good at this.
On the few occasions Doyle had seen Bodie dancing, he’d always fought the urge to sidle
over and inform him that there were more options open to him than either the military
two-step or the funky chicken. Now he really didn’t know where the sneaky sod had
been hiding his John Travolta moves all these years.
Despite the months of undercover, the photographs, reports and random sightings, up
until this moment Doyle hadn’t been convinced Bodie would be able to carry this whole
thing off, and he’d just hoped to God the people they were watching were more
convinced than him.
But now.
With Bodie only half visible across the densely-packed dance floor, and all of a sudden
locked in a clinch ...
Now Doyle could be convinced.
McCreary, the man Bodie was pressed against, their hips sealed together, was blond,
twenty-five perhaps, and sweet-faced. He wore faded denim and well-worked muscles
peeked from the cap sleeves of a t-shirt the colour of bubble-gum. All Doyle could think
was that Colin McCreary’s hands were on Bodie’s waist as they moved amongst the
dappled disco lights.
When the music suddenly slowed down, the young man needed no bidding to slink
himself cosily against Bodie’s upper body. McCreary had a slightly beatific look on his
face every time they turned and Doyle could see him, chin sometimes resting on Bodie’s
shoulder.
From his spot on the bar-stool, and pointedly avoiding eye contact with either of the men
who’d been staring at him since he sat down, Doyle trained his gaze here and there, as if
he was interested in everything. Really, of course, and on a purely professional basis, he
was interested only in how soon he’d find out what Bodie had to tell him. And, on a
purely personal basis, which felt very intense and very, very personal all of a sudden, he
was on total tenterhooks as to what McCreary was about to do next.
There was some talking. It looked as if Bodie might be asking questions, although, even
from here Doyle could see he had a casual, faintly mischievous look on his face. Doyle
thought he did well not to topple face-first off the bar-stool when McCreary suddenly
pressed his mouth forward and demanded a kiss. A deep kiss. The two of them stopped
moving for a few seconds and Doyle felt a strange, sick feeling engulf him as he saw
McCreary’s jaw working.
It was a fuck-me kiss. Definitely a please-fuck-me-now kiss.
For crying out loud.
Doyle propelled himself off the bar-stool, banged his glass down on the bar. Time to see
if this sodding love-in was garnering any useful intel.
He struck out on a confident course across the dancefloor. The atmosphere was soupy
with sweat, aftershave and smoke. Dodging smoothly between several other gyrating
couples, he got one hand to Bodie’s belt, and touched the other lightly on McCreary’s
slightly damp back. They pulled apart at once. The younger man had a sheen of
perspiration on his upper lip.
“Don’t like to cut in, love,” Doyle said as pleasantly as he could given his mouth was
right next to the man’s ear, “but I need to talk to my friend.”
McCreary looked to Bodie, eyes wide in accusation. Bodie made one of his I’m-soinnocent-of-every-charge faces. He cupped a consoling hand round McCreary’s cheek
for a second.
“Later,” he mouthed with a wink.
Clearly unwilling, but not sure quite what to make of the new arrival, Colin McCreary
backed off, tugged at one lip and then turned away.
Doyle didn’t meet Bodie’s eyes quite yet. He moved in closer, and tried not to react like
a startled virgin when Bodie casually slung both arms round his neck, sashaying them
both in a half circle. Doyle responded in kind, sliding his hands around to rest on Bodie’s
hips above his belt.
Six weeks.
Oh, mate. Much too long.
It was sentimental of him, Doyle thought. Then he revised that, because sentimental
wasn’t and hadn’t ever been how he thought about Bodie.
He raised his eyes, not knowing what look he was going to get.
Bodie was locked on to him, but totally in character.
You look great, Doyle wanted to say. You look great and I’ve missed the hell out of you.
What the hell’s going on with Colin McCreary?
“Evening,” was what he did say, although he didn’t know if he could be heard. The
flicker of a smile appeared on Bodie’s face.
