Interactive Prosfic Part Four
Another wee bit to be carrying on with - and if someone would like to prompt the next scene...? *g*
It was 4 am, and Bodie couldn't sleep. Yet again. The radio was on low, playing some slow, sinuous jazz. More up Doyle's alley, he thought, and wished yet again that he was. But Doyle was undercover up in Manchester, seconded for an op because they needed a northerner and he could still pull of the accent. Bodie could have done them a creditable Scouse accent, but that was the one thing they didn’t want - someone that Moynihan could track down through his web of family, friends, and wicked old grandmothers. Come to that, Bodie still remembered Moynihan’s gran himself, and he had no real desire to get on her bad side again. He could picture her now - she wouldn’t have aged a wrinkle, because she’d been battered and creased by life before he’d even thought about hitting the boats, and her handbag would be just as heavy and just as lethal to the side of a grown man’s head as it had been when he was ten and caught playing knock and run at the wrong door. It hadn’t been Granny Moynihan’s, but he’d not been fast enough away, and she’d recognised him in the street three days later.
Christ he was getting maudlin, sitting up and reminiscing at four in the bloody morning.
Five days Doyle had been gone, and it wasn’t as if there wasn’t anything to do without him here. There was the luscious Kelly from Ansett for a start, desperate to be shown what real Brits did in London, and happy to get as drunk as Bodie wanted her. He’d beaten McCabe, Lucas and Ruth at squash, taken the bike down to Brighton when they had good weather last Saturday and enjoyed himself with a blond who’d been all leather and submission, and brought the darts team at his local home to victory only that evening, but…
But there was no denying it, something was missing when Doyle wasn’t around, and he was going to have to face up that if he didn’t want to be sleeping on duty until the sod got back. Until then… he sighed, listening to the jazz notes climb their way to the ceiling and then skitter back down along some smoky line only they could see. Until then he was awake now, and if he wasn’t going to sleep then he should get up and find something to do until he had to face Cowley again for the day.
o0o
It was 4 am, and Doyle couldn't sleep. Yet again. The radio was on low, playing some slow, sinuous jazz. That would get right up Bodie's nose, he thought, turning over on the stark, scratchy sheets, and pulling the narrow blanket more firmly over his shoulder, wishing he could get warm. He’d left the programme on one night when Bodie’d come over, when they’d tumbled straight into bed, and done nothing for long luxurious minutes but kiss hard, and press skin to skin, sliding their cocks together in a solid, certain rhythm. Bodie had pulled away first, reached into Doyle’s bedside table and found the KY, stared solidly into Doyle’s eyes as he first slicked himself up, making Doyle’s breath catch, and then reached down to push Doyle’s legs apart, and up.
Bollocks, he shouldn’t have started thinking about that. Not with Kendricks in the other bed, barely four feet away. It was his radio, his cheap hotel room, and his snuffling and mumbling that had kept Doyle awake in the first place. He shouldn’t be thinking about Bodie right now…
Bodie had leaned in, one hand on the wall above the bed, the other on his cock, positioning himself, teasing Doyle with it, running it around his arse so that Doyle could feel the leaking moisture of it, the slickness of the KY, until he was ready to beg Bodie to just fucking stick it in!, and Bodie was just about to, Doyle knew he was just about to, when - he stopped, and he moved away, and he reached over to the turn the radio off.
“Don’t want it putting me off my stroke, do you?” he’d asked, all crinkled blue eyes at Doyle’s gasping outrage. “Can’t get a rhythm to jazz - you want something with a bit more oomph for sex…” And when he said oomph, he pushed suddenly into Doyle, all the way to the hilt in one smooth glide, and Doyle could feel the shocked pain and ache and… fuck, the ecstasy of it…
He really shouldn’t have started thinking about this now.
Bloody jazz.
o0o
Doyle woke with a surge of adrenaline and automatic aggression that kept him from being entirely crushed by the heavy body that had landed on top of him, shoving forcefully enough that it rolled back down to the floor, and sat looking dazedly up at him.
“What’d I ever do to you?” Pelly lifted a hand to his head, and rubbed at it, then turned back to the man that Doyle should have seen first, Moynihan himself, with his habitually smirking, sneering face. Kendricks stood behind him, obviously not as unpleasantly woken as Doyle.
“Wakey wakey, bomb man, you’ve got a long day ahead of you.”
“Today?” Doyle tilted his chin upwards, let a hard gleam of excitement into his eyes, playing it cool in every other way.
Moynihan nodded. “They get theirs today. We’re ready. Get your arse out of bed and be in my office in ten minutes.”
He cast a final look around the room, making sure they each knew their place, and then he left them to it.
Doyle glanced at Pelly, still on the floor, all legs and elbows and long, loose face. “Alright, kid?” It wasn’t Pelly’s fault Moynihan was a prick.
“Are you gonna do it?” Pelly asked him, “Are you gonna do it today? Can I see?”
