Fic: Blackpool and Rock!
It's not amazing, but at least I'm joining in! :P
Written in between highly-organised packing (ie. taking my entire wardrobe and trying to fit it into the smallest bag in the world... Much smaller on the inside than it looks on the outside... Like the TARDIS, backways!), but I did have fun. I always have fun, writing for DIALJ! :D
My prompt: Blackpool and a stick of rock!
The summer skies seemed to mock him as he pulled up and into the garage.
They were far too blue to be trusted. This was British summertime, after all; skies only ever stayed clear and blue just long enough for a country of poor sods to put their shorts on and rush outside - sunglasses on the face and beers in the hand - before black and sulky clouds appeared from nowhere and pissed down on everything.
He glared suspiciously upwards as he got out of his car and ducked out of the garage. Still keeping one eye heaven-ward, Doyle prodded the flat buzzer.
“Crshshhh… What?”
“Oh, and a fine good morning to you, too.”
“I didn’t realise my wake-up call demanded a sunny disposition of me.”
“Well, it does,” Doyle said flatly, itching to get upstairs.
“Well, I shan’t bother next time.”
Bodie’s far-away, off-hand tones irked Doyle, and he pressed hard on the comm button. “Well, would you like to bother this time, or am I just going to leave you here all weekend and fuck off on my own?”
“Keep your curly scalp on! In you come… Crshshhhh-kgzzzzz…”
The reply was tart, but it made Doyle grin as he pushed through the front door to the flats, relishing his ability to make Bodie comply... Sometimes, at least.
He took the stairs two-a-go, but caught himself on the last bend and forced a slow walk up the last ones. Clomp, clomp, clomp. Slow and deliberate, like. Wouldn’t do to let him know how keen Doyle was about the coming weekend. He’d only use it as some sort of weapon. Let him know you’re coming.
Doyle paused for half a second outside Bodie’s front door, unconscious of his hand pulling uneasily at the front of his shirt. He knocked precisely.
“S’open!” came the cry from quite a distance inside. So Doyle went in.
The flat had that heavy, somewhat-muggy air of having been lived-in a little too much. The blinds were down in the living room, making the hallway dark and warm. The normally spotless furnishings were ever-so slightly cluttered - but only if you were familiar with Bodie’s half-obsessive tendencies towards cleanliness (to the naked eye, the flat was still abnormally tidy). Still, Doyle’s trained eye spotted a half-drunk mug of coffee on the sideboard, and a screwed up bit of paper on the floor beside the phone-table… And - oh shock, horror - a dirty plate beside the sink in the kitchen!
“Bodie-mate? Wherearye?” Doyle shouted into the thick air.
“Just out the shower!” came a yell in return. “Make us a brew, will you? Out in a tick!”
“Bloody cheeky git,” Doyle muttered, as he turned on the spot and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Then he strode across the hallway and into the living room, pulling the blind up and letting the clear sunlight fill the small, white room. The sky was still holding, and he stuck his tongue out at it in petulance.
He picked up the newspapers from the floor by the chocolate-coloured sofa and placed them in the rack, and snagged hold of the cellophane-wrapped lucozade bottle on the coffee table, taking it back into the kitchen with him.
Dolye had brought the two mugs of tea back into the living room, and was helping himself to Bodie’s extensive book collection by the time the man himself appeared.
He looked rough - his face was a mass of moody bruises and port-coloured cuts. Under his crisp, clean-cut white shirt, Doyle knew, was a bloody chest covered with cuts and swollen, sore bits which made him hiss if he moved too quick and he thought no one was watching. All black and blue and broken, looking like a beat-up schoolboy, wet hair glistening in little tousles.
And there was no use in him glaring so, neither.
Bodie had a fierce look in his eyes, emphasised by his darkly swollen sockets. It wasn’t like he had anyone to blame except his own stupid self, running off like that - trying to be the hero without waiting for Doyle.
But, as angry as he still felt about it all, Doyle still sighed as he saw him.
“Look at the state of you, eh?” he said, as he stood up from inspecting the shelves and leaned against them, crossing his arms and his legs in appraisal.
Bodie only grunted, but his gaze softened and he gave a pained roll of his eyes for Doyle’s sake. He walked across the room - a little stiffly, but with his hard chin jutting right up - and stifled a groan as he leaned over for his cuppa. Doyle smirked.
“Looks sore,” he said, helpfully.
“’Tis,” Bodie replied, a little tightly. “It does mean that I’m actually justified as being 'a sight for sore eyes', mind.” His eyes danced above the rim of the mug as he playfully glanced at Doyle, then winced as the hot tea bit at his busted lip.
Doyle felt a warmth in his blood, but he turned away, unsure if he'd imagined it or not.
“Right,” he said. “You packed, then?”
“It’s all over there,” Bodie waved vaguely at the armchair opposite the telly, where a sports bag was waiting, still concentrating on his tea.
“Okay,” Doyle made a grab for it.
“I can do it,” Bodie said as he saw this, frowning across at him.
Doyle looked at him - they held each other’s eyes for a quiet breath. “Well… I’ve got it now, so…” He rattled the bag slightly against his thigh.
“Fine,” Bodie waved his hand and went back to his tea.
Doyle checked his watch, and looked back out the window - he wouldn’t be happy until he saw at least one rain cloud ruining this perfect day. “Right, I reckon if we set off now, we can get there for dinner-”
“We’re not going to get all the way up to Lancashire in three hours!”
“What?” Doyle looked at Bodie, confused. Bodie just looked back at him, mirroring his expression. “No… I meant, like, tonight.”