“Monday night.” Bodie seemed slightly urgent as if they were short on time, but his body
remained quite relaxed. Doyle’s hairline prickled at the feel of hot breath against his ear.
“Upstairs bar Barclay Square Hotel. Anytime after nine.” Bodie touched his forehead
against Doyle’s. “Tell Cowley they’ll be armed to the back teeth. And for Christ’s sake ...
tell him to be careful about McCreary. Make sure he doesn’t get bloody shot.” His lips
picked a delicate way across Doyle’s temple.
Doyle felt a shiver run right down his spine, beginning at the nape of his neck and ending
in his tailbone, and he felt a distinct hardening in his jeans.
Oh shit.
Doyle had spent long enough here tonight and at the Peachtree Lounge down in Brighton
to be familiar. He’d seen enough men nuzzling each other in dark, sweaty interiors to
know that Bodie was creating exactly the right look. Protecting Doyle from suspicion
with his actions. And Doyle needed to play the part too. Monaghan or his heavies were
probably in here somewhere. He lifted one hand from Bodie’s back and nudged at his
chin with two fingers, just enough to get their mouths aligned. Then, hardly able to see
Bodie’s face clearly through the rippling lights, he kissed him.
It wasn’t clear to him at what point the boundaries blurred. Just that this kiss went on for
a whole lot longer than it needed to. He was aware of the lights pulsing too-bright in his
eyes, the feel of the bass vibrating through his limbs, the wet heat of the mouth sealed to
his. And the fact that he was becoming even more bone-hard with each passing second
and surely, surely Bodie could feel it.
There was convincing, and then there was BAFTA-winning.
“Anything else?” he said breathlessly as they finally broke for air. Bodie’s eyes popped
open.
Bloody hell. Bodie had closed his eyes as Doyle kissed him.
“McCreary’s clean,” Bodie said, licking his lower lip. “Make sure Cowley knows that.
And Doyle ...”
Doyle leaned closer again, not able to hear properly.
“Monday ... I’ll go to my place after.”
“Right,” Doyle said, as if that was nothing at all, as if it certainly wasn’t one of the most
meaningful six words he’d ever heard in his life. “Take it easy ‘til then, sunshine.”
All right.
Bodie let his attention be caught by someone gesturing at him from through the throng.
Then he was drifting away and Doyle began to move back towards the bar. He found his
half-drunk lager was still half-drunk, although someone else had colonised the bar stool.
For another fifteen minutes and one more beer he stood there, wondering if he was going
to end up dancing with another man just to keep the pretence going for a little longer.
Bodie was nowhere to be seen anymore and Doyle saw McCreary thread an anxious way
among the men around the outskirts of the dancefloor, searching.
Finally, he slipped back towards the frosted doors and out into the corridor.
“Oh sweetie,” said the moustachioed man as he passed. “Nothing doing?”
“Plenty doing,” Doyle told him grimly.
“Want to sign the petition?”
Doyle goggled at it for a moment and then reached obediently for the pen being held out.
“Blimey o’Riley,” Anson said when he got back to the car. “That was quick. How’d it
go? We in business?”
“Not tonight,” Doyle said, facing front. “But we might be on Monday.”
And that was all he could think from then on. Monday night, Monday night. And not
because it was now slated to be the pinnacle of the whole op. It was because, unless he
was much mistaken, and he was half afraid he was, Bodie had invited him round after
having kissed the bollocks off him.
***
McCreary didn’t get shot.
Doyle was very glad about that as he had a horrible feeling that Bodie would have
blamed him if he had. The young man did get arrested, though, and the soulful look of
betrayal he gave Doyle as he was handcuffed had made Doyle wince.
Monday night was rainy and Cowley was bad-tempered and twitchy, but the whole
operation had gone off without a hitch, although Bodie probably wouldn’t be going to
Belfast on a weekend break any time soon. Doyle couldn’t leave de-briefing fast enough,
declined the suggestion of a pint with Anson and headed west.
One short ring on the bell and he was buzzed in.
Bodie looked tired.
