Discovered in the Snow fic "Ice House"
Let's begin with some screencaps from Who Dares Wins, to set the scene of snowy London in January 1982.
That's the pretties, I'd head on to the next post now... *g*
Pearly light reflected on the bedroom ceiling, so it couldn’t be early, but not a sound came from the street outside. It had snowed in the night, then. For once, Doyle didn’t mind. He yanked the duvet up to his ears and snuggled up against the welcome warmth of the body next to him.
Half awake, he gazed at his sleeping partner. He couldn’t believe that he’d almost forgotten how beautiful the man could be. Too tired and stressed to be particularly attractive to anyone, they both had been, and for too long. Bodie still looked tired, and unhealthily lean.
Doyle smiled indulgently to himself. From now on, he’d never try to make Bodie feel guilty about enjoying a swiss roll or a fry up ever again.
Sounds like a New Year’s resolution, that does, he thought wryly. He hadn’t made any last week, when it was New Year. He’d gone to a party, but it had been a relief to get home to his flat - his books, his music, his whisky. Ray Doyle’s misery did not like company. But this was a good sign, thinking ahead. He’d tell Kate Ross, she’d be pleased with his progress.
It must be getting on for eight months since he was operational, longer than after his chest wound, even. It was that long since the day Brian Cook was shot dead, the day he last stood shoulder to shoulder with Bodie and Cowley as the bomb disposal officer was blown to pieces in front of their eyes, hi-tech gadgetry no protection for weak human flesh. No, mustn’t think those thoughts. Bat them away - that was Dr Ross’s mantra.
He’d turned and walked away that day, unable to bear another minute of it - of the futility of it all. He’d tendered his resignation, but the Cow wouldn’t accept it until he’d “recovered” - the original catch-22.
It was spring time then, must have been. Hard to believe it had ever been warm, that the world had ever been anything but black and white and brown. He remembered how surreal it was, that Ulrike Herzl’s camp was so pretty, tucked away in an old orchard. It had been enough to disarm him, and Bodie, just for a moment. He couldn’t resist petting that soft white rabbit, and Bodie had come to stand close, just for a second, warm against him. It didn’t matter what they’d said to each other, the closeness was what mattered, but it wasn’t enough. There was never enough time then.
After the general election, Thatcher had slashed civil service budgets, “cutting out the dead wood”. Now there seemed nothing Cowley could do as his beloved CI5 was squeezed for funds. The shortage of operational agents meant that partners worked separately, pursuing different leads and radioing in, with no time for briefings or debriefings. The agents’ rest room had been taken over by Records. Leave never seemed to be taken, and on a rare day off all they wanted was uninterrupted sleep. By last spring, he and Bodie were hardly even friends, let alone lovers.
Doyle gently smoothed his fingers over the broad chest, still rising and falling surely under the duvet. How had they ever let that happen? Here and now it felt so good to be together that they hadn’t even got out of bed since yesterday afternoon, neither able to get enough of the feel of the other.
Of course Bodie had been to see him after his breakdown, but Doyle’s absence from the squad had merely made Cowley work the fit agents that much harder.
Bodie had stopped dropping by, stopped phoning. Beginning to feel enough to notice, and then to care, Doyle had tried to make contact, but Bodie’s phone was disconnected and his last flat was cold and empty. Doyle had then made discreet enquiries at HQ, but the most he could get out of anyone was that Bodie was undercover with the SAS.
A week later, tidying up the kitchen before going to bed, a breaking news bulletin on the radio had made him drop the milk bottle he was rinsing - a hostage situation, here in London. Racing to the living room, he’d flicked on the TV. He recognised straight away the US Ambassador’s residence in Regent’s Park, now with the dark shapes of military vehicles clustered outside the elaborate iron gates, and a gaggle of reporters cordoned to one side. Doyle had felt an adrenalin rush, just as though he was about to go into action himself, and found himself wishing that he was. This was exactly what they’d trained for. It had to be a joint operation for the SAS and CI5, and that could only mean that Bodie was involved somehow.
Sitting on the edge of his chair in front of the TV, Doyle had watched, transfixed, clicking through the channels for any and every news programme, keeping the radio on to catch any announcements, until the last bulletin, and then he listened to the World Service throughout the night. They weren’t giving much away to the public, naturally, but Bodie was in there somewhere, he knew it. It was unbearable, but he could do nothing.
After nodding off in the small hours, he’d got up and gone about his morning routine while trying to keep an ear tuned in to the radio and an eye on the Ceefax, but there was nothing except speculation and padding.
At 10 am he’d been listening so intently to Radio 4 as the pips counted down to the hourly news headlines that he’d almost jumped at the staccato of breaking news, the tired reporter now jabbering with relief and excitement. On the TV, even the schools programmes had been interrupted for a live broadcast from the scene. Three helicopters could be seen approaching, hovering ominously in the dull morning sky. The raid was on, then. Doyle had strained his eyes for Bodie, for any detail at all, but there was none to see - the press had a good view of the front of the building, but were being kept well away from the action.