“Oh,” Bodie said, after the smallest of pauses. He sniffed, and cleared his throat. “Still not got used to the fact you’re one of them,” he said with a half-cruel smile.
Doyle made a noise of disbelief. “What, a Southerner?” He patted his chest and rubbed his stomach, theatrically. “Better believe it, sunshine… And, anyway,” he said, suddenly, pointing a finger at his partner, “Liverpool’s hardly North, is it? Up and left a bit from London, that’s all, mate, and don’t you forget it!”
Bodie’s grin looked like it hurt, but was worth it. “Whatever. You’ll see, once I’m with my people.”
“Get out of it. Been for a wee?”
Bodie let out a huff of frustration, and hurled his head back where he stood, closing his eyes to the ceiling. “Yes, mother.”
“Because I’m not stopping on the way, you know.”
“I know. You say it every time we go on a long trip.”
“Do I?” Doyle frowned. “Oh, well. I suppose that’s what happens when my partner continues getting his brains bashed about, isn’t it?”
The last bit had been said with a bit of a bite - Bodie hadn’t exactly flinched, but Doyle had noticed his mouth do that puckering thing it did when he was embarrassed or upset. He’d not really started noticing that Bodie's mouth did that until about a month ago, when he’d pulled away from him and watched the quirk in the dim moonlight.
“Look, let’s get off, shall we? Sooner we’re there, the sooner we’re there, right?”
Doyle hoped his tone had been a bit softer, that time: what he intended to do and what he actually did were often two very different things, indeed.
But the look Bodie gave him said it all - he was worth the effort. Especially now, so tender to the touch, his pride soundly knocked. Without his pride, Bodie thought he was nothing. Doyle knew better, but he’d be damned if he said that outloud. Quite aside from the fact that Bodie would probably punch him, if he ever did. And they weren't talking about stuff like that, anyway.
Doyle hefted the luggage into the car, while Bodie stood back and tried not to help, one arm wrapped around his mending ribs.
“I don’t see why we have to go on holiday, at all.”
“I do. And so does Cowley.”
And that was that.
When Bodie fell asleep in the car, two miles out of Luton, Doyle tried valiantly to ignore that same warm feeling which filled his veins. He struggled with it as far as Northampton, then surrendered to his smile where no one could see him.
------
“What do you mean, there’s only one bed?”
Doyle tried to ignore the fact he could feel his cheeks going red, and leaned in closer to the bored-looking hotel receptionist.
“Exactly what I told you, sir,” said ‘Wendy’, widening her blue-rimmed eyes for emphasis. “The lady who was doing the shift when you booked cocked the books up… Er, sir,” she added, hastily. “I’m sorry - you’ll only have to pay for a single, but that’s the best I can do: we’re fully booked.”
She did look apologetic - and rather pretty, too - but Doyle was in no mood to notice. Of all the things he had thought about happening - had laughed at the thought of happening, and then dismissed them as being ridiculous and the products of an over-active imagination and excessive anxiety - he had never, ever in a million years expected this, the most obvious of cock-ups when holidaying with a man you occasionally fell into bed with.
Bodie, standing behind him with the bags at his feet, wasn’t saying anything at all, but Doyle could feel him watching. It was unnerving when he couldn’t see Bodie’s face - it was difficult enough to understand what he was thinking at the best of time, but near-impossible when Doyle couldn’t see his eyes.
Bodie’s eyes were the key, if you knew what to look for. And Doyle did. At least, he thought he did.
He scratched his head, fully aware that if he did what he wanted to - namely, reach over the desk and pull the girl across by her blonde little pigtails to demand an explanation - Bodie would know something was up. What precisely was up, Doyle wasn’t sure - but he didn’t feel right, and that was not something he wanted Bodie to know.
“Orright, love,” he said, flashing her a smile he didn’t feel like parting with. “We’ll work something out - don’t you fret.”
“Sorry, sir,” she said. “Sir,” she nodded at Bodie.
Doyle turned and found exactly what he’d feared: Bodie’s battered face was blank and entirely unhelpful. The girl made her excuse and left the desk, clearly intimidated by Bodie’s quiet gaze. If Bodie was on top-form, Doyle knew for a fact he would have tried to half-inch the clerk in someway, with serious intent or not. Something was wrong, and Doyle knew exactly what it was, but couldn’t do a sod about it, now.
Pushing past him, bags and all, Doyle stomped up the stairs to their room. Bodie could follow him if he wished. Doyle had been nothing but generous and helpful to him all bleeding day, and all Bodie could do was make things awkward between them.
It wasn’t Doyle’s fault what… kept happening, kept happening. It wasn’t like he kept engineering situations, or felt particularly good about it all the morning after, was it? He felt like crap, actually, and usually abandoned ship before Bodie could snort himself to wakefulness. But Bodie just made it worse by not talking about it. And never following him.
Ever.
That was the bit that bothered Doyle the most. They didn’t have to talk about it, but Bodie could at least give some sign that everything was okay. Doyle was twisting himself up into knots at night, trying to make predictions, trying to justify and soothe himself when all he could do was worry about Bodie.
And since Bodie had had a good portion of his skin and bones realigned by Big Alf and the East End lot - too right, Bodie was being a nosy bugger - nothing had happened at all. And this, bizarrely, had also made Doyle feel like crap. Even worse than knocking the milk bottles over on his way out, and alerting Bodie to his departure (Doyle could have kicked his own arse on that day, had he pulled his face out the gin bottle long enough to try).
And now they had to share a bed on the holiday that was supposed to recuperate Bodie and instead of a sign or an indication, he was getting the silent treatment, again. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.