He kicked shut the front door behind Doyle and began muttering about thank fuck the op
was over and he was never doing one of these again and he was about out for the count,
couldn’t wait to get his kit off and just go to bed.
He’d stripped off the black shirt he was wearing, balled it up, thrown it across the room
and then unbuckled his belt. The sound of his fly unzipping plucked at Doyle’s nerves.
Since he'd come in he’d just been standing like a lemon in the middle of the lounge
listening to his partner chuntering, and wondering if he really was as rubbish at reading
signs as he now suspected.
“Wait,” he said. “You ...”
Bodie turned.
Something of a vision. His skin was porcelain, gleaming slightly along the planes of his
chest, the curve of his shoulders. A dark line of hair began under his navel, travelled
down into the shadow of the half-open chinos. Where his hand hovered. Doyle couldn’t
decide if he was undressing like this deliberately or not.
“You and McCreary,” Doyle said in a dry voice. “Convincing.”
Bodie looked wary. “Colin’s all right,” he said, gravelly. “Bit soft.”
“Soft on you, y’mean.”
Bodie stared at him.
“Listen, Doyle. If you’ve got something to say you might as well say it.”
“Just how convincing have you had to be?”
Bodie licked his lips. “About as convincing as I’ve had to be.” He paused. “What is
this? Twenty Questions? Anyhow, you were pretty convincing yourself. Had your
tongue halfway down my throat.”
Doyle slouched. He looked at Bodie’s hand still poised at his fly like he was unsure now
whether he should go ahead. “Did I bollocks,” he said.
“What is it?” Bodie said. “Have I done something to hack you off?” He finally began on
the chinos, tugging them down to his knees and then the floor. “It’s the kid, isn’t it?
Colin? Listen, mate, he’s just part of this whole bloody set-up that’s all. This whole
bloody, bastard set-up. Now things are back to normal and we can get on with ... “ Bodie
kicked the chinos across the floor to join the discarded t-shirt. The black briefs he had on
suited their name. “Being normal.”
In silence Doyle watched him pad across the room and in through the kitchen door.
Bodie flipped on the light and crossed to the fridge. He took out two cans of Double
Diamond and then walked over to put them on the draining-board next to the sink.
The last four days’ imaginings had not included Double Diamond or the draining-board.
They’d involved mutual moments of realisation, a lot of kissing and Bodie’s big double
bed, sheets all wrinkled and just the light coming in from the hallway. Doyle swallowed
several times. He knew this was right, deep down in his bones. It wasn’t infatuation or
temporary madness. It was always going to happen, at some time, eventually, and it had
been there between them from the moment they’d first shaken hands in Cowley’s office.
It was just that - oh my God - watching a long-legged, sweet-faced Colin McCreary
touching Bodie up had maybe advanced things by about a year and a half. It had spat a
bloody huge gob of naked jealousy into the mix.
Bodie went up on to his toes to reach for two glasses on a the free-standing shelves next
to the sink. Doyle broke out of his reverie. He slid two fingers into his front jeans pocket.
Then he began to move towards the open kitchen door, eyes locked on to the muscles
moving in Bodie’s calves and the backs of his thighs.
“Shit,” he said out loud and switched off the kitchen light.
Bodie had landed on his heels again as Doyle reached him. One glass went over into the
sink with a dangerous clatter as Doyle banged something down next to the Fairy Liquid
and then slid a hand right around Bodie’s waist.
“Ray?” Bodie’s voice was a huff of impatience. “That’s... you nick that from the bogs in
the Mariachi or what?”
“Just shut up.”
Bodie didn’t move, although Doyle saw a reaction ripple across his shoulder blades. All
he did was look down at the hand flattened against his stomach. His back stiffened as
Doyle lifted his other hand, slid it under the waistband of the briefs so the backs of his
fingers slid down Bodie’s right buttock.
“You,” Doyle said, “Invited me for a reason. Don’t try and pretend you didn’t.”
