Discovered in the fairylights- 6 January
Hi guys
Here's a very humble offering from me today. Hope you like it.
Doyle pulled out the last row of fairylights from the cardboard box and sighed at the tangled mass of plastic lights and twisted cable he held in his hands. Every year he promised himself that he’d pack the fairylights away properly, and every year he ended up simply shoving them back in the box as soon as they were down from the tree. He began picking at a particularly impressive knot with his fingernails. Maybe this’d teach him for next year.
He looked up at his economy value, extra-small, amazingly life-like Christmas tree, perched precariously on the coffee table by the window. Bodie had laughed when he first saw the bright green tree in its tiny box, but Doyle was unrepentant. After all, you couldn’t have Christmas without a tree, even if you were only at home to look at it for a couple of hours every day and even if the damn thing had a definite tilt to the left. Doyle leaned his head to the side a little and watched as the tree appeared to straighten to the right. Still, with a few fairy lights wrapped round its spindly branches and a nice silver star stuck on top, it probably wouldn’t look half bad.
A rustling of paper drew his attention away from the tree and Doyle smiled to himself as Bodie unwrapped a ceramic Mary from a large box marked Nativity, inspecting the virgin mother with a raised eyebrow. Glancing over at Doyle, Bodie carefully placed Mary on the window ledge next to Joseph and Jesus and a rather sad looking donkey with a chipped ear.
“You know Ray, all these years we've been partners and I never once thought you'd be the type of person who turned into the Christmas Fairy as soon as the first piece of tinsel appears in Selfridges window.” Bodie stepped back to inspect his handiwork, shifting Mary and Joseph a bit closer together on the window sill.
Doyle picked away at another knot in the chain of fairlylights and snorted. “Bit rich, coming from you, mate. A few Christmas cards and a Bing Crosby LP on the record player and you turn into Tiny bloody Tim.” He stood up and held out the line of freshly untangled lights in front of him. “There you are. Perfect, see?”
“Beautiful, mate.” Bodie pulled off a layer of newspaper from the next figurine in the box. “Go on then, stick 'em on and let's see if they still work.”
Doyle grinned and began wrapping the fairy lights around the Christmas tree, winding them round and round until the branches were filled with plastic bulbs. Scrambling on his hands and knees he plugged in the lights and flicked the switch. There was a low hum and a sputter of colour as the lights blinked into life.
Bodie looked across at Doyle. “Ten quid if they still work on New Year's Eve.”
“You're on. Quality lights these are, you know. Spared no expense. After all, this is the first Christmas in years we're gonna be around to enjoy them.”
Bodie rubbed his hands together gleefully. “God bless Betty and the Christmas rota. Ah, those poor sods, having to spend Christmas on duty at the Cow's beck and call.”
“Yeah well, let's just hope the Al-Farhan op gets sorted cleanly, or I have a dreadful feeling we'll be picking up the pieces anyway.”
Bodie snorted. “What, babysitting a Saudi prince while he visits his secret English mistress over Christmas? Piece of cake, even for Lucas and McCabe.”
Doyle raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah alright, maybe it would be a piece of cake if it wasn't for all those nasty death threats.” Bodie set to work on discarding another layer of newspaper from the tightly wrapped figurine he was holding. “Still, it couldn't happen to a nicer -”
“A nicer what?” Doyle looked up as Bodie pulled a small tin soldier free from its third and final layer of wrappings.
“Ray, this thing's great. Haven't seen one of these for years. I used to have a toy like this when I was a kid!” Bodie peered down at the tin soldier's painted face. “Best present I ever had, I didn't put it down for six months.” He waved the soldier in Doyle's direction. “Mind you, I don't exactly remember the light infantry being present at the birth of Jesus.”
Doyle snorted. “Me mum liked him. Made us put him up over the fireplace every year. He had a 'chrismassy face', she reckoned. I always thought he looked more like Uncle Bernie after he'd been at the sherry”.
Bodie patted the little tin soldier on its head. “Come on then, Uncle Bernie. Let's put you back where you belong.” He set the toy down on the mantel above the fireplace and saluted it solemnly.