Doyle always felt like crap, lately, and it was all Bodie’s doing.
He hurled open the door, threw their stuff down on the floor and then hurled himself down on the only bed, not sparing a glance for the wonderful view their room afforded them of the sunny Blackpool sea-front and promenade.
He sniffed deeply, his face in his arms, feeling his mood brewing beneath him. The waves crashed angrily against the pier outside, and Doyle wondered if a cold dunk in the North Sea might do him good.
“What’s up with you?”
Doyle didn’t look up, and didn’t put much effort into the lie, either - his words sounded brittle and hurt, and he winced at them.
“Nothin’. Back’s gone from driving, is all.”
There was a stillness. No words, but he heard Bodie shifting from the door, closing it softly behind him.
The bed dipped silently as Bodie sat next to him; Doyle could feel his moleskin trousers brush against the bare skin of his hip, and he quelled the shiver that ran through him at this, the smallest touch.
But the touch grew, and Bodie laid his hands upon Doyle’s back - firmly, he pressed down so hard Doyle nearly shouted out - and began to rub. He kneaded the muscles of Doyle’s back - muscles which hadn’t gone at all, but which began to melt under the hard, skilled fingers. Doyle groaned in neither happiness nor anger, but some oddly blissful state in between, and tried to picture Bodie’s face. Would there be a smile?
Probably not. He’d be concentrating, after all: he would have that stern look on him, all pressed lips and focus.
Bodie worked on him, gripping the sides of him, palming him, pushing upwards with the heels of his hands, and Doyle was rendered completely powerless, face mushed into the mattress, trying to surreptitiously lift his hips a little to relieve the pressure that was beginning to build beneath him.
It was a weird situation to be in - getting a massage from your partner because of a fake back-ache you had invented in order to cover up the fact you didn’t know if he was okay with the fact you kept accidentally-on-purpose shagging him rotten in the early hours of post-op mornings.
And it was all too much, he had to have an answer. With a yell, he turned over and - not really thinking with anything other than his dick (a state which came worryingly naturally to Raymond Doyle) - he surged forward, grabbed the back of Bodie’s head, and gave him a hard, desperate kiss on the lips.
Bodie didn’t struggle, but he didn’t really respond, either. All too quickly, Doyle became aware of the forced grip he had, and the pain in his lips from pressing too hard. He pulled back, saw the lack of expression and, like clockwork, fled from the room.
----------
Turned out the sea was as soothing as everyone said it was.
Doyle, being a city boy at heart, had never put much stock into what people who lived round the edges of the country thought. Too much sea-breeze wafting between their ears; they didn’t know what the pace of life was like, so how could they know what soothed the urban soul?
But, they were right. The wind crashed against the waves which crashed against the shore, their breakers rather impressive for a seaside resort, and Doyle watched the ebb and flow of the tide. Watched dogs making kamikaze dives into the surf; watching children run shrieking away from the ice-cold water as it surged forward and got their feet; watched couples strolling through the shallows, arms around one another to keep the chill of the British seaside at bay.
Maybe he could have a ride on a donkey. There were some just a little way down the beach, straw-hats and all - just like the postcards promised. Take his mind off of the other thing he wanted to-
Shuttup. Just… shut the fuck up.
Doyle sighed, and looked up at the sky. Beginning to darken, once again - the sunshine had lingered for most of the day, but now the clouds were coming to chase it away. He smirked, and breathed in deep the salty air.
He’d always assumed he’d give his right ball to bugger off to the south of France or something for his summer hols, somewhere ever sunny and hot under the sun, at that… But it just wasn’t really done. And, in all honesty, he had a real fondness for the crapness of braving the English sea-side.
It was the same every single year - the sun shone for an hour, then disappeared. But it was that brief moment of ecstasy - that split-second of thinking maybe this summer would be different, maybe this summer we’d have it our way - that made the whole sorry exercise worthwhile.
People always came back for more - for more over-priced fish and chips, more quick changes in the carpark, more of spending all of half an hour in the sea before you thought your toes were going to drop off, for more torrential downpours that drove everyone into the nearest café or pub… It was mad. Entirely mad. But it was entirely Britain’s summer, too. It was, in a way, what they fought so hard for.
He sighed, and then shivered - the breeze was getting up. He mourned the fact he hadn’t brought his jacket when he’d stomped out of the hotel room - but there was no danger he was going back for it. He looked down at his arms, resting on the tops of his knees - goosebumps. He rubbed a single finger down the top of his left arm, and watched as a streak of smooth stayed amongst the bumps.
He sighed, again, and wondered how long he had before it would get dark and he had to go back, tail between his legs.
“You’ll have sand in your pants, sitting here all day.”
Doyle jumped, but covered it. He didn’t look round, but he knew Bodie was standing behind him, his arms crossed. Couldn’t picture his face, again, though - never could, these days.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. He felt ridiculous, sitting on his arse in the sand, sulking.
There was a sigh - or it could have been the waves - and suddenly Bodie was sitting next to him.
Still Doyle couldn’t look, but he felt a nudge at his arm and looked down… There was an ice-cream at his elbow. A 99 with a flake and raspberry sauce and everything. He took hold of it as he might a bomb, and looked up, amazed and suspicious.
Bodie was looking the other way. The strengthening wind played with the slightly-too long curls around his ears, though it wasn’t powerful enough to dislodge them.
“I’ve had mine… Made my mouth numb enough for this,” Bodie reached into his jacket and withdrew a long stick of rock, swirled in every colour. He looked down at it, passing it back and forth between his hands, pumping it on one palm as if testing the weight. “Knew you wouldn’t want one, like. Scared for your teeth, and that.”