Bodie’s back went even more ramrod straight. The fact that he hadn’t turned around and
socked Doyle in the teeth seemed like a good sign. Doyle wasn’t quite sure what that
meant, but his own brow felt hot all of a sudden, and his pulse was beating so strongly,
that he didn’t have the wherewithall to work it out. He turned his wrist slowly, rounded
his palm around the firm curve of flesh.
“Bloody bloody hell,” Doyle whispered, and dropped his head on to the back of Bodie’s
neat-cropped hair. “I want to fuck the bloody arse off you.”
The hand that had rested on flat above Bodie’s hipbones began to slide down, over the
waistband of the briefs. Bodie’s shoulders arched towards one another and his hands
closed around the edge of the sink. Doyle knew that sliding his hand around Bodie’s cock
for the first time, encased in its sheath of smooth, tight fabric, was one of those memories
that would abide. He even had enough of an artistic soul to appreciate the shape of it
pushing against his hand. Although it wasn’t his soul, or anything close, that suddenly,
unaccountably, wanted it in his mouth.
“If... “ Bodie began with a little hitch of breath that made Doyle close his eyes, “you’d
like to... stop fannying around... “
Doyle slipped both thumbs under the waistband and tugged. He lifted the front of the
briefs forward and then down, careful to avoid snagging. Bodie groaned. He still had his
hands gripped around the sink but he was leaning back into Doyle fiercely.
“Or maybe,” Doyle said, fingertips running up the blood-pumped vein running straight
and strong along the underside of Bodie’s cock, “I want you to fuck the bloody arse off
me.”
Aware of the agonising pressure in his jeans, Doyle lifted away his hand and fumbled for
his fly. Getting free of the denim was heaven, as was the feel of himself plastered up
against Bodie, then of pushing his hips, urgently, grinding a little. He ran his hand
around the front again, felt the head of Bodie’s cock pressed hot and wet against his palm.
“Jesus Christ, Doyle... “ Bodie’s voice was a stutter. “Not in the... kitchen.”
“Shut it. Stay right where you are and take those bloody things off.”
He kept his eyes on Bodie’s thighs as Bodie pushed his briefs far enough down that he
could get one toe in and drag them all the way to the floor. Even while he was stepping
out of them, Doyle had wrenched off his own trainers and was peeling down his jeans.
He had a half thought that if he stopped to take a breath he might lose his bottle. Only,
maybe the utter, overwhelming desire that was pummelling his temples and making his
balls clench was proof that bottle was nothing to bloody do with it.
The last of the jeans was removed with one hand, mainly because he needed to keep the
other one on Bodie’s skin.
“You’d better be sure,” Bodie hissed at him.
“Let’s worry about all that later,” Doyle replied. “For now you just need to...” He
slapped lightly at one buttock, “...open wide.” He went back to Bodie’s cock, found it
still hard. Not unlike in his imaginings, Bodie’s balls felt tense and hot when Doyle
touched him there.
“Oh Christ that’s ... nnnnn .... that’s ... fuck.”
“I just knew you’d like that, I just knew it.”
Bodie shoved some plates out of the way and got one knee on the nearest shelf. The neat
stacks of bone china and glassware rattled as Doyle spread the clenched cheeks and eased
in the tip of a slippery finger.
“Jesus... God... sod all that, I can bloody take it, Doyle.”
“I’ll just bet you can, sunshine.”
In the half-dim kitchen, the hall light reflecting off the black windows, the fridge
humming softly in the corner, Doyle shut his eyes and felt Bodie take it.
by SAC
Q&A
by Jojo
William Andrew Philip Bodie
What is your earliest memory?
Arguing with someone
Which living person do you most admire and why?
Mr. George Cowley, he's a tough old bastard
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Gallows humour
What is the trait you most deplore in others?
No sense of humour
What was your most embarrassing moment?
That condom thing in the squadroom
What is your most treasured possession?
Mr. Ray Doyle
Property aside, what's the most expensive thing you've ever bought?
I couldn't possibly say, it's for his birthday
What do you most dislike about your appearance?
Pass
Cat or dog?
Rabbit
What is your guiltiest pleasure?
Leather
What is your favourite book?