“He looks good there. Makes the halls look well and truly decked. I reckon it could be a good Christmas this year, Raymond.”
In the far corner of the room, several of the green fairy lights exploded with a muffled pop.
**** **** **** **** **** ****
Doyle watched as another of the bulbs on the fairy lights flickered and buzzed irritably, before finally giving up and spluttering out one last time. The tree was definitely looking more sorry for itself, leaning even more heavily to the left and bathing the room in a lopsided red-white glow. In front of him Bodie lay sprawled out on the rug, contentedly watching Morecambe and Wise take seasonal delight in mocking an undeserving Des O'Connor.
Doyle picked up his empty glass and leaned back on the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him. He nudged Bodie with his foot.
“Gizzus some wine, mate.”
With a long groan of protest Bodie got up from his sprawl on the floor and reached out for the bottle, sloshing the wine into Doyle's glass and re-filling his own. Doyle took a long slurp and sighed appreciatively.
Somewhere to his left, Bodie's voice floated down to him. “You know, I mus' be going mad, Ray. I could've sworn you only had one of those tin soldier thingies before.” Bodie hiccupped, and waved his wine glass in the direction of the soldier on the mantelpiece.
Doyle turned his head and narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the direction Bodie was indicating. The tin soldier stood above the fireplace, his musket in his arms and his painted cheeks glowing faintly in the dim light. Doyle blinked, and looked again.
“There is jus' one soldier there, you moron. All by 'imself, standing to attention and ev'rythin'.”
Bodie frowned and pointed an unsteady finger at the space behind the tin figure. “Who's that then? Behind him, in the red coat?”
Doyle squinted, and then snorted. “That's the mirror, innit?
Bodie peered harder at the soldier and grinned, rocking unsteadily on his feet. “Aaah. Well, that's a relief. Thought I was going bonkers there for a minute.” He sat down abruptly on the rug, shuffling backwards to lean against the front of the sofa. “Poor lad though, up there all by himself. I'll buy you a whole battalion of soldiers next year, Ray. We can line them up, side by side. Cowley's Army.”
Doyle giggled and cuffed the back of Bodie's head. Bodie belched softly in response and turned his head so that his cheek came to rest on Doyle's knee.
Doyle smiled to himself. He could get used to this - Christmas Day off work, a belly full of turkey, a bottle or two of good wine. He played with the short hair at Bodie's temple, working the strands between his fingers. And Bodie, of course.
On the tv set, Eric slapped Little Ern affectionately on the cheeks and made a crack about his wig. “Hey, it's a good one that, you can't see the join.”
Doyle closed his eyes and sniggered. It was funny, that was. He let his hand come to rest on Bodie's shoulder as he drifted into a light sleep, his thumb rubbing small circles on the skin at Bodie's neck. You can't see the join...
**** **** **** **** **** ****
Doyle headed straight for the drinks cabinet, yanking the door open with such force that the bottles inside rattled and clattered ominously. Grabbing a flask of whisky and a glass, he threw himself down onto the sofa and stared out in front of him. So much for their relaxing weekend off over Christmas! Even the bloody Christmas tree was on its last legs, now completely bent in the middle and with only a couple of red fairylights left clinging valiantly to life.
By the fireplace, Bodie stood with his hands in his pockets, his head down. Doyle gulped down a shot of alcohol, wincing as the liquid hit the back of his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and watched as Bodie picked up the tin soldier, plucking absently at the paintwork. Doyle took a deep breath, forcing himself to try to calm down.
Alive... Bodie was alive.
He poured himself another drink and swallowed it down quickly.
Useless bloody Anson! Couldn't even keep a lovestruck Arab safe for more than two days before half the assassins in London came out to take a pot shot at him.
And at Bodie, it seemed.
Behind him, Bodie coughed quietly. Doyle turned, and saw him inspecting the bottom of the tin soldier's feet in apparent concentration. He rubbed his hand across his eyes.
