Discovered in the Christmas Tree, January 6
My prompt was "a blue bauble". I have no idea how I got from that to this.
Epiphany Blues
by Verlaine
"Tea, Ray? Or coffee?"
There was no response, a not uncommon occurrence in the past two days.
Bodie looked over at his partner, curled up in the armchair in a way that made Bodie's spine ache just watching. Doyle's attention was focused totally on the book in his lap. His glasses were slightly askew partway down his nose, and his hair even more rumpled than usual.
Bodie cleared his throat emphatically.
Doyle glanced up, said vaguely, "Yeah, right," and went back to his reading. A moment later he straightened abruptly, eyes wide. "Um, what did I just agree to?"
"A lesser man would take advantage," Bodie said solemnly. "Lucky for you I only asked for fifty pounds."
"Fifty pounds?" Doyle's voice rose in outrage. "Are you-" He broke off and looked sheepishly down at his book. "I have been buried in this a bit, haven't I?"
"No, no, can't tell the difference, you ignore me all the time. If I'd known back in the day you were this mad about Keith Richards, I'd have taken you to a Stones concert in eighty-one and shagged you in the old Escort on the way home," Bodie grumbled as he headed toward the kitchen and kettle. He ran the back of his hand along Doyle's cheek as he passed. Doyle had started growing a beard again, and Bodie relished the feeling of soft fuzz against his skin.
Doyle's mouth quirked in a fond grin. He flipped the book shut and traced a light finger over the picture on the cover. "Reminds me of meself when I was young. All mouth 'n trousers." He chuckled. "If I'd come down from Derby a few years earlier, we might have ended up in school together."
"Not sure London would've survived a pair of tear-aways like you. Now, coffee or tea?"
"Tea, thanks, luv. I should-" Doyle started to struggle out of the chair.
Bodie pressed him down with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Go on, read. You've had to wait since Christmas. I thought you'd have exploded before now."
Doyle really had been remarkably patient about diving into the book, Bodie thought as he switched on the kettle and set out mugs and milk.
Christmas Eve and Christmas Day had been spent in Derby visiting Doyle's brothers and sister and their families. Bodie still couldn't believe how a ragged, surly crop of teenagers had transformed, seemingly overnight, into respectable twenty-somethings with jobs, houses and ankle-biters of their own. It was Doyle's first Christmas as a great-uncle, and Bodie still found himself chuckling at the memory of his partner's face as squirming, babbling six-month-old Nicholas looked innocently up at 'Uncle Ray', and grabbed a double fistful of grey curls. And pulled.
His own armful, baby Lilah, had cooed, batted her huge brown eyes and promptly fallen asleep.
"Still have your way with the birds, I see," Doyle whispered to him later.
Boxing Day was spent with Cowley. The old man, still sharp as a tack at over ninety, had queried them briskly about current government policy and foreign affairs, pointing out what he considered to be errors or omissions as acerbically as ever. Glad as he was that Cowley was still alive to lecture them, Bodie sometimes wondered if he would ever acknowledge that they were now as experienced in the corridors of power as they had been on the streets.
The following day it had become a tradition to take the train to London and meet up with Susan and Liz. Susan was as beautiful at sixty as she'd been at thirty, while Liz had grown into a calm mature loveliness. Both were divorced, neither looking for anything but friendship and the opportunity to talk freely with someone with a security clearance to match their own. They'd gone to the theater in the afternoon, followed by a decent meal in a little restaurant on an almost deserted West End street, followed by a stroll up and down Oxford Street to look at the lights, and a quick drink in a pub before heading back to the train. They were two good-looking couples, and if people saw the wrong mix of couples, that was no one's business but their own.
The following day, Murphy and Betty came by for lunch, bringing with them their youngest, a tall earnest seventeen-year-old. After lunch, the boy had shyly drawn Bodie into the study and questioned him seriously about the prospect of a career in the army. That made some sense out of the tight, pinched look around Betty's eyes, and Murphy's quieter than usual greeting.
"Nobody's beaten the Afghans since the time of Alexander the Great. We couldn't do it under Victoria, when we were the empire of the world, and we're sure as hell not going to do it now. And neither are the Yanks, or the Canadians or anybody else." Unless you really want to make an intimate acquaintance with an IED, pick something safer to do."
"Like you did?" The boy's voice held a trace of challenge.