“Yeah… Thanks,” Doyle said with a touch of sarcasm, but he wasn’t entirely sure if he didn’t mean it or not. He couldn’t take his eyes from the profile of Bodie’s lips - red and swollen. Doyle wondered how much of that was from Big Alf’s beating, and how much was the ice-cream. Were they cold to the touch?
They sat in silence for a bit: Doyle watched Bodie and Bodie watched the sea. The sun dithered up above, losing its warmth with every passing second it waited.
Bodie unwrapped the stick of rock, slowly and deliberately, and put it between his teeth with a faint crunch. He shifted it over to the side of his mouth, and began to suck. Doyle watched, mesmerised by the way Bodie’s lips began to wet at the corners. It was all too much to bear.
“Bodie, look at me.”
Bodie froze, and took the rock from his mouth, quirking his lips as he squinted and looked over at Doyle.
Doyle knew that this was it, that Bodie - in his own, cack-handed way - was offering him an answer, of sorts. But it would be Doyle who had to do all the work, again. He didn’t want this - he wanted to enjoy the memory of the fading sunshine - but he knew beyond doubt he had to.
“It’s that bloody look on your face,” he said, and was vaguely surprised by how sad he sounded.
Bodie didn’t frown, didn’t do anything - his face stayed fixed and frozen. His voice was perfectly neutral, devoid of any trace of himself. The voice he’d used when they’d first met. “I haven’t got a look on my face.”
Doyle’s eyes flickered over Bodie’s face, he watched as the shifting sunlight cast a shadow underneath one blue eye, like a teardrop that was then winked away.
“That’s the face I’m talking about,” he said quietly. “The one without a look on it.”
And he watched as that very face - the one, constant thing about Bodie: his ability to swipe all emotion from his features - crumpled at his words. Bodie looked away, blinking as if he’d been slapped. Doyle saw the fading bruises on his neck flex.
He felt bad - Bodie had been dealt enough punishment this week without him adding to it - but he waited, nonetheless. He had to hold strong if this was ever going to be resolved. He had to save a bit of himself.
Bodie stuck the rock back in his mouth for a moment, then took it out, and waved it vaguely in front of him.
“It’s hard.”
Doyle frowned, not comprehending. “What, the rock?”
Bodie laughed - a short chuckle he couldn’t help. As the laugh died, he hung his head. “No… Well, yes. But that wasn’t what I was talking about.”
“Alright,” Doyle said. Half of him wanted to look away, make it easier on the both of them; but half of him wanted to see every flinch, scrutinise every twitch. It wasn’t often he got the chance.
The sun went behind a cloud, and the seaside was plunged into dimness. A great ‘awwww!’ rose from the milling holiday-makers and people - sensing their summer day was over - began to pack up their stuff, billowing beach-towels hurling sand into the wind. The wind-breakers snapped harshly.
“I’m not good… with all this,” Bodie said. “And, you never… You always go.”
That last bit was spoken down to the stick of slobbery rock, in a slightly defensive tone which shocked Doyle. A high blush was slowly seeping across Bodie’s cheeks (later, he would say it was the wind). Bodie skimmed at the plastic wrapper of the rock with his fingernails.
Doyle stayed silent.
After a while, Bodie hefted a sigh and - still focused on the rock, still facing away - muttered in a rush.
“You always run off, just when I’m getting comfy with it all… And then, when I see you again, I can’t… I can’t bear to look at you. I dunno how you’ll look. And I can’t talk about it - I just can’t, but… But the thing is, is that I always thought you… you’d know, anyways, but you always go…”
If Bodie’s head was further down, he would be talking into his own chest.
The rock went back in as the head snapped up, and was sucked furiously, clacking against Bodie’s teeth.
Doyle sat, stunned, watching the rock wave back and forth in Bodie’s mouth. The face was no longer blank. Anything, but.
He shifted his bum closer, the sand ridging up between them in a little cliff between their thighs. One arm wrapping around Bodie’s shoulders - the ice-cream he still held in danger of landing in Bodie’s ear - Doyle placed a quick kiss on Bodie’s cheek, his mouth being otherwise engaged.
Bodie stiffened, and looked up and down the beach for passers-by but then, finding none, looked round at Doyle. And his face broke open in a grin so wide it made the sun come out again, the stick of rock sticking out absurdly from the corner of his smile as he held it, cigar-like, between his teeth.
And Doyle laughed as the people along the promenade cheered and rushed back from the cafes to the beach, throwing themselves into the freezing sea ecstatically.
They didn’t do much talking for the rest of the weekend but, curiously, Doyle didn’t mind so much, anymore.
Title: British Summertime Blues
ailcia(alice)
Slash or Gen: Slash, as ever.
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes, please!
Disclaimer: Characters not mine, love of the crapness of the British summer - completely mine. :D
Author note: I borrowed a segment of dialogue from the wonderful film 'Not Only But Always' - the 2004 biographic of comedians Peter Cook and Dudley Moore (which I adore) - because I adore the film and that bit it kills me every time, and certainly sums up our Bodie, in my mind. Hopefully you won't think I've cheated!
"You used to take the piss out of me. When we met, I loved it. Then I grew to hate it. So why do I miss it?"
"I'm sorry?"
"When a man is bored with his marriage he's supposed to get rude and sullen. You just get increasingly polite."
"What are you talking about?"
"That bloody look on your face!"
"I haven't got a look on my face!"
“That’s the face I’m talking about. The one without a look on it.”
