NS: The Feast of Epiphany
Epiphany Louise Bodie was eight months old at her first Christmas.
No one knew why Avril had chosen those names for her daughter. She hadn't been born anywhere near Christmas, or conceived then, either, and Louise wasn't a name in the Bodie family tree that Bodie himself could recall. Doyle wasn't sure they'd done the poor little mite any favours by going along with her mother's choice of names-he had the feeling she'd be in school two days before her nickname was either Fifi or Fanny.
Bodie, of course, called her Eel, dragging out the 'e' and 'l' sounds, and making fish-faces that always had Epiphany giggling with delight.
**
If anyone knew who Epiphany's father was, they'd never come forward. Avril hadn't ever said a word about him, not even during those last terrible days in hospital. Doyle had asked, of course; there was enough of the small-town Midlands lad (and the copper) left in him to believe a child should have some idea who her father was. Avril had turned a politely blank face and changed the subject.
It made things awkward, because no one believed two men with extensive experience in the security services couldn't have tracked the bastard down if they'd really wanted to. There hadn't been any outright accusations, but the implication was always thick in the room when the social service people came to call.
Bodie and Doyle were very careful to never ask either Cowley or Murphy questions to which they didn't want answers.
**
People often remarked on what a beautiful child Epiphany was. Bodie had taken one look at her and said in a hushed voice, "She walks in beauty like the night, and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes."
The one sharply slanted Bodie eyebrow was the only physical link to her mother, and to Bodie. The rest of her was all soft shades of coffee and chocolate and amber, a symphony of dark warmth that drew every eye. Doyle was already preparing for the day when someone would suggest modeling or acting.
He knew exactly where he'd hide the body.
**
It was Epiphany's temperament that was all Bodie, and it made Doyle ponder more than once about nature versus nurture. Provided she was fed regularly and kept clean, she was cheerful, affectionate and even-tempered, sleeping soundly and babbling happily with anyone who paid attention to her.
She had the Bodie fearlessness as well. She loved nothing more than to have Bodie throw her up in the air and catch her, swing and swoop her around while making daft airplane noises. Doyle would cover his eyes and grumble about possible brain damage while the two of them tumbled through the sitting room and down the hall, half-crawling, half-flying, missing sharp corners and hard edges by the barest margin.
It was Doyle who comforted them both when Epiphany knocked an elbow or sprawled full-length. Bodie always took it harder than Epiphany, whose tears dried with a quick cuddle and an arrowroot biscuit to gnaw on.
**
They'd starting taking her to the pool as soon as she could crawl. Epiphany loved to swim, and would splash gleefully between them, little arms and legs pumping furiously. To Bodie's consternation, she'd discovered the concept of diving before she'd completely mastered holding her breath, and would come up gurgling and whooping for air, spraying water everywhere. It never fazed her; she'd splutter and cough for a minute, then wriggle out of Bodie's arms and go under again, grinning from ear to ear.
At first, Doyle wondered what the mums and tots swim class made of them: two grim, grizzled, elderly white men and the tiny dark sprite they hovered over. After the third offer of an introduction to someone's aunt-"She's a bit younger than you are, but ever so sweet!"-he'd begun pointedly holding Bodie's hand when they entered the pool.
**
There was only one picture on their mantelpiece.
Avril Bodie, seventeen years old, her hair a vibrant tangle of magenta and indigo, both hands cupped over the neat little ball of her belly, laughing at something Doyle had said as Bodie snapped her picture. It was the only picture they had of her. Every time he looked at it, Doyle couldn't believe that in 2012, when every bloody phone had a camera, nobody had bothered to take pictures of her. They, the only family she'd had at the end, hadn't bothered to take more pictures of her.
They'd assumed there would be time, and Doyle could never quite forgive himself for that.
He'd been CI5. He knew better.
**
Bodie always insisted on leaving the Christmas tree up for the full twelve days. Doyle would gradually get the rest of the Christmas tat put away-greenery out to the compost, lights rolled up and stored back in the box room, gifts put to use as intended. But the tree hung on, in its corner between the kitchen and sitting room, a reminder, along with the dwindling mince pies and liqueur chocolates, that Christmas had been and gone for another year.
They'd decided, weeks in advance, that they wouldn't go overboard for Christmas, even if it was her first. Epiphany was really too young to understand it as anything except a blur of colored lights and candy and odd music. To Doyle's surprise, they'd kept their resolution. The gifts hadn't been extravagant, and they'd kept the treats within reason.
Now, watching Bodie hesitate in front of the tree, Doyle felt a pang too.
"Next year, we'll take her up to London, right? She'll be old enough to appreciate Oxford Street by then."
**
"Church?" Doyle looked at Bodie incredulously. "Are you serious?"
Bodie nodded. "Second Sunday after Christmas. Know what that is?"
Doyle shook his head. He'd fled the Methodist church as eagerly as he'd left Derby, and except for weddings, funerals and christenings, hadn't set foot in one since.
"It's the feast of Epiphany." At Doyle's guffaw, he held up his right hand. "No word of a lie, mate. Look it up."
"What's it about?"
"Marks when the three wise men from the east came to Bethlehem. If I remember right, it's about celebrating that something wonderful has been revealed to the world."
"You're telling me you believe all that? At your age?"
Bodie straightened into his parade rest stance. "You can believe in something wonderful without believing in the gold, frankincense and myrrh. Mind you, I wouldn't say no to some of the gold, if it came calling."
Doyle glanced over at Epiphany, playing with her blocks in a clear pool of winter morning sun. Yes, sometimes it was possible to believe in wonderful things.
Even those that came at a cost.
Bodie must have seen capitulation on his face, because he relaxed and wandered over to scoop Epiphany off the floor. She gave a little squawk of protest, but brightened when he swooped her over his head.
"Right then, Eel, let's get you popped in your party dress. Uncle Ray and I are taking you to church."
Doyle followed them down the hall, thinking again of how people changed and lives turned upside down. He and Bodie, at this stage of their lives, guardians of a child thrust into their hands by an accident of genetics and family enmity.
Church might be the better place for it, but he found himself looking up at the ceiling with a scowl. "Don't let us mess her up," he muttered fiercely.
From down the hall, he heard Epiphany laughing, and Bodie calling his name.
"Get a move on, Ray! We'll go down the pub for lunch after. I want to show you off in that new shirt Father Christmas brought."
Doyle found himself laughing as well.
Wonderful things indeed.
Title: The Feast of Epiphany
Author: Verlaine
Slash or Gen: Slash (but very mild)
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: yes, please
Disclaimer: Not mine, more's the pity
Notes: A sequel to last year's story, Epiphany Blues
Warning: Kidfic