Bodie flushed, but met his eyes unflinchingly. "There's not much to do but think in a Congo prison. I was a tough, dangerous little bastard, couldn't even make it through my eleven-plus, thought all it took to get somewhere in the world was being angry and having the muscle to back it up. The way I saw it, the army was my only chance at doing what I was best at without spending the rest of my life locked up somewhere or other. As it turned out, I got a lot more than that. But you've already got everything the army gave me from Murph and your mother. You can do it, but you don't need to."
The Murphys had been the last of the Christmas visitors. When Bodie came in from seeing them to their car, Doyle was already ensconced in the armchair.
"Three days of peace and quiet," he said happily, nose already descending into his book.
He'd barely budged since.
Just as the kettle came to a bubbling crescendo, Bodie heard it. A very faint but deliberate tapping on the back door. For a moment he wondered why the hair was rising on the back of his neck, and then decades-old memories kicked in. He'd heard that same kind of tapping in prison, from men desperate to communicate, yet afraid to be heard.
Eyes on the door, he slid open the utensil drawer and pulled out his gun. Holding it behind his back, he edged over and flung the door open in one swift drive.
The girl on the back step couldn't have been more than eighteen. She was tall, slim, and very pale, her dark hair splashed with three streaks of bright blue dye that matched the blue on her fingernails. There was a ring in her nose, and enough heavy dark makeup around her eyes to make her look consumptive. Still, there was no mistaking the indigo eyes and the one quirked eyebrow. Bodie felt his heart slow, and then thump once, hard.
"Mr. Bodie?" Her voice was rough and shaky.
"Sorry to tell you this, sweetheart, but whatever you want to put over on us, you're at least ten years too young."
"Ten years too-?" She faltered to a halt, eyes widening "Oh. . . but." Sudden comprehension lit her face. "Oh no, I'm not your daughter. That is, if you are William Bodie? You must be." One unsteady finger traced her crooked eyebrow.
Bodie nodded. "Ray?" he called, amazed at how steady his voice was. "Come out here, will you?"
A moment later, Doyle appeared at his side. The girl gasped and took a step back. Bodie shot a quick glance sideways. He wondered if it was the gun in Doyle's fist, or the look on his face that had frightened her.
"Easy, Ray," he murmured.
Doyle's eyes never left the girl's face. "I've always wondered why no one ever tried this before. News of the World, are you?"
"You've both got guns," she whispered. "You'd use them, too, wouldn't you?"
"They sent you in without warning you?" Bodie chuckled. "Amateurs."
The girl shook her head. "Nobody sent me. I googled you." She wiped one hand across her eyes, smearing her cheeks with grey and black. "I thought-never mind."
As she turned away, the oversized coat she was wearing swung open, revealing tattered jeans and a pale grey cardigan, stretched out of shape by her rounded stomach. Bodie's hand shot out to grip her shoulder before his conscious mind had time to react.
"Let me go!"
"How far along are you?" He didn't recognize the creaky sound of his own voice.
"Please let me go, I'll leave, please don't hurt us," she babbled.
"No one's going to hurt you." He hastily pushed the gun out of sight into the back of his waistband. "It's all right, really. We're not mad."
"Just dangerous," Doyle growled.
"How far along, then?"
"Five months." Her hands gently cradled her belly. "That's partly why I came here."
Doyle rolled his eyes. "Oh, Christ. Little waif shows up at Christmas and we're supposed to get all sentimental over it. Sorry to disappoint."
"Ray." Bodie put a hand on his arm.
Doyle shrugged. "Your funeral, mate." But he reached back to set his gun on the drain-board.
"All right." Bodie turned to the girl, and tried on a smile. "Don't mind him. We're keeping him from his reading. So tell me again. Who are you?"
She gave him a wary look. "If you're William Bodie, from Liverpool, then I'm your cousin. Well, second cousin, I suppose. Avril Bodie."
She stuck out her hand with a wobbly little smile, and it took Bodie a blank moment to realize she expected a handshake. He took it, feeling the chilly little fingers tremble in his.
"Got any proof of that?" Doyle said.
"I've got me birth certificate." She patted her purse. "Don't have anything of Dad's though. He hasn't let me in the house since he found out about the acorn." She rubbed her belly again with a twisted half-smile.
"Come on then," Doyle said in a tone that most people would have thought was kindly. "Let's get you sitting down. Can't be good for the baby, standing out here in the draft."
