Discovered in a Christmas Stocking - Day 21
'Scuse the long title, but it saves on the need for a summary of any kind as it does just what it says on the tin.*g*
Happy Holidays everyone xxxxxxx
Four Times Bodie Might As Well Have Said ‘I Love You’, And One Time He Actually Did
“She’s gone, Bodie. Fuckin’ just... she fucking left me, Bodie! How could she ... fuck...”
Bodie sighed and looked down at the man sitting cross-legged on his sofa. He was waving a half empty Heineken at the living room and looking like he might topple sideways any second. It had been variations on the same sentiment and question all evening. Although four pubs later, the sentences were getting noticeably shorter and fucks were filling in the gaps where articulation failed.
“How, Bodie? ’S all my fault, you know.” As if Bodie had the answer and wasn’t telling. As if Bodie understood one ounce of that bizarre tumble into wedding bells Doyle had taken with a woman so out of his range Bodie had quite literally thought him bewitched. Still, it was an improvement on the rather vicious ‘it’s all your fault’ that had started up in pub number two, with Doyle clenching his fists and glaring at everyone within swinging distance, including Bodie.
Doyle’s hand went out and his fingers found Bodie’s sleeve. “It is, isn’t it? All my fault?” asked Doyle, quieter now, all temper suddenly gone. His eyes were wide and wet with unshed tears, and his face impossibly bare and lovely in the low lamplight. Bodie swallowed, unsure of his role here. Doyle drunk and stroppy he knew and could rein in with a sharp word, another pint, and a shoulder to fall against. Doyle gone quiet and unexpectedly tender in misery was quite another kettle of fish.
Bodie risked it. He closed his hand over Doyle’s fingers and squeezed.
“All I know, sunshine,” he said, just as quiet while he kept his gaze steady and locked on Doyle’s, “is you’re worth ten of her. Of anyone.”
Doyle blinked at him, his breathing uneven in the quiet of the living room. And suddenly too fucking near...
Bodie took his hand back, cleared his throat, and stood. “Now, how about I get you a nice big mug of black coffee and you switch that brain off for a while?”
By the time he got back with it, Doyle was asleep.
******
“Waste of good tailoring you are. Stand still.”
Amazingly Doyle did as he was told, and Bodie was able to get the three-quarter length leather jacket a bit more sorted on his partner’s shoulders. He stepped back and eyed his achievement critically.
“What?” asked Doyle, self-conscious and therefore belligerent. “I look like a twat, don’t I? Don’t you dare, Bodie.”
Bodie allowed a small smile to curve his lip as he made a minor adjustment to the collar. It was an old, but well cared for and expensive black leather coat, which had been sitting in the back of his wardrobe for a good few years. It was one of the first things he’d treated himself to upon returning to England with pay from the blood, sweat and tears of Angola burning a hole in his pocket. The jacket was tight across the shoulders for him now, but it fit Ray fairly well.
Doyle made a production out of bringing the right sleeve up to his nose and sniffing it suspiciously.
“Mothballs,” he declared with authority.
Bodie clipped him across the ear. “Oik. That’s Saville Row. No mothballs have been within a hundred yards.” He stepped back again and nodded appreciatively. In a grey shirt, dark slacks, and Bodie’s black jacket, Doyle now looked every inch the suave, bored, and highly-paid assassin he was supposed to be in about twenty minutes.
“Nervous?”
“Nah. You’ll be there, right?”
Doyle’s open faith in this still shook Bodie on occasion. It seemed that his partner could keep his cool and walk in plain sight of the Prestons and right wing conspirators of this world as long as he knew that simple fact to be true.
Bodie tapped his own left ear and smiled. “Listening all the way, 4.5.”
Doyle was wired for sound. The mike was the smallest any of the intelligence services had, but it was still going to take nothing but attitude and bearing from Doyle to deflect a pat-down. Bodie took the chance to unashamedly look his fill, up and down. He certainly looked the part...
“What?”
Bodie shook his head. He was the part. If anyone had attitude to spare it was Ray Doyle.
“Nothing. You’d better get moving. We wouldn’t want to keep those nice KGB friends of yours waiting.”