The Idiot's Guide to Poetry Quotations
What is your most unappealing habit?
Being too handsome
What do you owe your parents?
A bloody long name
To whom would you most like to say sorry and why?
The girls. All of them
What or who is the greatest love of your life?
The man sitting just over there on the bed with the lovely curly hair and bare chest
What was the best kiss of your life?
It's coming up in about two minutes
Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
Running all the way, sir
What is the worst job you've ever done?
Scrubbing the poopdeck
What has been your biggest disappointment?
Kevin Keegan going to Hamburg
If you could edit your past, what would you change?
Africa
When did you last cry, and why?
On Tuesday night when Doyle dropped the shepherd's pie, dozy git
How often do you have sex?
Twice a day and three times on Sunday
What is the closest you've come to death?
How long have you got?
What single thing would improve the quality of your life?
No more baby-sitting
What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Persuading Doyle to move in
What song would you like played at your funeral?
You'll Never Walk Alone by Gerry and the Pacemakers
How would you like to be remembered?
Tall, dark, handsome and engagingly modest
The Football Series
by Probodie
Chance
“Home, home on the plain. Where the deer and the buffalo roam…”
“Since when did you become a cowboy?”
“Since I teamed up with you, pardner!”
“Bleeding Christ. Next thing, you’ll be wearing spurs …“
“Only Spurs I wanna see are those at White Hart Lane.”
“…and a Stetson. You what? Thought you supported Liverpool?”
“I do. Liverpool are playing ‘em next week. Wanna go?”
“Must I? Derby are at home to Leeds.”
“Huh, dirty Leeds. Mind you, they’ll still thrash you, Bremner and cronies.”
“Yeah, you’re right actually. Okay, get us a ticket will you?”
“If I get chance…”
Missed
“Chance! Bugger, he screwed that up.”
“That bloody Keegan. Bloody useless sod!”
“About as useless as Derby eh?”
“Didn’t you see the score? We beat Leeds 3-2, thank you very much, despite losing Lee.”
“Yeah, I saw. Punch up with Hunter wasn’t it? Should have known he wouldn’t win against a hard
man like him.”
“Look, concentrate, Keegan almost scored again.”
“Did he? Bugger, I missed it. Any chance of me scoring tonight?”
“Eh? You know Sally and Jill are off out to Miami tonight. Who’d you fancy copping off with
instead? Is Julia around?”
“No.”
“Lisa?”
“Wrong. Completely wrong.”
Penalty
“Wrong? What’s wrong with it?”
“I am not one of those, Bodie.”
“One of what?”
“You know…a poofter.”
“A…poofter? How delicate. You have a problem with it?
“Well…no. I’m just not one of them.”
“What you mean is you never tried it.”
“Yes. You mean you have?”
“Maybe.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means…maybe. I don’t have the issue here.”
“Ahh I see. In the mercs. No females around, eh?”
“No. Plenty of female company. Perhaps I preferred male.”
“I see. And now you prefer me?”
“Perhaps. Fancy trying?”
“You want to kiss me?”
“Amongst other things. If I can?”
Winning
“Can we speak to you sir?”
“What’s this all about, 3.7?”
“It’s about…me and 4.5.”
“What about you and 4.5? “
“Well, it’s like this. We’re exclusive.”
“Oh for goodness’ sake, Bodie! What he is trying, and failing, to say is that we are in a relationship
together and it’s exclusive. We want to be taken off the Honeytrap List, sir.”
“Is this some kind of joke? If it is, I find it highly distasteful.”
“No joke sir. We’re serious.”
“You know how difficult it is finding appropriate persons to go undercover.”
“We know, but I’m afraid that’s how it is. Take it or leave it.”
“And if I decide you are out, 4.5?”
“Then we leave. Together.”
“Ah. Then you’d best sit down and have a wee dram. I didn’t think you’d actually have the
courage to tell me.”
“I wouldn’t have, but Bodie here couldn’t leave it.”
“Thank you Doyle. Drop me in it, why don’t you?”