He ushered the girl into the kitchen, taking her jacket and draping it over a chair, asking if she'd prefer coffee or tea. He looked like any elderly duffer fussing over a pregnant girl, Bodie thought: disheveled grey curls, glasses, a rumpled cardigan half-unbuttoned. With any luck, young Avril wouldn't realize that she was being discreetly but efficiently searched. Or that the hand escorting her toward the lounge was capable of snapping her arm if she made a wrong move.
Bodie turned and went into the study, shutting the door behind him. For a moment he hesitated at the telephone, wishing savagely he'd simply shut the door in her face.
All these damn years, he thought. And I thought I'd never have to deal with any of it again.
With a sigh, he picked up the instrument. "Control, this is Alpha Two. I need a search run on a woman named Avril Bodie. Age somewhere in the late teens. Send the results to my computer as soon as you have anything."
He sank into the chair behind the desk and firmly refused to think of anything at all.
When he entered the lounge ten minutes later, Bodie felt a broad grin spreading over his face. Avril was nestled in the armchair closest to the electric fire, the ottoman under her feet and a blanket tucked around her. A glass of milk and a plate of apple and clementine slices rested on the table beside her. Doyle was sitting opposite, looking much like an aging terrier on guard.
Bodie, who wouldn't have been surprised to see the girl handcuffed to the chair, felt a deep wave of affection run through him. Doyle's suspicious nature had always had a hard run against his protective instincts.
Doyle raised an eyebrow at him. Bodie nodded.
"She checks out. Avril Bodie, daughter of Joe Bodie and Emma Blandings. Granddaughter of Philip Bodie." He laughed softly. "My uncle Phil. God save us all."
"You don't owe any of them anything," Doyle said evenly. "You were just a kid when they threw you out. No thanks to them you've survived."
"Yeah. Just a kid. Younger even than she is." Bodie jerked his chin at Avril.
"Threw you out?" Avril said. "Who? Your mum and dad?"
"Whole family," Bodie said shortly.
"Never darken our doors again?" She laughed shakily. "At least we've got that in common." Her look shifted between them. "Was it because you two-" She waved her hands between them.
Bodie felt himself blush as Doyle stifled a laugh.
"No, it wasn't this loon. But it was . . . someone. And technically, they didn't throw me out," he added. "I ran before the old man could put the boots to me."
Doyle waggled a hand back and forth. "Six of one, half-dozen of the other." His gaze sharpened on the girl.
"So, we've established you're Bodie's cousin. Why are you here?"
Avril shifted uncomfortably. "Well, to find out about my family, I suppose. Granddad never talked about his people-never talked much at all, except to tell us to bugger off and leave him be. He was a nasty old trout, couldn't get along with anybody. Fought with the neighbours, fought with the tradesmen, fought with me mum and dad. Never understood why he lived with us, he couldn't stand us anyway."
"Sounds lovely," Doyle said dryly.
The girl gave a lopsided grin and shook her head. "Right out of a bloody novel, I'll tell you. Mum and Dad going at each other hammer and tongs downstairs, me and Billy stuck upstairs, too scared to squeak, and Granddad in the box room, beating his stick on the floor and swearing at us all like a drunken parrot."
"Billy?" Bodie said softly.
"Me brother. He's two years older."
"He know you're looking up the family?"
She shrugged. "Haven't seen him in years. He was drinking before he was in his teens, kept running off and getting brought back by the coppers. Once he got a little size on him, he started fighting Dad back, and getting his teeth knocked in for his trouble. Thought they were going to kill each other, sometimes, I did. Then he started stealing, got caught . . . "
Her voice trailed off. She coughed, and continued. "Anyway, Granddad never had anything good to say about his family, and Dad was even worse. Last time I tried to ask him, he gave me a clout round the ear, nearly put me in hospital, so I said, bugger him, who needs the aggro, right?" She lifted a fall of blue-stained hair from the side of her head. "Still got the scar, here, and that cured me of poking my nose where it wasn't wanted.
"Put it all out of me mind for years, never cared much one way or the other. But now," she touched her belly protectively, "now there's the acorn coming in a few months, and I thought, well, better try and find out something. At least make sure they're not all lunatics like Granddad, or bastards like Dad."
Bodie nodded, bemused.
"So I started googling my name in the library, and finding old records. Turns out everyone in Liverpool's dead. And then, suddenly, there's you. William Andrew Philip Bodie. Army, decorated in the SAS. You sounded like you might be decent."
Her tone said she'd had cause to change her mind.