Doyle knocked Bodie’s shoulder with his own on the way past.
“Ray?”
Doyle halted at the door, turned back before he opened it.
“Yeah?”
“One piece, Doyle.” He held up his index finger to make sure the message was clear. “You bring that back to me in one piece, you hear? I don’t want to see a tear or a scuff mark anywhere.”
A slow smile lit Doyle up. “Scouts’ honour,” he said quietly, and was gone.
*****
“Sod off, Bodie. I’m begging you.”
Not the nicest thing Ray Doyle had ever said to him, but judging from the hacking cough punctuating the sentiment, Bodie was going to do what he usually did in such circumstances and ignore him.
He shouldered his way in and heel-kicked the front door closed behind him. “No chance, sunshine. The chips are getting cold as it is.”
He grinned, unrepentant, and Doyle stopped coughing long enough to glare at him wetly, eyes red, nose swollen, and skin definitely the whiter shade of pale.
A day off for both of them, and Doyle had phoned Bodie first thing to croak out that he was sick and not getting out of bed no way no how to do something as stupid as play tennis.
Judging from the mismatched pyjamas, Doyle had then gone straight back to bed until Bodie had rung the doorbell.
“I don’t want chips. Who asked you for chips?” said Doyle sulkily. Then he shivered.
Bodie shook his head and clapped a no-nonsense arm around his partner’s shoulders, surreptitiously steering him and the chips in the direction of the living room. As expected, the room was freezing.
“Sit,” said Bodie sternly, pressing down on his shoulder until Doyle sat on the sofa. He then lit the small gas fire to the left of it, and ignored the mutterings about dogs and bossy owners coming from behind him.
“You should be so lucky,” he muttered back.
“What?”
“Nothing. Back in a sec.”
Bodie disappeared into Doyle’s bedroom and re-emerged with Ray’s rumpled duvet and a pillow.
“Bodie...”
Doyle’s growl was pathetic and token at best, especially seeing as how he actually lifted his legs to let Bodie get the duvet around him better. It was so uncharacteristic that Bodie laid his palm on Doyle’s forehead. Not gently - that he knew would invite derision and a slap, no matter how incapacitated Doyle might be. So Bodie made an exaggerated show of it, and had his suspicions confirmed when he all he got back was a weak scowl and the sound of teeth chattering.
“You could melt the knickers off a polar bear right now, Doyle. Any lemsips in the cupboard?” The look he got gave him his answer.
“Well, never fear. Nurse Bodie’s here,” that got the watery snicker it was supposed to, so he went on. “So you...” he switched the TV on, “...load yourself up on Blue Peter, and I’ll see what I can find, eh?”
What he found was a tin of Heinz tomato soup and some bread that would just about be all right toasted. So he shared his chips out, put the two plates in the oven on low, and rummaged around for a tin opener.
Ten minutes later he had everything on two trays and Doyle was just sitting there, holding a soup spoon and sniffing and blinking at Bodie, who had settled in the armchair to the right of his partner.
“What?” asked Bodie, wary and suspicious. If Doyle wrinkled his nose at any of this, Bodie was apt to kill him and bury his flu-ridden corpse in the back garden.
“Thanks,” Doyle croaked around a smile. “I mean it. You didn’t have to come round and do all this.”
Bodie smiled back, enjoying the look and the moment. Blue Peter’s latest bird was busy using sticky back plastic to build Action Man a cardboard home, Doyle had more germs in him than an underground bio-lab, and Bodie was spending his day off looking at both of them *and* eating lukewarm chips with his fingers off a Magic Roundabout tray.
But somehow he didn’t mind in the slightest.
“Someone’s got to,” he answered.
And if it came out more serious than Bodie might have intended, well that was nobody’s business but his.
******
Two nurses and a doctor had been in. They’d frowned at the machines, scribbled on clipboards, and the doctor had peeled one of Doyle’s eyelids back. Bodie had said nothing and he’d asked nothing. But he had held Doyle’s hand throughout. Not furtively under the sheet, and not even defiantly as the second nurse looked at them curiously. He’d simply sat close and carried on holding it. Doyle’s palm was dry and cool over his own, his fingers loose and lightly curled, and all Bodie had to do was concentrate on not squeezing them too hard whenever a moment of panic threatened.
