Discovered in a Christmas Pud - December 9th
Far off in the distance Doyle thought he could hear singing. And bells.
Singing and bells.
It had to be the drugs.
Still, it also had to be an improvement on the disembodied voices which had been plaguing him for some time. He turned slightly, bringing his hips with him. Something pulled at his side, like teeth. Sharp, vicious teeth, a whole mouthful of them vindictively chewing the side of his ribs.
His thinking brain interrupted him.
Stitches, Doyle, that would be stitches.
Which meant something in particular. He could smell it now. A mixture of disinfectant and metal that he recognized from... well, not long ago. But now there was something else, too, that hadn’t been there before. A top note of soggy sprouts.
Happy Christmas to me, he thought miserably. Happy, merry, bastard Christmas.
Somebody or somebodies with no musical ability were still singing vaguely in the background, and then the jangle of curtain rings heralded... something new. The arrival of someone in a white coat, perhaps. Or else someone snippy in a starched cap. Almost certainly it was going to be a someone with a clipboard clutched officiously to their bosom, someone offering him Christmas cheer in the form of a hypo, a cuff or something to stick up his... the curtains jangled shut around his bed and Doyle sighed heavily.
“Go ‘way,” he attempted to growl, although he wasn’t convinced both words made it out of his mouth in one piece.
That should do it.
“Charming,” a deep, perfectly-embodied voice said.
Doyle’s heart, which up to now had felt like a lump of unresponsive putty, turned over and began to thump. Peeling open his gummed-up eyelids with difficulty he made out a shape close by -- dark head, dark clothing, the pale contrast of a face. The silhouette -- broad-shouldered, upright -- was one he hadn’t been expecting, not for a moment. And actually, when he thought about it, didn’t believe was really there.
Doyle groped for sense. As far as he’d been aware (before that awareness had been summarily removed by an unknown assailant bearing him most unseasonal ill will), Bodie had already left. He’d made off, decamped, departed. Doyle spent a hazy, nauseous moment remembering where exactly he reckoned Bodie had made off, decamped, and departed to. Vague snatches of conversation materialized in his head, and an image that seemed to have no clear place in time.
Bodie leaning on the Capri with his arms folded, looking apologetic, elegant. And so very, very handsome.
“Can’t really avoid it this year, mate.”
Yes, that was it. That was where he was. Staging a rare family fly-past.
Or, wait. Confusion tumbled over Doyle. A painful anxiety. Was it last year he was thinking about? He struggled to be sure, to find a hand-hold of certainty. When he thought he’d grasped one, somehow it didn’t make him feel any more secure. He was pretty certain that right at this moment, for some reason or other, Bodie was a very long way away from here across the water. He’d already been gone for... days. And the absence hadn’t felt right, not for one single moment.
“Thought,” Doyle said through the handfuls of rank-tasting lambswool that someone had evidently seen fit to stuff into his mouth. “Thought you were…”
“They won’t miss me.”
If there was absolutely any regret there, Doyle couldn’t hear it. Instead, the voice sounded irredeemably cheerful. “But I thought you might.”
“Snow at number 14,” Doyle murmured, shutting his eyes again. He somehow wanted to try and explain why he’d found himself all alone in hospital on Christmas Day, with only some rejects from the Children’s Ward party and a grumpy anaesthetist in a Father Christmas hat to visit him.
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
They’d be here if they could, his mum and assorted relatives, that was the point. “It’s just the snow,” he reiterated, feeble.
The voice tutted. “Blimey, how much have you had?”
“Ugh,” Doyle said around his tongue. Too bloody much. That was all he knew.
“Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?” The voice was fond.
“Wasn’t my fault.” Doyle felt defensive. He had the odd memory that he’d already said precisely this, multiple times, to a whole range of people. Although quite when he would have done so he couldn’t be sure.
There were the drugs of course. Layers of them, making the real unreal. Or the other way round. Probably supposed to be keeping him under. Doyle worried that he ought not to be awake at all and that he might get into trouble if anyone in authority found out. A vague, yearning feeling drifted over him. Even though the teeth were still firmly locked on to his side, meditatively chewing, it was his chest that ached.
It was a formless, bottomless ache, like homesickness.
Doyle made one last attempt to open his eyes properly, to connect the dots.
“Singing,” he said, because it was still going on, although faint now, very faint.
“And bells,” the deep voice agreed on a chuckle, and Doyle felt the simple weight of a hand across his forehead. It was the most real thing in his entire existence, always, telling him to rest, to sleep, and definitely not to worry because everything would be all right.
He’d thought Bodie had gone.
But perhaps, after all, he was here all the time.
-ends-
Title: Imagine
Author: JoJo
Slash: Bodie/Doyle
Proslib/Circuit Archive: yes please
Summary: Something's not right this Christmas
Singing and bells.