"Look, luv, I'm sorry for the unorthodox welcome. But me and Doyle, we're, well, civil servants-"
"CI5," she said triumphantly. "I know."
Bodie looked at Doyle in consternation.
"Wikileaks?" Doyle asked politely. "Or did you just hack the mainframe?"
"I used my head," she snapped. "Once I knew where to look, I could put the pieces together. You're not quite as secret as MI6. And lucky for you I did have some idea what you are, or you'd have scared me into a hemorrhage, waving those guns at me like that."
"Puts us in our place, doesn't it?" Doyle said sourly.
"All right, so you know what we are. We'll have to have you vetted by security, but that should only take a few days. You can stay here tonight, and then we'll see about finding you a decent place to live."
"Bodie." Doyle broke in sharply. "She's not a stray dog to take in. Do you really want to start in with that lot again?"
"So I leave her in some squat? Christ, Doyle, it was bad enough when I had to do it, and it's only gotten worse over the years."
"You don't owe any of them anything," Doyle repeated.
"Maybe not," Bodie said in exasperation. "But what's she going to do? Jump a tramp freighter? Or carry a gun in the Congo?"
"Wait, wait!" Avril cried out. "Look, I said I don't want anything, and I meant it. I'm staying with the mother of a friend, and I'm working in a Costa Coffee place. Once the baby's born, there'll be benefits. We'll manage. I'm not the first girl to have a baby by myself and I won't be the last."
"But now you don't have to," Bodie said, bewildered. "Even if you don't want to live here-and, no, Ray, I'm not saying she can-you need decent shelter. You need things for the baby."
"And I'll get them the same way I get everything else. I'll work, and I'll make do. I don't want your money. I just want to . . . to know you."
"Good. That's settled then." Doyle pushed briskly to his feet. "You two sit and have a nice chat while I go and dig some of our old pictures out in the box room."
As he passed Avril's armchair, his pace slowed and he patted a stray corner of the blanket into place. With an effort, Bodie kept his expression neutral.
We'll have her moved upstairs inside a fortnight, Bodie thought, unsure whether the idea filled him with fear or contentment.
Wonder if the baby will like pulling Ray's hair.
Title: Epiphany Blues
Author: Verlaine
Slash or Gen: slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes, please
Disclaimer: Not mine. No copyright infringement intended.
Epiphany Blues
by Verlaine
"Tea, Ray? Or coffee?"
There was no response, a not uncommon occurrence in the past two days.
Bodie looked over at his partner, curled up in the armchair in a way that made Bodie's spine ache just watching. Doyle's attention was focused totally on the book in his lap. His glasses were slightly askew partway down his nose, and his hair even more rumpled than usual.
Bodie cleared his throat emphatically.
Doyle glanced up, said vaguely, "Yeah, right," and went back to his reading. A moment later he straightened abruptly, eyes wide. "Um, what did I just agree to?"
"A lesser man would take advantage," Bodie said solemnly. "Lucky for you I only asked for fifty pounds."
"Fifty pounds?" Doyle's voice rose in outrage. "Are you-" He broke off and looked sheepishly down at his book. "I have been buried in this a bit, haven't I?"
"No, no, can't tell the difference, you ignore me all the time. If I'd known back in the day you were this mad about Keith Richards, I'd have taken you to a Stones concert in eighty-one and shagged you in the old Escort on the way home," Bodie grumbled as he headed toward the kitchen and kettle. He ran the back of his hand along Doyle's cheek as he passed. Doyle had started growing a beard again, and Bodie relished the feeling of soft fuzz against his skin.
Doyle's mouth quirked in a fond grin. He flipped the book shut and traced a light finger over the picture on the cover. "Reminds me of meself when I was young. All mouth 'n trousers." He chuckled. "If I'd come down from Derby a few years earlier, we might have ended up in school together."
"Not sure London would've survived a pair of tear-aways like you. Now, coffee or tea?"
"Tea, thanks, luv. I should-" Doyle started to struggle out of the chair.
Bodie pressed him down with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Go on, read. You've had to wait since Christmas. I thought you'd have exploded before now."
Doyle really had been remarkably patient about diving into the book, Bodie thought as he switched on the kettle and set out mugs and milk.