One kiss. One lousy fucking kiss was all they’d had. A collision of teeth and tongues which had started off whisky-fuelled and frantic, and which had somehow muted into the slowest, sweetest dance of breath and lips Bodie could remember since his first time behind the bike sheds with Belinda Rowlands.
It had been a fairly routine case, no adrenaline-high from a close call to blame for the sudden stumble into each other. Just an everyday wind-down in the pub after a successful haul of money and bombs. Maybe, reflected Bodie, that had been the final trigger; the success. It had been sweet and intoxicating after a string of frustrations and diplomatic loopholes, which had soured Cowley’s mood and made his precious roses and lavender that much harder to detect.
But that night Bodie could remember Cowley smiling and telling war stories while he’d let his agents stand him malt after malt. Then he’d left - returned to HQ no doubt - but not without arranging two bottles of Glenlivet to be shared out amongst the rowdy table of agents taking over the dartboard and all its surrounding tables. So perhaps it really had been that flush of success, pride, and whisky which had sent them, laughing and swearing, into each other’s arms and mouths in the darkness of the car park.
Bodie had stepped back first. That much he remembered clearly. And Doyle had fucking whimpered and swayed forwards. Which had done wonders for Bodie’s confidence as well as his cock. But he’d taken a steadying breath, pressed a finger on Ray’s lips, and waited for Doyle to open his eyes and focus.
“Bloody hell, Bodie. Why... why’re we stoppin’?”
Bodie had caught him as he’d stumbled sideways, answering his own question for him. He’d heaved a sigh and held Doyle’s chin up so that Doyle could blink at him. “Because, Ray,” he’d said slowly, “whatever this is, it cannot be a drunken fuck and fumble.”
Doyle had snorted, nodded, and then his head had simply continued forward until it met Bodie’s collarbone.
“Can’t believe you pick now to be a fuckin’ gentleman,” was what he’d mumbled into Bodie’s jacket.
And for that Bodie had hugged him briefly and then dropped him off at his flat, because he’d had far fewer whiskies than Doyle and because he meant it. Their partnership was not going to be put at risk for something Doyle could choose to regret and then blame on alcohol and Bodie in the cold light of day. And besides, Bodie had waited this long, another day or two hardly mattered.
Except that they did end up mattering. Very much. No sooner had they got past the awkward next morning with tea, biscuits and some very daft smiles at each other in the squad room, than a burning Citroen, a pair of almond eyes, and about two pints of milk and blood exploded Bodie’s carefully laid plans all over Doyle’s living room floor.
Back in the here and now, Bodie frowned when one of the machines did a double beep. But Doyle didn’t stir, didn’t twitch so much as an eyelid, and the rhythm resettled. Relief warred with disappointment, and Bodie went back to stroking his thumb over Doyle’s knuckles. They were marked and ridged with nicks, but then Bodie reckoned his own thumb pad wasn’t exactly delicate. Calluses over scars. All very appropriate somehow. He shook his head. Enough. Now was not the time for maudlin symbolism on his part. There were leads to follow, assassins to hunt, and he was supposed to be a man of action, for Chrissake.
He stood, legs tingling with the long hours of immobility through the night. He thought about how he would have to let go of Ray’s hand now, so he squeezed it and leant in close. When he spoke, it came out as dark and urgent as a burn. “You stay here, Raymond Doyle. Right fucking here. Don’t you dare take a step anywhere without me.”
He kissed Doyle’s forehead, let go of his fingers, and left.
******
“Come on, Bodie. Fucking move, will you? Jesus...you’re...killing me.”
Bodie grinned down at him, loving the way he had Doyle at his mercy like this. The curtains were thin and there was enough moonlight and streetlamp glow to see the sheen of sweat pooled at the base of Ray’s throat.
Bodie relaxed the lock of his elbows so that he could get to it. But not so that his chest and weight would fall on Doyle. The scars were fading and the muscles were healing, but Bodie was still trying to be cautious.