“He hasn’t ‘dropped you in it’, 3.7. I saw this coming when I first teamed you. My only surprise is
how long it’s taken you.”
“Getting predicable, Doyle.”
“Seems so. And Mr Cowley being nice – look, pink elephants in the sky!”
Champions
“…sky!”
“I can’t believe you actually said that to Cowley. What did he say in return?”
“He didn’t, Murph. He just grinned then told us to stop wasting his time and get on with what we
were supposed to be doing or he’d find us something else to do.”
“You forgot the part about him sending us to Macklin, to make sure our bodies hadn’t gone soft
along with our heads!”
“Oh so I did. Was trying to block that out, Ray.”
“I know. Still, he did give us Saturday and Sunday off before our slaughter with Macklin next
week. Lots of time.”
“Lots of time for what? Oh forget I asked. Don’t wanna know. At least the females will be safe in
London now that you two are off the market. You…are off the market I take?”
“What makes you think that? Ouch, that hurt Ray.”
“It was supposed to. Yes, Murph, we are both off the market, aren’t we Bodie?”
“Yes dear. Oof, another one? I’ll get a bruise there.”
“Good. Oh don’t pout; I’ll kiss it better later.”
“If you’re gonna start, I’m going. See you later, boys.”
“See you, Murph.”
“See you, and Murph? Thanks, mate.”
Chinese Whispers
by Slantedlight
These moments were theirs.
A job done, another waiting in the wings for its turn at glory, always the saving of the
country and the lives of housewives and binmen and caravanners, such ordinary lives,
such ordinary people, that when their own extraordinary eyes looked, glanced away,
looked back and back again and held, there was desire, but there was guilt too.
Whispers with the blinds drawn, the shadows shaded, the room made irreligiously, darkly
sacred. A gasp of intake of breath as Doyle turned his head, as he opened his lips, and
bent to taste; a sign of a moan from Bodie, and a tightening of hands already grasping
tightly. The air around them a caress, a tenderness, a kind of love, shushing in and out
with the seconds, with the minutes, oh if they were lucky, with all the minutes...
People were dead, and people were alive, and that was what they did, these two, but they
did this too, they held on, they closed their eyes and they listened for the faintest hope,
for words wafting through the dark, before it all changed with the dawn and the light and
the brashness of colour and sound that was day.
At night they could say love and you and me and mine, and they could hear echoes and
sussurations of assurance that they weren't alone, that this was real too, that here and here
and here were the places that were touched most deeply, most... necessarily. At night,
with the doors locked, when everyone else slept the sleep of the ordinary, they could hear,
in the silence of the world, the things that mattered.
In the night, words stayed still, when in the day they would turn to anger, to outrage, to
shouts of warning and watch out! In the day they heard words differently, filtered
through friends and foes and the habit of laughter and sarcasm until they weren't really
their words at all, until sometimes, just sometimes, they weren't exactly sure what they'd
heard in the first place.
Then there would be a glance and away, and another and one more and this one held, and
then they would find themselves in another dim room, shadows shaded, whispers real and
crystalline clear, and the moments would be theirs again...
's No Comfort
by Foxcat
Doyle gazed out of the kitchen window at his snow covered back garden. In the yard
next door, a group of children clustered around the snowman they had been working on
all morning, its frosty smile and wonky eyes fixed eerily on Doyle. He watched as a little
girl shoved a carrot into the snowman’s face, stepping back to admire her handiwork.
Doyle scowled. Bloody snow. Great for children, but good for nothing else. Airports
closed, trains cancelled, roads impassable. And on Christmas Eve, with Bodie hundreds
of miles away in Liverpool trying desperately to find any mode of transport that could
take him back to London. Doyle cursed the thick snowflakes still floating down past his
window. Trust Bodie to pick the day before the worst snowfall of the decade to pay a long
overdue visit to his family. It wasn’t as if Bodie even liked the bastards.