Christmas Eve and Christmas Day had been spent in Derby visiting Doyle's brothers and sister and their families. Bodie still couldn't believe how a ragged, surly crop of teenagers had transformed, seemingly overnight, into respectable twenty-somethings with jobs, houses and ankle-biters of their own. It was Doyle's first Christmas as a great-uncle, and Bodie still found himself chuckling at the memory of his partner's face as squirming, babbling six-month-old Nicholas looked innocently up at 'Uncle Ray', and grabbed a double fistful of grey curls. And pulled.
His own armful, baby Lilah, had cooed, batted her huge brown eyes and promptly fallen asleep.
"Still have your way with the birds, I see," Doyle whispered to him later.
Boxing Day was spent with Cowley. The old man, still sharp as a tack at over ninety, had queried them briskly about current government policy and foreign affairs, pointing out what he considered to be errors or omissions as acerbically as ever. Glad as he was that Cowley was still alive to lecture them, Bodie sometimes wondered if he would ever acknowledge that they were now as experienced in the corridors of power as they had been on the streets.
The following day it had become a tradition to take the train to London and meet up with Susan and Liz. Susan was as beautiful at sixty as she'd been at thirty, while Liz had grown into a calm mature loveliness. Both were divorced, neither looking for anything but friendship and the opportunity to talk freely with someone with a security clearance to match their own. They'd gone to the theater in the afternoon, followed by a decent meal in a little restaurant on an almost deserted West End street, followed by a stroll up and down Oxford Street to look at the lights, and a quick drink in a pub before heading back to the train. They were two good-looking couples, and if people saw the wrong mix of couples, that was no one's business but their own.
The following day, Murphy and Betty came by for lunch, bringing with them their youngest, a tall earnest seventeen-year-old. After lunch, the boy had shyly drawn Bodie into the study and questioned him seriously about the prospect of a career in the army. That made some sense out of the tight, pinched look around Betty's eyes, and Murphy's quieter than usual greeting.
"Nobody's beaten the Afghans since the time of Alexander the Great. We couldn't do it under Victoria, when we were the empire of the world, and we're sure as hell not going to do it now. And neither are the Yanks, or the Canadians or anybody else." Unless you really want to make an intimate acquaintance with an IED, pick something safer to do."
"Like you did?" The boy's voice held a trace of challenge.
Bodie flushed, but met his eyes unflinchingly. "There's not much to do but think in a Congo prison. I was a tough, dangerous little bastard, couldn't even make it through my eleven-plus, thought all it took to get somewhere in the world was being angry and having the muscle to back it up. The way I saw it, the army was my only chance at doing what I was best at without spending the rest of my life locked up somewhere or other. As it turned out, I got a lot more than that. But you've already got everything the army gave me from Murph and your mother. You can do it, but you don't need to."
The Murphys had been the last of the Christmas visitors. When Bodie came in from seeing them to their car, Doyle was already ensconced in the armchair.
"Three days of peace and quiet," he said happily, nose already descending into his book.
He'd barely budged since.
Just as the kettle came to a bubbling crescendo, Bodie heard it. A very faint but deliberate tapping on the back door. For a moment he wondered why the hair was rising on the back of his neck, and then decades-old memories kicked in. He'd heard that same kind of tapping in prison, from men desperate to communicate, yet afraid to be heard.
Eyes on the door, he slid open the utensil drawer and pulled out his gun. Holding it behind his back, he edged over and flung the door open in one swift drive.
The girl on the back step couldn't have been more than eighteen. She was tall, slim, and very pale, her dark hair splashed with three streaks of bright blue dye that matched the blue on her fingernails. There was a ring in her nose, and enough heavy dark makeup around her eyes to make her look consumptive. Still, there was no mistaking the indigo eyes and the one quirked eyebrow. Bodie felt his heart slow, and then thump once, hard.
"Mr. Bodie?" Her voice was rough and shaky.
"Sorry to tell you this, sweetheart, but whatever you want to put over on us, you're at least ten years too young."
"Ten years too-?" She faltered to a halt, eyes widening "Oh. . . but." Sudden comprehension lit her face. "Oh no, I'm not your daughter. That is, if you are William Bodie? You must be." One unsteady finger traced her crooked eyebrow.
Bodie nodded. "Ray?" he called, amazed at how steady his voice was. "Come out here, will you?"
A moment later, Doyle appeared at his side. The girl gasped and took a step back. Bodie shot a quick glance sideways. He wondered if it was the gun in Doyle's fist, or the look on his face that had frightened her.
"Easy, Ray," he murmured.
Doyle's eyes never left the girl's face. "I've always wondered why no one ever tried this before. News of the World, are you?"