He should say something, he knew. Two hours, and he hadn't spoken a word to Bodie; not since the Cow had sent them home with a curt nod and a directive for their reports to be filed first thing in the morning. Doyle let out another long, slow breath. The trouble was, he had no idea what he actually wanted to say.
Bodie looked up, took a half step towards him and stopped. “Ray? D'you say something?”
Doyle shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed the heel of his hand deep into the sockets and watched again as an angry four inch hole was blasted into a hotel door, exactly where Bodie's head had been just half a second before.
He heard Bodie sigh from his place by the fireplace and he closed his eyes even tighter.
“This old thing's looking a bit knackered, you know.” Doyle heard the muffled sound of the tin soldier being placed back on the mantelpiece. “Paint's coming off, and his hat's all scratched. We could get you a new one, all bright and shiny for next year.”
Doyle opened his eyes and stared at Bodie in disbelief. “I don't bloody want a new one, you idiot. I like the one I've got - that's the whole fucking point.”
Doyle hurled his empty glass at the Christmas tree, knocking the whole thing flying with a satisfying crash and a shattering of crystal.
He glared at Bodie, his breath coming in ragged, angry puffs.
Inexplicably - provokingly - Bodie was actually smiling at him. The smug, arrogant, infuriating bastard!
Doyle launched himself from the sofa, and met Bodie half way.
**** **** **** **** *** ***
Doyle pulled the fairylights free from the bottom half of the tiny Christmas tree and dropped them unceremoniously into the waste-paper basket. Bodie had been right about them after all - they really were just cheap crap. Hadn't even lasted until Boxing Day. And now that was a tenner he owed him. Still, he had a feeling Bodie wouldn't be too worried about collecting that particular debt this morning.
Bending down, he reached under the sofa and pulled out the cardboard box that had held the nativity scene. Grabbing a handful of newspaper sheets, he crossed to the fireplace and picked up the little soldier standing there.
Bodie had been right about one other thing as well. It had been a bloody good Christmas.
Doyle smiled to himself and encased the small figure in newspaper, keeping his tin soldier safe for another year.
Title: Tin Soldier
Author: Foxcat
B/D
Archive at Proslib: You betcha
Here's a very humble offering from me today. Hope you like it.
Doyle pulled out the last row of fairylights from the cardboard box and sighed at the tangled mass of plastic lights and twisted cable he held in his hands. Every year he promised himself that he’d pack the fairylights away properly, and every year he ended up simply shoving them back in the box as soon as they were down from the tree. He began picking at a particularly impressive knot with his fingernails. Maybe this’d teach him for next year.
He looked up at his economy value, extra-small, amazingly life-like Christmas tree, perched precariously on the coffee table by the window. Bodie had laughed when he first saw the bright green tree in its tiny box, but Doyle was unrepentant. After all, you couldn’t have Christmas without a tree, even if you were only at home to look at it for a couple of hours every day and even if the damn thing had a definite tilt to the left. Doyle leaned his head to the side a little and watched as the tree appeared to straighten to the right. Still, with a few fairy lights wrapped round its spindly branches and a nice silver star stuck on top, it probably wouldn’t look half bad.
A rustling of paper drew his attention away from the tree and Doyle smiled to himself as Bodie unwrapped a ceramic Mary from a large box marked Nativity, inspecting the virgin mother with a raised eyebrow. Glancing over at Doyle, Bodie carefully placed Mary on the window ledge next to Joseph and Jesus and a rather sad looking donkey with a chipped ear.
“You know Ray, all these years we've been partners and I never once thought you'd be the type of person who turned into the Christmas Fairy as soon as the first piece of tinsel appears in Selfridges window.” Bodie stepped back to inspect his handiwork, shifting Mary and Joseph a bit closer together on the window sill.
Doyle picked away at another knot in the chain of fairlylights and snorted. “Bit rich, coming from you, mate. A few Christmas cards and a Bing Crosby LP on the record player and you turn into Tiny bloody Tim.” He stood up and held out the line of freshly untangled lights in front of him. “There you are. Perfect, see?”
“Beautiful, mate.” Bodie pulled off a layer of newspaper from the next figurine in the box. “Go on then, stick 'em on and let's see if they still work.”