- if only I COULD write dialogue like that! :D
Written in between highly-organised packing (ie. taking my entire wardrobe and trying to fit it into the smallest bag in the world... Much smaller on the inside than it looks on the outside... Like the TARDIS, backways!), but I did have fun. I always have fun, writing for DIALJ! :D
My prompt: Blackpool and a stick of rock!
The summer skies seemed to mock him as he pulled up and into the garage.
They were far too blue to be trusted. This was British summertime, after all; skies only ever stayed clear and blue just long enough for a country of poor sods to put their shorts on and rush outside - sunglasses on the face and beers in the hand - before black and sulky clouds appeared from nowhere and pissed down on everything.
He glared suspiciously upwards as he got out of his car and ducked out of the garage. Still keeping one eye heaven-ward, Doyle prodded the flat buzzer.
“Crshshhh… What?”
“Oh, and a fine good morning to you, too.”
“I didn’t realise my wake-up call demanded a sunny disposition of me.”
“Well, it does,” Doyle said flatly, itching to get upstairs.
“Well, I shan’t bother next time.”
Bodie’s far-away, off-hand tones irked Doyle, and he pressed hard on the comm button. “Well, would you like to bother this time, or am I just going to leave you here all weekend and fuck off on my own?”
“Keep your curly scalp on! In you come… Crshshhhh-kgzzzzz…”
The reply was tart, but it made Doyle grin as he pushed through the front door to the flats, relishing his ability to make Bodie comply... Sometimes, at least.
He took the stairs two-a-go, but caught himself on the last bend and forced a slow walk up the last ones. Clomp, clomp, clomp. Slow and deliberate, like. Wouldn’t do to let him know how keen Doyle was about the coming weekend. He’d only use it as some sort of weapon. Let him know you’re coming.
Doyle paused for half a second outside Bodie’s front door, unconscious of his hand pulling uneasily at the front of his shirt. He knocked precisely.
“S’open!” came the cry from quite a distance inside. So Doyle went in.
The flat had that heavy, somewhat-muggy air of having been lived-in a little too much. The blinds were down in the living room, making the hallway dark and warm. The normally spotless furnishings were ever-so slightly cluttered - but only if you were familiar with Bodie’s half-obsessive tendencies towards cleanliness (to the naked eye, the flat was still abnormally tidy). Still, Doyle’s trained eye spotted a half-drunk mug of coffee on the sideboard, and a screwed up bit of paper on the floor beside the phone-table… And - oh shock, horror - a dirty plate beside the sink in the kitchen!
“Bodie-mate? Wherearye?” Doyle shouted into the thick air.
“Just out the shower!” came a yell in return. “Make us a brew, will you? Out in a tick!”
“Bloody cheeky git,” Doyle muttered, as he turned on the spot and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Then he strode across the hallway and into the living room, pulling the blind up and letting the clear sunlight fill the small, white room. The sky was still holding, and he stuck his tongue out at it in petulance.
He picked up the newspapers from the floor by the chocolate-coloured sofa and placed them in the rack, and snagged hold of the cellophane-wrapped lucozade bottle on the coffee table, taking it back into the kitchen with him.
Dolye had brought the two mugs of tea back into the living room, and was helping himself to Bodie’s extensive book collection by the time the man himself appeared.
He looked rough - his face was a mass of moody bruises and port-coloured cuts. Under his crisp, clean-cut white shirt, Doyle knew, was a bloody chest covered with cuts and swollen, sore bits which made him hiss if he moved too quick and he thought no one was watching. All black and blue and broken, looking like a beat-up schoolboy, wet hair glistening in little tousles.
And there was no use in him glaring so, neither.
Bodie had a fierce look in his eyes, emphasised by his darkly swollen sockets. It wasn’t like he had anyone to blame except his own stupid self, running off like that - trying to be the hero without waiting for Doyle.
But, as angry as he still felt about it all, Doyle still sighed as he saw him.
“Look at the state of you, eh?” he said, as he stood up from inspecting the shelves and leaned against them, crossing his arms and his legs in appraisal.
Bodie only grunted, but his gaze softened and he gave a pained roll of his eyes for Doyle’s sake. He walked across the room - a little stiffly, but with his hard chin jutting right up - and stifled a groan as he leaned over for his cuppa. Doyle smirked.
“Looks sore,” he said, helpfully.
“’Tis,” Bodie replied, a little tightly. “It does mean that I’m actually justified as being 'a sight for sore eyes', mind.” His eyes danced above the rim of the mug as he playfully glanced at Doyle, then winced as the hot tea bit at his busted lip.
Doyle felt a warmth in his blood, but he turned away, unsure if he'd imagined it or not.
“Right,” he said. “You packed, then?”
“It’s all over there,” Bodie waved vaguely at the armchair opposite the telly, where a sports bag was waiting, still concentrating on his tea.
“Okay,” Doyle made a grab for it.
“I can do it,” Bodie said as he saw this, frowning across at him.
Doyle looked at him - they held each other’s eyes for a quiet breath. “Well… I’ve got it now, so…” He rattled the bag slightly against his thigh.
“Fine,” Bodie waved his hand and went back to his tea.
Doyle checked his watch, and looked back out the window - he wouldn’t be happy until he saw at least one rain cloud ruining this perfect day. “Right, I reckon if we set off now, we can get there for dinner-”
“We’re not going to get all the way up to Lancashire in three hours!”
“What?” Doyle looked at Bodie, confused. Bodie just looked back at him, mirroring his expression. “No… I meant, like, tonight.”