"You've both got guns," she whispered. "You'd use them, too, wouldn't you?"
"They sent you in without warning you?" Bodie chuckled. "Amateurs."
The girl shook her head. "Nobody sent me. I googled you." She wiped one hand across her eyes, smearing her cheeks with grey and black. "I thought-never mind."
As she turned away, the oversized coat she was wearing swung open, revealing tattered jeans and a pale grey cardigan, stretched out of shape by her rounded stomach. Bodie's hand shot out to grip her shoulder before his conscious mind had time to react.
"Let me go!"
"How far along are you?" He didn't recognize the creaky sound of his own voice.
"Please let me go, I'll leave, please don't hurt us," she babbled.
"No one's going to hurt you." He hastily pushed the gun out of sight into the back of his waistband. "It's all right, really. We're not mad."
"Just dangerous," Doyle growled.
"How far along, then?"
"Five months." Her hands gently cradled her belly. "That's partly why I came here."
Doyle rolled his eyes. "Oh, Christ. Little waif shows up at Christmas and we're supposed to get all sentimental over it. Sorry to disappoint."
"Ray." Bodie put a hand on his arm.
Doyle shrugged. "Your funeral, mate." But he reached back to set his gun on the drain-board.
"All right." Bodie turned to the girl, and tried on a smile. "Don't mind him. We're keeping him from his reading. So tell me again. Who are you?"
She gave him a wary look. "If you're William Bodie, from Liverpool, then I'm your cousin. Well, second cousin, I suppose. Avril Bodie."
She stuck out her hand with a wobbly little smile, and it took Bodie a blank moment to realize she expected a handshake. He took it, feeling the chilly little fingers tremble in his.
"Got any proof of that?" Doyle said.
"I've got me birth certificate." She patted her purse. "Don't have anything of Dad's though. He hasn't let me in the house since he found out about the acorn." She rubbed her belly again with a twisted half-smile.
"Come on then," Doyle said in a tone that most people would have thought was kindly. "Let's get you sitting down. Can't be good for the baby, standing out here in the draft."
He ushered the girl into the kitchen, taking her jacket and draping it over a chair, asking if she'd prefer coffee or tea. He looked like any elderly duffer fussing over a pregnant girl, Bodie thought: disheveled grey curls, glasses, a rumpled cardigan half-unbuttoned. With any luck, young Avril wouldn't realize that she was being discreetly but efficiently searched. Or that the hand escorting her toward the lounge was capable of snapping her arm if she made a wrong move.
Bodie turned and went into the study, shutting the door behind him. For a moment he hesitated at the telephone, wishing savagely he'd simply shut the door in her face.
All these damn years, he thought. And I thought I'd never have to deal with any of it again.
With a sigh, he picked up the instrument. "Control, this is Alpha Two. I need a search run on a woman named Avril Bodie. Age somewhere in the late teens. Send the results to my computer as soon as you have anything."
He sank into the chair behind the desk and firmly refused to think of anything at all.
When he entered the lounge ten minutes later, Bodie felt a broad grin spreading over his face. Avril was nestled in the armchair closest to the electric fire, the ottoman under her feet and a blanket tucked around her. A glass of milk and a plate of apple and clementine slices rested on the table beside her. Doyle was sitting opposite, looking much like an aging terrier on guard.
Bodie, who wouldn't have been surprised to see the girl handcuffed to the chair, felt a deep wave of affection run through him. Doyle's suspicious nature had always had a hard run against his protective instincts.
Doyle raised an eyebrow at him. Bodie nodded.
"She checks out. Avril Bodie, daughter of Joe Bodie and Emma Blandings. Granddaughter of Philip Bodie." He laughed softly. "My uncle Phil. God save us all."
"You don't owe any of them anything," Doyle said evenly. "You were just a kid when they threw you out. No thanks to them you've survived."
"Yeah. Just a kid. Younger even than she is." Bodie jerked his chin at Avril.
"Threw you out?" Avril said. "Who? Your mum and dad?"
"Whole family," Bodie said shortly.
"Never darken our doors again?" She laughed shakily. "At least we've got that in common." Her look shifted between them. "Was it because you two-" She waved her hands between them.
Bodie felt himself blush as Doyle stifled a laugh.
"No, it wasn't this loon. But it was . . . someone. And technically, they didn't throw me out," he added. "I ran before the old man could put the boots to me."
Doyle waggled a hand back and forth. "Six of one, half-dozen of the other." His gaze sharpened on the girl.