Doyle turned away from the window and the children playing outside. It may look pretty,
but as far as he was concerned he never wanted to see another snowflake for as long as he
lived. He slouched into the living room and flung himself onto the sofa, glaring at the
brightly coloured Christmas tree in the corner of the room. Without a doubt, this was
going to be the worst Christmas ever. He sniffed and picked up one of the cushions
scattered on the sofa, hugging it to his chest. There was simply no chance of Bodie
coming home now. You’d either have to be suicidal or a complete lunatic to attempt any
kind of cross country travel in this weather.
On the coffee table, Doyle’s phone vibrated and beeped into life. With a grunt, he
reached over and flipped it open, blinking for a few seconds at the words on the screen.
Get the kettle on, mate. Could murder a cup of tea.
Doyle leaped up and ran to the window, grinning madly at the solitary figure at the end of
the lane, slowly picking its way through the snow.
Oh yes, there was no doubt about it. A complete and utter lunatic.
Q&A
Raymond Doyle
What is your greatest fear?
Too bloody awful to write down, mate.
What is your earliest memory?
Being stuck uner a fence trying to crawl to next door's sandpit.
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Scruffiness
What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Smartness
What was your most embarrassing moment?
I did this really stupid dance in a club once, with a posh bird. Christ.
What is your most treasured possession?
Well, at the risk he'll read this, it's him, isn't it.
Property aside, what's the most expensive thing you've ever bought?
Car. Bike. No, car.
Where would you like to live?
On an island with (my) sunshine all day long.
Have you ever said I love you and not meant it?
Oh dear.
What makes you unhappy?
McDonalds.
What is your favourite book?
The Idiot's Guide to Poetry Quotations
What is your most unappealing habit?
Forgetting the bacon.
What is your favourite book?
Wuthering Heights.
What would be your fancy dress costume of choice?
Scarlet Pimpernel
What is your guiltiest pleasure?
McDonald's.
To whom would you most like to say sorry, and why?
My art teacher in Fourth Form - he was a pacifist. Sorry, Mr H.
What or who is the greatest love of your life?
There's no what, there's only a who.
Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
Lower. Just there. Don't stop.
What has been your biggest disappointment?
This government.
If you could edit your past, what would you change?
I should have caved into the old bugger a bit sooner.
When did you last cry?
It was in a hospital corridor but I don't think anyone noticed.
How often do you have sex?
None of your business, but let's just say there's no complaints from me. Or him.
What's the closest you've ever come to death?
A graveyard.
Tell us a secret.
No.
Days Like These
by Sally Fell
Days like these make him wish he'd stayed in Africa.
Endless hours in a freezing flat, looking out on a grey, November day through a
condensation soaked window. There've got to be better ways of earning a quid...
He glances over to the corner of hte room and watches as his partner extricates himself
from a tatty armchair. Doyle yawns noisily and walks slowly over to him, pressing up
against him as he studies the street below over Bodie's shoulder.
Bodie grins, and is rewarded with a bleary-eyed smile in return.
Days like these made him glad he came home.
Watching His Back
by CornishCat
Daylight slowly faded from the room as he watched Ray scribble their report in a
brooding silence.
Couldn't he understand he'd had no choice? He'd do it again... that's what partners are
for, he thought before sleep ambushed him.
...
Disoriented, he found himself hauled upright and an involuntary gasp escaped as his
abused body objected.
"You're a bloody idiot, Bodie!"
Held so close, the angry tone was softened by warm breath caressing his cheek.
"Can't sleep in hospital," he innocently offered, ignoring Doyle's need for post-op
recriminations.
"Then let's go home, hop-a-long...together, while we still can!
NeverWinter
by Slantedlight
Doyle listened to leaves falling from trees, scratching along the ground, watched his world through
closed eyes, shallow breaths, through the warmth of his blood seeping into the earth. There was
Bodie laughing at him, taunting him, egging him on, Bodie blank with rage as he aimed a blow at
Doyle himself, as he drew back, as he let fly...
Bodie apologising later, braver than he'd ever be, kissing him.
The wind rustled leaves in its path, in its wake. He opened his eyes, and there was Bodie, yelling
into his R/T, staunching the blood. Braver than he'd ever be.