Doyle grinned and began wrapping the fairy lights around the Christmas tree, winding them round and round until the branches were filled with plastic bulbs. Scrambling on his hands and knees he plugged in the lights and flicked the switch. There was a low hum and a sputter of colour as the lights blinked into life.
Bodie looked across at Doyle. “Ten quid if they still work on New Year's Eve.”
“You're on. Quality lights these are, you know. Spared no expense. After all, this is the first Christmas in years we're gonna be around to enjoy them.”
Bodie rubbed his hands together gleefully. “God bless Betty and the Christmas rota. Ah, those poor sods, having to spend Christmas on duty at the Cow's beck and call.”
“Yeah well, let's just hope the Al-Farhan op gets sorted cleanly, or I have a dreadful feeling we'll be picking up the pieces anyway.”
Bodie snorted. “What, babysitting a Saudi prince while he visits his secret English mistress over Christmas? Piece of cake, even for Lucas and McCabe.”
Doyle raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah alright, maybe it would be a piece of cake if it wasn't for all those nasty death threats.” Bodie set to work on discarding another layer of newspaper from the tightly wrapped figurine he was holding. “Still, it couldn't happen to a nicer -”
“A nicer what?” Doyle looked up as Bodie pulled a small tin soldier free from its third and final layer of wrappings.
“Ray, this thing's great. Haven't seen one of these for years. I used to have a toy like this when I was a kid!” Bodie peered down at the tin soldier's painted face. “Best present I ever had, I didn't put it down for six months.” He waved the soldier in Doyle's direction. “Mind you, I don't exactly remember the light infantry being present at the birth of Jesus.”
Doyle snorted. “Me mum liked him. Made us put him up over the fireplace every year. He had a 'chrismassy face', she reckoned. I always thought he looked more like Uncle Bernie after he'd been at the sherry”.
Bodie patted the little tin soldier on its head. “Come on then, Uncle Bernie. Let's put you back where you belong.” He set the toy down on the mantel above the fireplace and saluted it solemnly.
“He looks good there. Makes the halls look well and truly decked. I reckon it could be a good Christmas this year, Raymond.”
In the far corner of the room, several of the green fairy lights exploded with a muffled pop.
**** **** **** **** **** ****
Doyle watched as another of the bulbs on the fairy lights flickered and buzzed irritably, before finally giving up and spluttering out one last time. The tree was definitely looking more sorry for itself, leaning even more heavily to the left and bathing the room in a lopsided red-white glow. In front of him Bodie lay sprawled out on the rug, contentedly watching Morecambe and Wise take seasonal delight in mocking an undeserving Des O'Connor.
Doyle picked up his empty glass and leaned back on the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him. He nudged Bodie with his foot.
“Gizzus some wine, mate.”
With a long groan of protest Bodie got up from his sprawl on the floor and reached out for the bottle, sloshing the wine into Doyle's glass and re-filling his own. Doyle took a long slurp and sighed appreciatively.
Somewhere to his left, Bodie's voice floated down to him. “You know, I mus' be going mad, Ray. I could've sworn you only had one of those tin soldier thingies before.” Bodie hiccupped, and waved his wine glass in the direction of the soldier on the mantelpiece.
Doyle turned his head and narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the direction Bodie was indicating. The tin soldier stood above the fireplace, his musket in his arms and his painted cheeks glowing faintly in the dim light. Doyle blinked, and looked again.
“There is jus' one soldier there, you moron. All by 'imself, standing to attention and ev'rythin'.”
Bodie frowned and pointed an unsteady finger at the space behind the tin figure. “Who's that then? Behind him, in the red coat?”
Doyle squinted, and then snorted. “That's the mirror, innit?
Bodie peered harder at the soldier and grinned, rocking unsteadily on his feet. “Aaah. Well, that's a relief. Thought I was going bonkers there for a minute.” He sat down abruptly on the rug, shuffling backwards to lean against the front of the sofa. “Poor lad though, up there all by himself. I'll buy you a whole battalion of soldiers next year, Ray. We can line them up, side by side. Cowley's Army.”