Doyle writhed up while Bodie kissed his neck, forcibly impaling himself another inch on Bodie’s cock. Cautious, bless it, nearly went out the window.
“Ray...” Bodie groaned and hung his head.
“What?” panted Doyle. “I’m fit, I want, and you fucking promised.”
Bodie raised his head and Doyle framed his face and kissed him, sucking him into his mouth and his arse, inch by careful inch.
Four months. Four months since Doyle had walked-rolled-out of the hospital doors and into one of the most tenacious recoveries Bodie had ever seen.
And now here they were, two months past handjobs and blowjobs and about to make everything so much more. The effort of holding back, of being still when he was sheathed in so much tight and welcome heat, was beginning to make Bodie shake. And Doyle was not helping one bit, using Bodie as a bloody climbing frame, reaching up to kiss and knead any expanse of skin he could. But there was a reason Bodie had picked tonight, and Doyle was not going to stop his grand gesture. He squinted at the digital clock next to Doyle’s bed.
12.01 Thank fuck
“Happy Christmas, Doyle,” he whispered, hot and heavy into Ray’s mouth. Then, and only then, did he begin to move.
“You...bastard,” managed Doyle. “You...fucking bastard...making me wait like that.”
Bodie grinned and watched Doyle’s neck arch back into the pillow as he snapped his hips into him. His right hand wrapped around Doyle’s cock, and a string of curses filled the air.
Bodie had not kept his fitness up for nothing. He kept himself off Doyle with all his weight on his left side and arm, while his right hand set up rhythm from root to tip on Doyle’s cock, eliciting all manner of noise and commotion. He did all this as he rolled his hips in earnest, loving the heat, the sweat helping to slick the way, and the groans that were nothing to do with pain and everything to do with getting Doyle to jump off this magnificent, earth-shattering, once-in-a-lifetime, fucking cliff with him...
“Kiss me.” It was said so faintly, Bodie almost missed it.
“What?” panted Bodie, who opened his eyes and almost lost his rhythm.
Doyle grabbed him and pulled him down, right onto his chest as he locked his legs around Bodie’s waist and urged him on.“Kiss me....want you...to...kiss me when I come.”
Hot and messy, all it took was one wet lick of Doyle’s tongue and he was gone, convulsing and pushing into Doyle as if he could empty himself out and stay there forever. He was dimly aware that Doyle was whimpering again, and he found the presence of mind to stroke and stroke until Doyle froze, spasmed, and then cursed all over again.
Clean-up took a while. For one thing, Bodie wouldn’t let Doyle up straight away. He held him close on the pretext of his legendary prowess and the need for a cocky afterglow, but they both knew he just wanted to hear Doyle’s heartbeat for a while, check the rhythm wasn’t going to do anything it shouldn’t.
Doyle let him. For about five minutes, until he elbowed Bodie in the ribs, growled that he was okay, and got up.
He returned with a damp flannel and a towel for Bodie to use, and then they lay side by side in the dark, both of them looking up at the ceiling.
It wasn’t awkward, but Bodie did wonder who was going to speak first.
“If you think you’re getting away with giving me a fuck for Christmas, you’ve got another thing coming, mate.”
Bodie felt like smiling. He should have known...
“How about an ‘I love you’, then?”
Bodie said it flippantly, as part of the fuck-for-Christmas tease. But Doyle stilled and turned his head slowly towards him.
“Yeah?” he asked.
Bodie contemplated the ceiling and thought about the fact that he’d actually said it. Not about whether it was true or not. He cleared his throat and then turned his own head to look at Doyle. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
He held his breath and waited. Doyle shuffled closer, then arranged himself until he was curled against Bodie’s side. He yawned and rubbed his cheek on Bodie’s collarbone.
“Me too,” he mumbled. “But I still want a proper pressie.”
Bodie exhaled, thought about thumping the sod, but settled for wrapping an arm around him instead.
******
Title: Four Times Bodie Might As Well Have Said ‘I Love You’, And One Time He Actually Did
Author: Callisto
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib: Sure
Disclaimer: Not mine sadly
Notes: Hugs and mistletoe kisses to the great ancastar and izzie7 for their sterling beta work. Longest title ever!