It was all wrong. How could he be here, watching TV, in the safety of his flat, while Bodie had his life on the line? He should be out there, watching Bodie’s back. Doyle could do nothing but pace, and worry, and hope Bodie’s prodigious good luck would hold out.
Smoke billowed from the shattered windows, gunshots could be heard, and within minutes the raid was over. It looked like a textbook op, then. But that wasn’t the end of the job for the men involved, nor was it the end of Doyle’s anxious wait. How long would the debriefings take, with Colonel Hadley and the military brass, with the Americans, with Cowley? How long before he knew whether Bodie was alive or dead?
And finally, a bit more than 24 hours, and many phone calls, later, there was Bodie at his door - Bodie looking drawn but determined. He’d set down his kit-bag and his overcoat without a word. Eyes not leaving Doyle’s face, Bodie had stroked a thumb firmly over his crooked cheekbone, wrapped his fingers into Doyle’s hair, and pulled him into a kiss that said everything.
Very soon after that, they were here in bed together.
Doyle sighed. He couldn’t postpone the inevitable any longer, nature was calling. He swung his feet to the floor, and dived to pull on jogging bottoms and dressing gown in one swift motion before the cold air could sting his warm skin.
By the time he returned with two steaming mugs of tea, the untidy mop of dark hair on the pillow had moved and blue eyes were gleaming at him over the duvet. Doyle dived back into bed, all cold fingers and toes, burying his cold nose in Bodie’s shoulder, and Bodie hugged him close, rubbing hard to warm the parts he could reach.
Awake now and impatient to know what had been going on, Doyle pulled away just enough to speak.
“So that whole op was Cowley’s triple-think?”
“Yep. Classic.”
“You went undercover as an SAS officer?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Bodie feigned offence.
“But not as you, as…?”
“Captain Peter Skellen, at your service. Really, Ray, how typical of you to file away detailed information even in the throes of passion. You should’ve been a secret agent.”
“Ha ha! So, they fix it for you, for Skellen, to be dishonourably discharged, and then you go undercover as the disaffected special forces officer with information for sale?”
“Yep,” Bodie replied, proudly.
“And a wife and baby at home?” Doyle continued the interrogation. “And who was that? I didn’t know you had a secret double life, Bodie.”
“Jenny Secombe and her sister’s kid. Brigadier Secombe, you know, his daughters. Jen’s MI6, but she’s usually at a desk. Have you seen her? Not my type at all.”
“Is that what was on the news about a woman and child in Kensington who were taken hostage by the same gang?”
“Yep. We expected something like that, she was up for it.”
Doyle was sceptical. “And you deliberately blew your cover?”
“Got them to tail me to the ice house in Holland Park - appropriate, don’t you think?”
“Wasn’t that a bit extreme, even for you and Cowley?”
“Well obviously, but it forced them to keep me with them.”
“Or kill you.”
“Nah, they had the arms, and the talk, but they were too wet behind the ears to kill in cold blood. It was only gonna happen by accident.”
Doyle sighed, exasperated at Bodie’s overconfidence. “Why did you do it? Go in on an op like that, solo, with no one to watch your back?”
“I resigned. Without you, there didn’t seem any point staying in the job. Thought I’d just hand in my notice, then see where things stood with us. But the Cow wasn’t having any of it. He had this joint op, with Fred Nairn, in the planning stages and I was the only agent in line to carry it off.”
“Oh gawd, the Major, the old Regiment!” Doyle rolled his eyes.
“But I had my terms.”
“What? Bedding that Frankie Leith woman?”
“Well, that was a side benefit.”
Doyle growled.
“Alright, alright, it wasn’t. I had to lie back and think of…you,” Bodie laughed.
“Go on,” exasperated, Doyle had to chuckle too. “What were your terms?”
Bodie was brisk, “My resignation, thanks to the Cow, 100 K in a Swiss bank account, thanks to the CIA, and the keys to a very nice mews house near Holland Park, thanks to Her Majesty’s grateful government.” His eyes met Doyle’s and he continued more softly, “There’s room for two, you know.”
Doyle rolled onto his back and lay still. Gazing at the light glowing softly from the snow-bound world outside, he felt something within him beginning to thaw.
He even smiled as Bodie chattered on, his mask of supreme self-confidence safely back in place, “And once the Ministry of Works has finished the repairs, you’ll never even know where the lads blew that hole in the wall!”
Title: Ice House
Author: jaycat
Slash or Gen: slash
Words: 2000
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: yes please
Disclaimer: Characters from The Professionals and Who Dares Wins are not mine, I just like to take them out and play with them nicely, then give them back.
Notes:
Thanks to greengerbil - the good bits are hers and the infelicities mine.
In the first two weeks of January 1982, Britain experienced the coldest weather of the second half of the century: http://www.weatheronline.co.uk/reports/philip-eden/Record-cold-and-snow.htm. At the same time, Who Dares Wins was being filmed. “No Stone” was filmed about eight months before Who Dares Wins, in late April to early May 1981. Even though it was the last but one episode of Pros to be filmed, to me it feels properly like the end.