He didn’t have time to sit there, pushed himself from the hard mattress and reached for his jeans at the bottom of the bed. Pelly shouldn’t be here, he should be in a safe home somewhere, or in some job with gentle men, blokes who’d look after him just because he needed it. “Stick to watching it on the telly like everyone else, kid. And keep out of my way today.” Kendrick was leaning out the window for his first smoke, so Doyle let himself ruffle Pelly’s hair as he went past, to soften his words. He needed the kid to like him enough to do what he said - to stay far away from today’s fun and games.
Moynihan’s own cheap hotel room was a few doors down, through the thick smell of fried food being offered to the other guests, and on the corner of the building, so that the window looked out on Hathersage Road, over to St Mary’s, and across the roofs of the houses next door. Doyle knocked, eyed Moynihan steadily when he came to open the door, and crossed easily to peer out first one window and then the other.
“Time’s the train?” he asked, turning back to the room, away from the stream of commuters and students and mums with pushchairs and dopey children, all getting ready for their day, and safe for now, because Moynihan had bigger fish to fry.
“Twelve forty-five. Rolls into Euston just before four. You set the timer, drop the carrier under the train on Platform 1, and you get the fuck out unless you want to stick around for the big excitement. Capische?”
“Oh I capische alright,” he said, letting a touch of amusement into it. “Where’s the gear?”
Moynihan stepped over to a small table against the wall, lifted away a white shirt, and there it was.
Doyle stared at it for a moment, then looked back at Moynihan. “Fucking amateurs,” he said, disgust rich. “I gave you the list of what I fucking needed, and none of that crap was on it!”
“Toby got what Toby got.” Moynihan was unmoved. “I was told you’re good at what you do, I was told those were the right ingredients - now make the fucking cake.”
Doyle strolled over, poking a finger at the scatter of wires, screws, makeshift casing and other detritus. He didn’t touch the solid orange block that was neatly wrapped in plastic, but he picked up what looked like someone’s cheap alarm clock, raised an eyebrow at Moynihan. “Does this even fucking work?”
“You’d better hope so, hadn’t you - and don’t even think of getting someone else to do the drop for you, because that train doesn’t stop anywhere else except where I’ll be getting off, and you’re a dead man if you try it.”
He treated that threat with the silence it deserved, then turned to Kendricks who had followed him into the room. “Tea,” he demanded. “Milk, two sugars. And get me something to eat.” He ignored the man’s splutter of outrage, heard with satisfaction the door shut, Kendricks presumably sent on his way by Moynihan, and sat down at the table. He had work to do.
o0o
It was 4 am, and Bodie couldn't sleep. Yet again. The radio was on low, playing some slow, sinuous jazz. More up Doyle's alley, he thought, and wished yet again that he was. But Doyle was undercover up in Manchester, seconded for an op because they needed a northerner and he could still pull of the accent. Bodie could have done them a creditable Scouse accent, but that was the one thing they didn’t want - someone that Moynihan could track down through his web of family, friends, and wicked old grandmothers. Come to that, Bodie still remembered Moynihan’s gran himself, and he had no real desire to get on her bad side again. He could picture her now - she wouldn’t have aged a wrinkle, because she’d been battered and creased by life before he’d even thought about hitting the boats, and her handbag would be just as heavy and just as lethal to the side of a grown man’s head as it had been when he was ten and caught playing knock and run at the wrong door. It hadn’t been Granny Moynihan’s, but he’d not been fast enough away, and she’d recognised him in the street three days later.
Christ he was getting maudlin, sitting up and reminiscing at four in the bloody morning.
Five days Doyle had been gone, and it wasn’t as if there wasn’t anything to do without him here. There was the luscious Kelly from Ansett for a start, desperate to be shown what real Brits did in London, and happy to get as drunk as Bodie wanted her. He’d beaten McCabe, Lucas and Ruth at squash, taken the bike down to Brighton when they had good weather last Saturday and enjoyed himself with a blond who’d been all leather and submission, and brought the darts team at his local home to victory only that evening, but…
But there was no denying it, something was missing when Doyle wasn’t around, and he was going to have to face up that if he didn’t want to be sleeping on duty until the sod got back. Until then… he sighed, listening to the jazz notes climb their way to the ceiling and then skitter back down along some smoky line only they could see. Until then he was awake now, and if he wasn’t going to sleep then he should get up and find something to do until he had to face Cowley again for the day.
o0o
It was 4 am, and Doyle couldn't sleep. Yet again. The radio was on low, playing some slow, sinuous jazz. That would get right up Bodie's nose, he thought, turning over on the stark, scratchy sheets, and pulling the narrow blanket more firmly over his shoulder, wishing he could get warm. He’d left the programme on one night when Bodie’d come over, when they’d tumbled straight into bed, and done nothing for long luxurious minutes but kiss hard, and press skin to skin, sliding their cocks together in a solid, certain rhythm. Bodie had pulled away first, reached into Doyle’s bedside table and found the KY, stared solidly into Doyle’s eyes as he first slicked himself up, making Doyle’s breath catch, and then reached down to push Doyle’s legs apart, and up.