Happy Holidays everyone xxxxxxx
Four Times Bodie Might As Well Have Said ‘I Love You’, And One Time He Actually Did
“She’s gone, Bodie. Fuckin’ just... she fucking left me, Bodie! How could she ... fuck...”
Bodie sighed and looked down at the man sitting cross-legged on his sofa. He was waving a half empty Heineken at the living room and looking like he might topple sideways any second. It had been variations on the same sentiment and question all evening. Although four pubs later, the sentences were getting noticeably shorter and fucks were filling in the gaps where articulation failed.
“How, Bodie? ’S all my fault, you know.” As if Bodie had the answer and wasn’t telling. As if Bodie understood one ounce of that bizarre tumble into wedding bells Doyle had taken with a woman so out of his range Bodie had quite literally thought him bewitched. Still, it was an improvement on the rather vicious ‘it’s all your fault’ that had started up in pub number two, with Doyle clenching his fists and glaring at everyone within swinging distance, including Bodie.
Doyle’s hand went out and his fingers found Bodie’s sleeve. “It is, isn’t it? All my fault?” asked Doyle, quieter now, all temper suddenly gone. His eyes were wide and wet with unshed tears, and his face impossibly bare and lovely in the low lamplight. Bodie swallowed, unsure of his role here. Doyle drunk and stroppy he knew and could rein in with a sharp word, another pint, and a shoulder to fall against. Doyle gone quiet and unexpectedly tender in misery was quite another kettle of fish.
Bodie risked it. He closed his hand over Doyle’s fingers and squeezed.
“All I know, sunshine,” he said, just as quiet while he kept his gaze steady and locked on Doyle’s, “is you’re worth ten of her. Of anyone.”
Doyle blinked at him, his breathing uneven in the quiet of the living room. And suddenly too fucking near...
Bodie took his hand back, cleared his throat, and stood. “Now, how about I get you a nice big mug of black coffee and you switch that brain off for a while?”
By the time he got back with it, Doyle was asleep.
******
“Waste of good tailoring you are. Stand still.”
Amazingly Doyle did as he was told, and Bodie was able to get the three-quarter length leather jacket a bit more sorted on his partner’s shoulders. He stepped back and eyed his achievement critically.
“What?” asked Doyle, self-conscious and therefore belligerent. “I look like a twat, don’t I? Don’t you dare, Bodie.”
Bodie allowed a small smile to curve his lip as he made a minor adjustment to the collar. It was an old, but well cared for and expensive black leather coat, which had been sitting in the back of his wardrobe for a good few years. It was one of the first things he’d treated himself to upon returning to England with pay from the blood, sweat and tears of Angola burning a hole in his pocket. The jacket was tight across the shoulders for him now, but it fit Ray fairly well.
Doyle made a production out of bringing the right sleeve up to his nose and sniffing it suspiciously.
“Mothballs,” he declared with authority.
Bodie clipped him across the ear. “Oik. That’s Saville Row. No mothballs have been within a hundred yards.” He stepped back again and nodded appreciatively. In a grey shirt, dark slacks, and Bodie’s black jacket, Doyle now looked every inch the suave, bored, and highly-paid assassin he was supposed to be in about twenty minutes.
“Nervous?”
“Nah. You’ll be there, right?”
Doyle’s open faith in this still shook Bodie on occasion. It seemed that his partner could keep his cool and walk in plain sight of the Prestons and right wing conspirators of this world as long as he knew that simple fact to be true.
Bodie tapped his own left ear and smiled. “Listening all the way, 4.5.”
Doyle was wired for sound. The mike was the smallest any of the intelligence services had, but it was still going to take nothing but attitude and bearing from Doyle to deflect a pat-down. Bodie took the chance to unashamedly look his fill, up and down. He certainly looked the part...
“What?”
Bodie shook his head. He was the part. If anyone had attitude to spare it was Ray Doyle.
“Nothing. You’d better get moving. We wouldn’t want to keep those nice KGB friends of yours waiting.”
Doyle knocked Bodie’s shoulder with his own on the way past.