“Oh,” Bodie said, after the smallest of pauses. He sniffed, and cleared his throat. “Still not got used to the fact you’re one of them,” he said with a half-cruel smile.
Doyle made a noise of disbelief. “What, a Southerner?” He patted his chest and rubbed his stomach, theatrically. “Better believe it, sunshine… And, anyway,” he said, suddenly, pointing a finger at his partner, “Liverpool’s hardly North, is it? Up and left a bit from London, that’s all, mate, and don’t you forget it!”
Bodie’s grin looked like it hurt, but was worth it. “Whatever. You’ll see, once I’m with my people.”
“Get out of it. Been for a wee?”
Bodie let out a huff of frustration, and hurled his head back where he stood, closing his eyes to the ceiling. “Yes, mother.”
“Because I’m not stopping on the way, you know.”
“I know. You say it every time we go on a long trip.”
“Do I?” Doyle frowned. “Oh, well. I suppose that’s what happens when my partner continues getting his brains bashed about, isn’t it?”
The last bit had been said with a bit of a bite - Bodie hadn’t exactly flinched, but Doyle had noticed his mouth do that puckering thing it did when he was embarrassed or upset. He’d not really started noticing that Bodie's mouth did that until about a month ago, when he’d pulled away from him and watched the quirk in the dim moonlight.
“Look, let’s get off, shall we? Sooner we’re there, the sooner we’re there, right?”
Doyle hoped his tone had been a bit softer, that time: what he intended to do and what he actually did were often two very different things, indeed.
But the look Bodie gave him said it all - he was worth the effort. Especially now, so tender to the touch, his pride soundly knocked. Without his pride, Bodie thought he was nothing. Doyle knew better, but he’d be damned if he said that outloud. Quite aside from the fact that Bodie would probably punch him, if he ever did. And they weren't talking about stuff like that, anyway.
Doyle hefted the luggage into the car, while Bodie stood back and tried not to help, one arm wrapped around his mending ribs.
“I don’t see why we have to go on holiday, at all.”
“I do. And so does Cowley.”
And that was that.
When Bodie fell asleep in the car, two miles out of Luton, Doyle tried valiantly to ignore that same warm feeling which filled his veins. He struggled with it as far as Northampton, then surrendered to his smile where no one could see him.
------
“What do you mean, there’s only one bed?”
Doyle tried to ignore the fact he could feel his cheeks going red, and leaned in closer to the bored-looking hotel receptionist.
“Exactly what I told you, sir,” said ‘Wendy’, widening her blue-rimmed eyes for emphasis. “The lady who was doing the shift when you booked cocked the books up… Er, sir,” she added, hastily. “I’m sorry - you’ll only have to pay for a single, but that’s the best I can do: we’re fully booked.”
She did look apologetic - and rather pretty, too - but Doyle was in no mood to notice. Of all the things he had thought about happening - had laughed at the thought of happening, and then dismissed them as being ridiculous and the products of an over-active imagination and excessive anxiety - he had never, ever in a million years expected this, the most obvious of cock-ups when holidaying with a man you occasionally fell into bed with.
Bodie, standing behind him with the bags at his feet, wasn’t saying anything at all, but Doyle could feel him watching. It was unnerving when he couldn’t see Bodie’s face - it was difficult enough to understand what he was thinking at the best of time, but near-impossible when Doyle couldn’t see his eyes.
Bodie’s eyes were the key, if you knew what to look for. And Doyle did. At least, he thought he did.
He scratched his head, fully aware that if he did what he wanted to - namely, reach over the desk and pull the girl across by her blonde little pigtails to demand an explanation - Bodie would know something was up. What precisely was up, Doyle wasn’t sure - but he didn’t feel right, and that was not something he wanted Bodie to know.
“Orright, love,” he said, flashing her a smile he didn’t feel like parting with. “We’ll work something out - don’t you fret.”
“Sorry, sir,” she said. “Sir,” she nodded at Bodie.
Doyle turned and found exactly what he’d feared: Bodie’s battered face was blank and entirely unhelpful. The girl made her excuse and left the desk, clearly intimidated by Bodie’s quiet gaze. If Bodie was on top-form, Doyle knew for a fact he would have tried to half-inch the clerk in someway, with serious intent or not. Something was wrong, and Doyle knew exactly what it was, but couldn’t do a sod about it, now.
Pushing past him, bags and all, Doyle stomped up the stairs to their room. Bodie could follow him if he wished. Doyle had been nothing but generous and helpful to him all bleeding day, and all Bodie could do was make things awkward between them.
It wasn’t Doyle’s fault what… kept happening, kept happening. It wasn’t like he kept engineering situations, or felt particularly good about it all the morning after, was it? He felt like crap, actually, and usually abandoned ship before Bodie could snort himself to wakefulness. But Bodie just made it worse by not talking about it. And never following him.
Ever.
That was the bit that bothered Doyle the most. They didn’t have to talk about it, but Bodie could at least give some sign that everything was okay. Doyle was twisting himself up into knots at night, trying to make predictions, trying to justify and soothe himself when all he could do was worry about Bodie.
And since Bodie had had a good portion of his skin and bones realigned by Big Alf and the East End lot - too right, Bodie was being a nosy bugger - nothing had happened at all. And this, bizarrely, had also made Doyle feel like crap. Even worse than knocking the milk bottles over on his way out, and alerting Bodie to his departure (Doyle could have kicked his own arse on that day, had he pulled his face out the gin bottle long enough to try).
And now they had to share a bed on the holiday that was supposed to recuperate Bodie and instead of a sign or an indication, he was getting the silent treatment, again. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.