Doyle giggled and cuffed the back of Bodie's head. Bodie belched softly in response and turned his head so that his cheek came to rest on Doyle's knee.
Doyle smiled to himself. He could get used to this - Christmas Day off work, a belly full of turkey, a bottle or two of good wine. He played with the short hair at Bodie's temple, working the strands between his fingers. And Bodie, of course.
On the tv set, Eric slapped Little Ern affectionately on the cheeks and made a crack about his wig. “Hey, it's a good one that, you can't see the join.”
Doyle closed his eyes and sniggered. It was funny, that was. He let his hand come to rest on Bodie's shoulder as he drifted into a light sleep, his thumb rubbing small circles on the skin at Bodie's neck. You can't see the join...
**** **** **** **** **** ****
Doyle headed straight for the drinks cabinet, yanking the door open with such force that the bottles inside rattled and clattered ominously. Grabbing a flask of whisky and a glass, he threw himself down onto the sofa and stared out in front of him. So much for their relaxing weekend off over Christmas! Even the bloody Christmas tree was on its last legs, now completely bent in the middle and with only a couple of red fairylights left clinging valiantly to life.
By the fireplace, Bodie stood with his hands in his pockets, his head down. Doyle gulped down a shot of alcohol, wincing as the liquid hit the back of his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and watched as Bodie picked up the tin soldier, plucking absently at the paintwork. Doyle took a deep breath, forcing himself to try to calm down.
Alive... Bodie was alive.
He poured himself another drink and swallowed it down quickly.
Useless bloody Anson! Couldn't even keep a lovestruck Arab safe for more than two days before half the assassins in London came out to take a pot shot at him.
And at Bodie, it seemed.
Behind him, Bodie coughed quietly. Doyle turned, and saw him inspecting the bottom of the tin soldier's feet in apparent concentration. He rubbed his hand across his eyes.
He should say something, he knew. Two hours, and he hadn't spoken a word to Bodie; not since the Cow had sent them home with a curt nod and a directive for their reports to be filed first thing in the morning. Doyle let out another long, slow breath. The trouble was, he had no idea what he actually wanted to say.
Bodie looked up, took a half step towards him and stopped. “Ray? D'you say something?”
Doyle shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He pressed the heel of his hand deep into the sockets and watched again as an angry four inch hole was blasted into a hotel door, exactly where Bodie's head had been just half a second before.
He heard Bodie sigh from his place by the fireplace and he closed his eyes even tighter.
“This old thing's looking a bit knackered, you know.” Doyle heard the muffled sound of the tin soldier being placed back on the mantelpiece. “Paint's coming off, and his hat's all scratched. We could get you a new one, all bright and shiny for next year.”
Doyle opened his eyes and stared at Bodie in disbelief. “I don't bloody want a new one, you idiot. I like the one I've got - that's the whole fucking point.”
Doyle hurled his empty glass at the Christmas tree, knocking the whole thing flying with a satisfying crash and a shattering of crystal.
He glared at Bodie, his breath coming in ragged, angry puffs.
Inexplicably - provokingly - Bodie was actually smiling at him. The smug, arrogant, infuriating bastard!
Doyle launched himself from the sofa, and met Bodie half way.
**** **** **** **** *** ***
Doyle pulled the fairylights free from the bottom half of the tiny Christmas tree and dropped them unceremoniously into the waste-paper basket. Bodie had been right about them after all - they really were just cheap crap. Hadn't even lasted until Boxing Day. And now that was a tenner he owed him. Still, he had a feeling Bodie wouldn't be too worried about collecting that particular debt this morning.
Bending down, he reached under the sofa and pulled out the cardboard box that had held the nativity scene. Grabbing a handful of newspaper sheets, he crossed to the fireplace and picked up the little soldier standing there.
Bodie had been right about one other thing as well. It had been a bloody good Christmas.
Doyle smiled to himself and encased the small figure in newspaper, keeping his tin soldier safe for another year.
Title: Tin Soldier
Author: Foxcat
B/D
Archive at Proslib: You betcha