It had to be the drugs.
Still, it also had to be an improvement on the disembodied voices which had been plaguing him for some time. He turned slightly, bringing his hips with him. Something pulled at his side, like teeth. Sharp, vicious teeth, a whole mouthful of them vindictively chewing the side of his ribs.
His thinking brain interrupted him.
Stitches, Doyle, that would be stitches.
Which meant something in particular. He could smell it now. A mixture of disinfectant and metal that he recognized from... well, not long ago. But now there was something else, too, that hadn’t been there before. A top note of soggy sprouts.
Happy Christmas to me, he thought miserably. Happy, merry, bastard Christmas.
Somebody or somebodies with no musical ability were still singing vaguely in the background, and then the jangle of curtain rings heralded... something new. The arrival of someone in a white coat, perhaps. Or else someone snippy in a starched cap. Almost certainly it was going to be a someone with a clipboard clutched officiously to their bosom, someone offering him Christmas cheer in the form of a hypo, a cuff or something to stick up his... the curtains jangled shut around his bed and Doyle sighed heavily.
“Go ‘way,” he attempted to growl, although he wasn’t convinced both words made it out of his mouth in one piece.
That should do it.
“Charming,” a deep, perfectly-embodied voice said.
Doyle’s heart, which up to now had felt like a lump of unresponsive putty, turned over and began to thump. Peeling open his gummed-up eyelids with difficulty he made out a shape close by -- dark head, dark clothing, the pale contrast of a face. The silhouette -- broad-shouldered, upright -- was one he hadn’t been expecting, not for a moment. And actually, when he thought about it, didn’t believe was really there.
Doyle groped for sense. As far as he’d been aware (before that awareness had been summarily removed by an unknown assailant bearing him most unseasonal ill will), Bodie had already left. He’d made off, decamped, departed. Doyle spent a hazy, nauseous moment remembering where exactly he reckoned Bodie had made off, decamped, and departed to. Vague snatches of conversation materialized in his head, and an image that seemed to have no clear place in time.
Bodie leaning on the Capri with his arms folded, looking apologetic, elegant. And so very, very handsome.
“Can’t really avoid it this year, mate.”
Yes, that was it. That was where he was. Staging a rare family fly-past.
Or, wait. Confusion tumbled over Doyle. A painful anxiety. Was it last year he was thinking about? He struggled to be sure, to find a hand-hold of certainty. When he thought he’d grasped one, somehow it didn’t make him feel any more secure. He was pretty certain that right at this moment, for some reason or other, Bodie was a very long way away from here across the water. He’d already been gone for... days. And the absence hadn’t felt right, not for one single moment.
“Thought,” Doyle said through the handfuls of rank-tasting lambswool that someone had evidently seen fit to stuff into his mouth. “Thought you were…”
“They won’t miss me.”
If there was absolutely any regret there, Doyle couldn’t hear it. Instead, the voice sounded irredeemably cheerful. “But I thought you might.”
“Snow at number 14,” Doyle murmured, shutting his eyes again. He somehow wanted to try and explain why he’d found himself all alone in hospital on Christmas Day, with only some rejects from the Children’s Ward party and a grumpy anaesthetist in a Father Christmas hat to visit him.
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
They’d be here if they could, his mum and assorted relatives, that was the point. “It’s just the snow,” he reiterated, feeble.
The voice tutted. “Blimey, how much have you had?”
“Ugh,” Doyle said around his tongue. Too bloody much. That was all he knew.
“Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?” The voice was fond.
“Wasn’t my fault.” Doyle felt defensive. He had the odd memory that he’d already said precisely this, multiple times, to a whole range of people. Although quite when he would have done so he couldn’t be sure.
There were the drugs of course. Layers of them, making the real unreal. Or the other way round. Probably supposed to be keeping him under. Doyle worried that he ought not to be awake at all and that he might get into trouble if anyone in authority found out. A vague, yearning feeling drifted over him. Even though the teeth were still firmly locked on to his side, meditatively chewing, it was his chest that ached.
It was a formless, bottomless ache, like homesickness.
Doyle made one last attempt to open his eyes properly, to connect the dots.
“Singing,” he said, because it was still going on, although faint now, very faint.
“And bells,” the deep voice agreed on a chuckle, and Doyle felt the simple weight of a hand across his forehead. It was the most real thing in his entire existence, always, telling him to rest, to sleep, and definitely not to worry because everything would be all right.
He’d thought Bodie had gone.
But perhaps, after all, he was here all the time.
-ends-
Title: Imagine
Author: JoJo
Slash: Bodie/Doyle
Proslib/Circuit Archive: yes please
Summary: Something's not right this Christmas