Doyle always felt like crap, lately, and it was all Bodie’s doing.
He hurled open the door, threw their stuff down on the floor and then hurled himself down on the only bed, not sparing a glance for the wonderful view their room afforded them of the sunny Blackpool sea-front and promenade.
He sniffed deeply, his face in his arms, feeling his mood brewing beneath him. The waves crashed angrily against the pier outside, and Doyle wondered if a cold dunk in the North Sea might do him good.
“What’s up with you?”
Doyle didn’t look up, and didn’t put much effort into the lie, either - his words sounded brittle and hurt, and he winced at them.
“Nothin’. Back’s gone from driving, is all.”
There was a stillness. No words, but he heard Bodie shifting from the door, closing it softly behind him.
The bed dipped silently as Bodie sat next to him; Doyle could feel his moleskin trousers brush against the bare skin of his hip, and he quelled the shiver that ran through him at this, the smallest touch.
But the touch grew, and Bodie laid his hands upon Doyle’s back - firmly, he pressed down so hard Doyle nearly shouted out - and began to rub. He kneaded the muscles of Doyle’s back - muscles which hadn’t gone at all, but which began to melt under the hard, skilled fingers. Doyle groaned in neither happiness nor anger, but some oddly blissful state in between, and tried to picture Bodie’s face. Would there be a smile?
Probably not. He’d be concentrating, after all: he would have that stern look on him, all pressed lips and focus.
Bodie worked on him, gripping the sides of him, palming him, pushing upwards with the heels of his hands, and Doyle was rendered completely powerless, face mushed into the mattress, trying to surreptitiously lift his hips a little to relieve the pressure that was beginning to build beneath him.
It was a weird situation to be in - getting a massage from your partner because of a fake back-ache you had invented in order to cover up the fact you didn’t know if he was okay with the fact you kept accidentally-on-purpose shagging him rotten in the early hours of post-op mornings.
And it was all too much, he had to have an answer. With a yell, he turned over and - not really thinking with anything other than his dick (a state which came worryingly naturally to Raymond Doyle) - he surged forward, grabbed the back of Bodie’s head, and gave him a hard, desperate kiss on the lips.
Bodie didn’t struggle, but he didn’t really respond, either. All too quickly, Doyle became aware of the forced grip he had, and the pain in his lips from pressing too hard. He pulled back, saw the lack of expression and, like clockwork, fled from the room.
----------
Turned out the sea was as soothing as everyone said it was.
Doyle, being a city boy at heart, had never put much stock into what people who lived round the edges of the country thought. Too much sea-breeze wafting between their ears; they didn’t know what the pace of life was like, so how could they know what soothed the urban soul?
But, they were right. The wind crashed against the waves which crashed against the shore, their breakers rather impressive for a seaside resort, and Doyle watched the ebb and flow of the tide. Watched dogs making kamikaze dives into the surf; watching children run shrieking away from the ice-cold water as it surged forward and got their feet; watched couples strolling through the shallows, arms around one another to keep the chill of the British seaside at bay.
Maybe he could have a ride on a donkey. There were some just a little way down the beach, straw-hats and all - just like the postcards promised. Take his mind off of the other thing he wanted to-
Shuttup. Just… shut the fuck up.
Doyle sighed, and looked up at the sky. Beginning to darken, once again - the sunshine had lingered for most of the day, but now the clouds were coming to chase it away. He smirked, and breathed in deep the salty air.
He’d always assumed he’d give his right ball to bugger off to the south of France or something for his summer hols, somewhere ever sunny and hot under the sun, at that… But it just wasn’t really done. And, in all honesty, he had a real fondness for the crapness of braving the English sea-side.
It was the same every single year - the sun shone for an hour, then disappeared. But it was that brief moment of ecstasy - that split-second of thinking maybe this summer would be different, maybe this summer we’d have it our way - that made the whole sorry exercise worthwhile.
People always came back for more - for more over-priced fish and chips, more quick changes in the carpark, more of spending all of half an hour in the sea before you thought your toes were going to drop off, for more torrential downpours that drove everyone into the nearest café or pub… It was mad. Entirely mad. But it was entirely Britain’s summer, too. It was, in a way, what they fought so hard for.
He sighed, and then shivered - the breeze was getting up. He mourned the fact he hadn’t brought his jacket when he’d stomped out of the hotel room - but there was no danger he was going back for it. He looked down at his arms, resting on the tops of his knees - goosebumps. He rubbed a single finger down the top of his left arm, and watched as a streak of smooth stayed amongst the bumps.
He sighed, again, and wondered how long he had before it would get dark and he had to go back, tail between his legs.
“You’ll have sand in your pants, sitting here all day.”
Doyle jumped, but covered it. He didn’t look round, but he knew Bodie was standing behind him, his arms crossed. Couldn’t picture his face, again, though - never could, these days.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. He felt ridiculous, sitting on his arse in the sand, sulking.
There was a sigh - or it could have been the waves - and suddenly Bodie was sitting next to him.
Still Doyle couldn’t look, but he felt a nudge at his arm and looked down… There was an ice-cream at his elbow. A 99 with a flake and raspberry sauce and everything. He took hold of it as he might a bomb, and looked up, amazed and suspicious.
Bodie was looking the other way. The strengthening wind played with the slightly-too long curls around his ears, though it wasn’t powerful enough to dislodge them.
“I’ve had mine… Made my mouth numb enough for this,” Bodie reached into his jacket and withdrew a long stick of rock, swirled in every colour. He looked down at it, passing it back and forth between his hands, pumping it on one palm as if testing the weight. “Knew you wouldn’t want one, like. Scared for your teeth, and that.”