Bollocks, he shouldn’t have started thinking about that. Not with Kendricks in the other bed, barely four feet away. It was his radio, his cheap hotel room, and his snuffling and mumbling that had kept Doyle awake in the first place. He shouldn’t be thinking about Bodie right now…
Bodie had leaned in, one hand on the wall above the bed, the other on his cock, positioning himself, teasing Doyle with it, running it around his arse so that Doyle could feel the leaking moisture of it, the slickness of the KY, until he was ready to beg Bodie to just fucking stick it in!, and Bodie was just about to, Doyle knew he was just about to, when - he stopped, and he moved away, and he reached over to the turn the radio off.
“Don’t want it putting me off my stroke, do you?” he’d asked, all crinkled blue eyes at Doyle’s gasping outrage. “Can’t get a rhythm to jazz - you want something with a bit more oomph for sex…” And when he said oomph, he pushed suddenly into Doyle, all the way to the hilt in one smooth glide, and Doyle could feel the shocked pain and ache and… fuck, the ecstasy of it…
He really shouldn’t have started thinking about this now.
Bloody jazz.
o0o
Doyle woke with a surge of adrenaline and automatic aggression that kept him from being entirely crushed by the heavy body that had landed on top of him, shoving forcefully enough that it rolled back down to the floor, and sat looking dazedly up at him.
“What’d I ever do to you?” Pelly lifted a hand to his head, and rubbed at it, then turned back to the man that Doyle should have seen first, Moynihan himself, with his habitually smirking, sneering face. Kendricks stood behind him, obviously not as unpleasantly woken as Doyle.
“Wakey wakey, bomb man, you’ve got a long day ahead of you.”
“Today?” Doyle tilted his chin upwards, let a hard gleam of excitement into his eyes, playing it cool in every other way.
Moynihan nodded. “They get theirs today. We’re ready. Get your arse out of bed and be in my office in ten minutes.”
He cast a final look around the room, making sure they each knew their place, and then he left them to it.
Doyle glanced at Pelly, still on the floor, all legs and elbows and long, loose face. “Alright, kid?” It wasn’t Pelly’s fault Moynihan was a prick.
“Are you gonna do it?” Pelly asked him, “Are you gonna do it today? Can I see?”
He didn’t have time to sit there, pushed himself from the hard mattress and reached for his jeans at the bottom of the bed. Pelly shouldn’t be here, he should be in a safe home somewhere, or in some job with gentle men, blokes who’d look after him just because he needed it. “Stick to watching it on the telly like everyone else, kid. And keep out of my way today.” Kendrick was leaning out the window for his first smoke, so Doyle let himself ruffle Pelly’s hair as he went past, to soften his words. He needed the kid to like him enough to do what he said - to stay far away from today’s fun and games.
Moynihan’s own cheap hotel room was a few doors down, through the thick smell of fried food being offered to the other guests, and on the corner of the building, so that the window looked out on Hathersage Road, over to St Mary’s, and across the roofs of the houses next door. Doyle knocked, eyed Moynihan steadily when he came to open the door, and crossed easily to peer out first one window and then the other.
“Time’s the train?” he asked, turning back to the room, away from the stream of commuters and students and mums with pushchairs and dopey children, all getting ready for their day, and safe for now, because Moynihan had bigger fish to fry.
“Twelve forty-five. Rolls into Euston just before four. You set the timer, drop the carrier under the train on Platform 1, and you get the fuck out unless you want to stick around for the big excitement. Capische?”
“Oh I capische alright,” he said, letting a touch of amusement into it. “Where’s the gear?”
Moynihan stepped over to a small table against the wall, lifted away a white shirt, and there it was.
Doyle stared at it for a moment, then looked back at Moynihan. “Fucking amateurs,” he said, disgust rich. “I gave you the list of what I fucking needed, and none of that crap was on it!”
“Toby got what Toby got.” Moynihan was unmoved. “I was told you’re good at what you do, I was told those were the right ingredients - now make the fucking cake.”
Doyle strolled over, poking a finger at the scatter of wires, screws, makeshift casing and other detritus. He didn’t touch the solid orange block that was neatly wrapped in plastic, but he picked up what looked like someone’s cheap alarm clock, raised an eyebrow at Moynihan. “Does this even fucking work?”
“You’d better hope so, hadn’t you - and don’t even think of getting someone else to do the drop for you, because that train doesn’t stop anywhere else except where I’ll be getting off, and you’re a dead man if you try it.”
He treated that threat with the silence it deserved, then turned to Kendricks who had followed him into the room. “Tea,” he demanded. “Milk, two sugars. And get me something to eat.” He ignored the man’s splutter of outrage, heard with satisfaction the door shut, Kendricks presumably sent on his way by Moynihan, and sat down at the table. He had work to do.
o0o