"So, we've established you're Bodie's cousin. Why are you here?"
Avril shifted uncomfortably. "Well, to find out about my family, I suppose. Granddad never talked about his people-never talked much at all, except to tell us to bugger off and leave him be. He was a nasty old trout, couldn't get along with anybody. Fought with the neighbours, fought with the tradesmen, fought with me mum and dad. Never understood why he lived with us, he couldn't stand us anyway."
"Sounds lovely," Doyle said dryly.
The girl gave a lopsided grin and shook her head. "Right out of a bloody novel, I'll tell you. Mum and Dad going at each other hammer and tongs downstairs, me and Billy stuck upstairs, too scared to squeak, and Granddad in the box room, beating his stick on the floor and swearing at us all like a drunken parrot."
"Billy?" Bodie said softly.
"Me brother. He's two years older."
"He know you're looking up the family?"
She shrugged. "Haven't seen him in years. He was drinking before he was in his teens, kept running off and getting brought back by the coppers. Once he got a little size on him, he started fighting Dad back, and getting his teeth knocked in for his trouble. Thought they were going to kill each other, sometimes, I did. Then he started stealing, got caught . . . "
Her voice trailed off. She coughed, and continued. "Anyway, Granddad never had anything good to say about his family, and Dad was even worse. Last time I tried to ask him, he gave me a clout round the ear, nearly put me in hospital, so I said, bugger him, who needs the aggro, right?" She lifted a fall of blue-stained hair from the side of her head. "Still got the scar, here, and that cured me of poking my nose where it wasn't wanted.
"Put it all out of me mind for years, never cared much one way or the other. But now," she touched her belly protectively, "now there's the acorn coming in a few months, and I thought, well, better try and find out something. At least make sure they're not all lunatics like Granddad, or bastards like Dad."
Bodie nodded, bemused.
"So I started googling my name in the library, and finding old records. Turns out everyone in Liverpool's dead. And then, suddenly, there's you. William Andrew Philip Bodie. Army, decorated in the SAS. You sounded like you might be decent."
Her tone said she'd had cause to change her mind.
"Look, luv, I'm sorry for the unorthodox welcome. But me and Doyle, we're, well, civil servants-"
"CI5," she said triumphantly. "I know."
Bodie looked at Doyle in consternation.
"Wikileaks?" Doyle asked politely. "Or did you just hack the mainframe?"
"I used my head," she snapped. "Once I knew where to look, I could put the pieces together. You're not quite as secret as MI6. And lucky for you I did have some idea what you are, or you'd have scared me into a hemorrhage, waving those guns at me like that."
"Puts us in our place, doesn't it?" Doyle said sourly.
"All right, so you know what we are. We'll have to have you vetted by security, but that should only take a few days. You can stay here tonight, and then we'll see about finding you a decent place to live."
"Bodie." Doyle broke in sharply. "She's not a stray dog to take in. Do you really want to start in with that lot again?"
"So I leave her in some squat? Christ, Doyle, it was bad enough when I had to do it, and it's only gotten worse over the years."
"You don't owe any of them anything," Doyle repeated.
"Maybe not," Bodie said in exasperation. "But what's she going to do? Jump a tramp freighter? Or carry a gun in the Congo?"
"Wait, wait!" Avril cried out. "Look, I said I don't want anything, and I meant it. I'm staying with the mother of a friend, and I'm working in a Costa Coffee place. Once the baby's born, there'll be benefits. We'll manage. I'm not the first girl to have a baby by myself and I won't be the last."
"But now you don't have to," Bodie said, bewildered. "Even if you don't want to live here-and, no, Ray, I'm not saying she can-you need decent shelter. You need things for the baby."
"And I'll get them the same way I get everything else. I'll work, and I'll make do. I don't want your money. I just want to . . . to know you."
"Good. That's settled then." Doyle pushed briskly to his feet. "You two sit and have a nice chat while I go and dig some of our old pictures out in the box room."
As he passed Avril's armchair, his pace slowed and he patted a stray corner of the blanket into place. With an effort, Bodie kept his expression neutral.
We'll have her moved upstairs inside a fortnight, Bodie thought, unsure whether the idea filled him with fear or contentment.
Wonder if the baby will like pulling Ray's hair.
Title: Epiphany Blues
Author: Verlaine
Slash or Gen: slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes, please
Disclaimer: Not mine. No copyright infringement intended.