“Ray?”
Doyle halted at the door, turned back before he opened it.
“Yeah?”
“One piece, Doyle.” He held up his index finger to make sure the message was clear. “You bring that back to me in one piece, you hear? I don’t want to see a tear or a scuff mark anywhere.”
A slow smile lit Doyle up. “Scouts’ honour,” he said quietly, and was gone.
*****
“Sod off, Bodie. I’m begging you.”
Not the nicest thing Ray Doyle had ever said to him, but judging from the hacking cough punctuating the sentiment, Bodie was going to do what he usually did in such circumstances and ignore him.
He shouldered his way in and heel-kicked the front door closed behind him. “No chance, sunshine. The chips are getting cold as it is.”
He grinned, unrepentant, and Doyle stopped coughing long enough to glare at him wetly, eyes red, nose swollen, and skin definitely the whiter shade of pale.
A day off for both of them, and Doyle had phoned Bodie first thing to croak out that he was sick and not getting out of bed no way no how to do something as stupid as play tennis.
Judging from the mismatched pyjamas, Doyle had then gone straight back to bed until Bodie had rung the doorbell.
“I don’t want chips. Who asked you for chips?” said Doyle sulkily. Then he shivered.
Bodie shook his head and clapped a no-nonsense arm around his partner’s shoulders, surreptitiously steering him and the chips in the direction of the living room. As expected, the room was freezing.
“Sit,” said Bodie sternly, pressing down on his shoulder until Doyle sat on the sofa. He then lit the small gas fire to the left of it, and ignored the mutterings about dogs and bossy owners coming from behind him.
“You should be so lucky,” he muttered back.
“What?”
“Nothing. Back in a sec.”
Bodie disappeared into Doyle’s bedroom and re-emerged with Ray’s rumpled duvet and a pillow.
“Bodie...”
Doyle’s growl was pathetic and token at best, especially seeing as how he actually lifted his legs to let Bodie get the duvet around him better. It was so uncharacteristic that Bodie laid his palm on Doyle’s forehead. Not gently - that he knew would invite derision and a slap, no matter how incapacitated Doyle might be. So Bodie made an exaggerated show of it, and had his suspicions confirmed when he all he got back was a weak scowl and the sound of teeth chattering.
“You could melt the knickers off a polar bear right now, Doyle. Any lemsips in the cupboard?” The look he got gave him his answer.
“Well, never fear. Nurse Bodie’s here,” that got the watery snicker it was supposed to, so he went on. “So you...” he switched the TV on, “...load yourself up on Blue Peter, and I’ll see what I can find, eh?”
What he found was a tin of Heinz tomato soup and some bread that would just about be all right toasted. So he shared his chips out, put the two plates in the oven on low, and rummaged around for a tin opener.
Ten minutes later he had everything on two trays and Doyle was just sitting there, holding a soup spoon and sniffing and blinking at Bodie, who had settled in the armchair to the right of his partner.
“What?” asked Bodie, wary and suspicious. If Doyle wrinkled his nose at any of this, Bodie was apt to kill him and bury his flu-ridden corpse in the back garden.
“Thanks,” Doyle croaked around a smile. “I mean it. You didn’t have to come round and do all this.”
Bodie smiled back, enjoying the look and the moment. Blue Peter’s latest bird was busy using sticky back plastic to build Action Man a cardboard home, Doyle had more germs in him than an underground bio-lab, and Bodie was spending his day off looking at both of them *and* eating lukewarm chips with his fingers off a Magic Roundabout tray.
But somehow he didn’t mind in the slightest.
“Someone’s got to,” he answered.
And if it came out more serious than Bodie might have intended, well that was nobody’s business but his.
******
Two nurses and a doctor had been in. They’d frowned at the machines, scribbled on clipboards, and the doctor had peeled one of Doyle’s eyelids back. Bodie had said nothing and he’d asked nothing. But he had held Doyle’s hand throughout. Not furtively under the sheet, and not even defiantly as the second nurse looked at them curiously. He’d simply sat close and carried on holding it. Doyle’s palm was dry and cool over his own, his fingers loose and lightly curled, and all Bodie had to do was concentrate on not squeezing them too hard whenever a moment of panic threatened.