“Yeah… Thanks,” Doyle said with a touch of sarcasm, but he wasn’t entirely sure if he didn’t mean it or not. He couldn’t take his eyes from the profile of Bodie’s lips - red and swollen. Doyle wondered how much of that was from Big Alf’s beating, and how much was the ice-cream. Were they cold to the touch?
They sat in silence for a bit: Doyle watched Bodie and Bodie watched the sea. The sun dithered up above, losing its warmth with every passing second it waited.
Bodie unwrapped the stick of rock, slowly and deliberately, and put it between his teeth with a faint crunch. He shifted it over to the side of his mouth, and began to suck. Doyle watched, mesmerised by the way Bodie’s lips began to wet at the corners. It was all too much to bear.
“Bodie, look at me.”
Bodie froze, and took the rock from his mouth, quirking his lips as he squinted and looked over at Doyle.
Doyle knew that this was it, that Bodie - in his own, cack-handed way - was offering him an answer, of sorts. But it would be Doyle who had to do all the work, again. He didn’t want this - he wanted to enjoy the memory of the fading sunshine - but he knew beyond doubt he had to.
“It’s that bloody look on your face,” he said, and was vaguely surprised by how sad he sounded.
Bodie didn’t frown, didn’t do anything - his face stayed fixed and frozen. His voice was perfectly neutral, devoid of any trace of himself. The voice he’d used when they’d first met. “I haven’t got a look on my face.”
Doyle’s eyes flickered over Bodie’s face, he watched as the shifting sunlight cast a shadow underneath one blue eye, like a teardrop that was then winked away.
“That’s the face I’m talking about,” he said quietly. “The one without a look on it.”
And he watched as that very face - the one, constant thing about Bodie: his ability to swipe all emotion from his features - crumpled at his words. Bodie looked away, blinking as if he’d been slapped. Doyle saw the fading bruises on his neck flex.
He felt bad - Bodie had been dealt enough punishment this week without him adding to it - but he waited, nonetheless. He had to hold strong if this was ever going to be resolved. He had to save a bit of himself.
Bodie stuck the rock back in his mouth for a moment, then took it out, and waved it vaguely in front of him.
“It’s hard.”
Doyle frowned, not comprehending. “What, the rock?”
Bodie laughed - a short chuckle he couldn’t help. As the laugh died, he hung his head. “No… Well, yes. But that wasn’t what I was talking about.”
“Alright,” Doyle said. Half of him wanted to look away, make it easier on the both of them; but half of him wanted to see every flinch, scrutinise every twitch. It wasn’t often he got the chance.
The sun went behind a cloud, and the seaside was plunged into dimness. A great ‘awwww!’ rose from the milling holiday-makers and people - sensing their summer day was over - began to pack up their stuff, billowing beach-towels hurling sand into the wind. The wind-breakers snapped harshly.
“I’m not good… with all this,” Bodie said. “And, you never… You always go.”
That last bit was spoken down to the stick of slobbery rock, in a slightly defensive tone which shocked Doyle. A high blush was slowly seeping across Bodie’s cheeks (later, he would say it was the wind). Bodie skimmed at the plastic wrapper of the rock with his fingernails.
Doyle stayed silent.
After a while, Bodie hefted a sigh and - still focused on the rock, still facing away - muttered in a rush.
“You always run off, just when I’m getting comfy with it all… And then, when I see you again, I can’t… I can’t bear to look at you. I dunno how you’ll look. And I can’t talk about it - I just can’t, but… But the thing is, is that I always thought you… you’d know, anyways, but you always go…”
If Bodie’s head was further down, he would be talking into his own chest.
The rock went back in as the head snapped up, and was sucked furiously, clacking against Bodie’s teeth.
Doyle sat, stunned, watching the rock wave back and forth in Bodie’s mouth. The face was no longer blank. Anything, but.
He shifted his bum closer, the sand ridging up between them in a little cliff between their thighs. One arm wrapping around Bodie’s shoulders - the ice-cream he still held in danger of landing in Bodie’s ear - Doyle placed a quick kiss on Bodie’s cheek, his mouth being otherwise engaged.
Bodie stiffened, and looked up and down the beach for passers-by but then, finding none, looked round at Doyle. And his face broke open in a grin so wide it made the sun come out again, the stick of rock sticking out absurdly from the corner of his smile as he held it, cigar-like, between his teeth.
And Doyle laughed as the people along the promenade cheered and rushed back from the cafes to the beach, throwing themselves into the freezing sea ecstatically.
They didn’t do much talking for the rest of the weekend but, curiously, Doyle didn’t mind so much, anymore.
Title: British Summertime Blues
ailcia(alice)
Slash or Gen: Slash, as ever.
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes, please!
Disclaimer: Characters not mine, love of the crapness of the British summer - completely mine. :D
Author note: I borrowed a segment of dialogue from the wonderful film 'Not Only But Always' - the 2004 biographic of comedians Peter Cook and Dudley Moore (which I adore) - because I adore the film and that bit it kills me every time, and certainly sums up our Bodie, in my mind. Hopefully you won't think I've cheated!
"You used to take the piss out of me. When we met, I loved it. Then I grew to hate it. So why do I miss it?"
"I'm sorry?"
"When a man is bored with his marriage he's supposed to get rude and sullen. You just get increasingly polite."
"What are you talking about?"
"That bloody look on your face!"
"I haven't got a look on my face!"
“That’s the face I’m talking about. The one without a look on it.”
- if only I COULD write dialogue like that! :D