One kiss. One lousy fucking kiss was all they’d had. A collision of teeth and tongues which had started off whisky-fuelled and frantic, and which had somehow muted into the slowest, sweetest dance of breath and lips Bodie could remember since his first time behind the bike sheds with Belinda Rowlands.
It had been a fairly routine case, no adrenaline-high from a close call to blame for the sudden stumble into each other. Just an everyday wind-down in the pub after a successful haul of money and bombs. Maybe, reflected Bodie, that had been the final trigger; the success. It had been sweet and intoxicating after a string of frustrations and diplomatic loopholes, which had soured Cowley’s mood and made his precious roses and lavender that much harder to detect.
But that night Bodie could remember Cowley smiling and telling war stories while he’d let his agents stand him malt after malt. Then he’d left - returned to HQ no doubt - but not without arranging two bottles of Glenlivet to be shared out amongst the rowdy table of agents taking over the dartboard and all its surrounding tables. So perhaps it really had been that flush of success, pride, and whisky which had sent them, laughing and swearing, into each other’s arms and mouths in the darkness of the car park.
Bodie had stepped back first. That much he remembered clearly. And Doyle had fucking whimpered and swayed forwards. Which had done wonders for Bodie’s confidence as well as his cock. But he’d taken a steadying breath, pressed a finger on Ray’s lips, and waited for Doyle to open his eyes and focus.
“Bloody hell, Bodie. Why... why’re we stoppin’?”
Bodie had caught him as he’d stumbled sideways, answering his own question for him. He’d heaved a sigh and held Doyle’s chin up so that Doyle could blink at him. “Because, Ray,” he’d said slowly, “whatever this is, it cannot be a drunken fuck and fumble.”
Doyle had snorted, nodded, and then his head had simply continued forward until it met Bodie’s collarbone.
“Can’t believe you pick now to be a fuckin’ gentleman,” was what he’d mumbled into Bodie’s jacket.
And for that Bodie had hugged him briefly and then dropped him off at his flat, because he’d had far fewer whiskies than Doyle and because he meant it. Their partnership was not going to be put at risk for something Doyle could choose to regret and then blame on alcohol and Bodie in the cold light of day. And besides, Bodie had waited this long, another day or two hardly mattered.
Except that they did end up mattering. Very much. No sooner had they got past the awkward next morning with tea, biscuits and some very daft smiles at each other in the squad room, than a burning Citroen, a pair of almond eyes, and about two pints of milk and blood exploded Bodie’s carefully laid plans all over Doyle’s living room floor.
Back in the here and now, Bodie frowned when one of the machines did a double beep. But Doyle didn’t stir, didn’t twitch so much as an eyelid, and the rhythm resettled. Relief warred with disappointment, and Bodie went back to stroking his thumb over Doyle’s knuckles. They were marked and ridged with nicks, but then Bodie reckoned his own thumb pad wasn’t exactly delicate. Calluses over scars. All very appropriate somehow. He shook his head. Enough. Now was not the time for maudlin symbolism on his part. There were leads to follow, assassins to hunt, and he was supposed to be a man of action, for Chrissake.
He stood, legs tingling with the long hours of immobility through the night. He thought about how he would have to let go of Ray’s hand now, so he squeezed it and leant in close. When he spoke, it came out as dark and urgent as a burn. “You stay here, Raymond Doyle. Right fucking here. Don’t you dare take a step anywhere without me.”
He kissed Doyle’s forehead, let go of his fingers, and left.
******
“Come on, Bodie. Fucking move, will you? Jesus...you’re...killing me.”
Bodie grinned down at him, loving the way he had Doyle at his mercy like this. The curtains were thin and there was enough moonlight and streetlamp glow to see the sheen of sweat pooled at the base of Ray’s throat.
Bodie relaxed the lock of his elbows so that he could get to it. But not so that his chest and weight would fall on Doyle. The scars were fading and the muscles were healing, but Bodie was still trying to be cautious.
Doyle writhed up while Bodie kissed his neck, forcibly impaling himself another inch on Bodie’s cock. Cautious, bless it, nearly went out the window.
“Ray...” Bodie groaned and hung his head.
“What?” panted Doyle. “I’m fit, I want, and you fucking promised.”
Bodie raised his head and Doyle framed his face and kissed him, sucking him into his mouth and his arse, inch by careful inch.
Four months. Four months since Doyle had walked-rolled-out of the hospital doors and into one of the most tenacious recoveries Bodie had ever seen.
And now here they were, two months past handjobs and blowjobs and about to make everything so much more. The effort of holding back, of being still when he was sheathed in so much tight and welcome heat, was beginning to make Bodie shake. And Doyle was not helping one bit, using Bodie as a bloody climbing frame, reaching up to kiss and knead any expanse of skin he could. But there was a reason Bodie had picked tonight, and Doyle was not going to stop his grand gesture. He squinted at the digital clock next to Doyle’s bed.
12.01 Thank fuck
“Happy Christmas, Doyle,” he whispered, hot and heavy into Ray’s mouth. Then, and only then, did he begin to move.
“You...bastard,” managed Doyle. “You...fucking bastard...making me wait like that.”
Bodie grinned and watched Doyle’s neck arch back into the pillow as he snapped his hips into him. His right hand wrapped around Doyle’s cock, and a string of curses filled the air.
Bodie had not kept his fitness up for nothing. He kept himself off Doyle with all his weight on his left side and arm, while his right hand set up rhythm from root to tip on Doyle’s cock, eliciting all manner of noise and commotion. He did all this as he rolled his hips in earnest, loving the heat, the sweat helping to slick the way, and the groans that were nothing to do with pain and everything to do with getting Doyle to jump off this magnificent, earth-shattering, once-in-a-lifetime, fucking cliff with him...
“Kiss me.” It was said so faintly, Bodie almost missed it.
“What?” panted Bodie, who opened his eyes and almost lost his rhythm.
Doyle grabbed him and pulled him down, right onto his chest as he locked his legs around Bodie’s waist and urged him on.“Kiss me....want you...to...kiss me when I come.”
Hot and messy, all it took was one wet lick of Doyle’s tongue and he was gone, convulsing and pushing into Doyle as if he could empty himself out and stay there forever. He was dimly aware that Doyle was whimpering again, and he found the presence of mind to stroke and stroke until Doyle froze, spasmed, and then cursed all over again.
Clean-up took a while. For one thing, Bodie wouldn’t let Doyle up straight away. He held him close on the pretext of his legendary prowess and the need for a cocky afterglow, but they both knew he just wanted to hear Doyle’s heartbeat for a while, check the rhythm wasn’t going to do anything it shouldn’t.
Doyle let him. For about five minutes, until he elbowed Bodie in the ribs, growled that he was okay, and got up.
He returned with a damp flannel and a towel for Bodie to use, and then they lay side by side in the dark, both of them looking up at the ceiling.
It wasn’t awkward, but Bodie did wonder who was going to speak first.
“If you think you’re getting away with giving me a fuck for Christmas, you’ve got another thing coming, mate.”
Bodie felt like smiling. He should have known...
“How about an ‘I love you’, then?”
Bodie said it flippantly, as part of the fuck-for-Christmas tease. But Doyle stilled and turned his head slowly towards him.
“Yeah?” he asked.
Bodie contemplated the ceiling and thought about the fact that he’d actually said it. Not about whether it was true or not. He cleared his throat and then turned his own head to look at Doyle. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
He held his breath and waited. Doyle shuffled closer, then arranged himself until he was curled against Bodie’s side. He yawned and rubbed his cheek on Bodie’s collarbone.
“Me too,” he mumbled. “But I still want a proper pressie.”
Bodie exhaled, thought about thumping the sod, but settled for wrapping an arm around him instead.
******
Title: Four Times Bodie Might As Well Have Said ‘I Love You’, And One Time He Actually Did
Author: Callisto
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib: Sure
Disclaimer: Not mine sadly
Notes: Hugs and mistletoe kisses to the great ancastar and izzie7 for their sterling beta work. Longest title ever!