Never Valentine's Day by Slantedlight
First time for ages, I'm not posting either very late at night or on Pago-Pago time!
Happy lads-type Valentine's Day! *g*
Never Valentine's Day
by Slantedlight
It’s never Valentine’s day for them. Valentine’s day is pink and smells like chocolate and roses and expensive restaurants, and it’s for the birds. They don’t have that.
What they have is the roar of Brownings when they corner Meach and his cronies down by the docks, the smell of cordite and the heart-stopping moment when they’re out of each other’s sight, and out of sound, and the guns go quiet. They have blood smeared across the concrete, and a ringing in their ears, and fear and death, and Cowley glaring daggers yet again, because Meach isn’t alive to talk, and they are.
They have the moment when they catch sight of each other again, Doyle at the top of the stairs to the first floor, Bodie just about to start up them, to come searching, to make sure everything is alright.
They have that moment when everything is alright.
Doyle’s got a gash across his shoulder, right through his jacket and shirt and t-shirt, flecked with orange and brown rust because he did it on a nail, ducking back against the wall and out of the line of fire. The doctor smiles pleasantly, and gives him a tetanus shot that he feels more than the injury itself now that the adrenaline’s gone. Bodie’s got bruises up and down one side of his face, where one of Meach’s mates got in a lucky punch and followed up by throwing him against the doorjamb. It didn’t break the skin, and there’s nothing to be done about it now, but he’s going to be a lovely shade of purple come tomorrow.
They have to write their reports, but Cowley sends them home at last, nothing more they can do with the villains all dead, their excuses made, their actions accounted for. If they’d had dates lined up they would have been long-gone in disgust, because it’s past eight o’clock by now, but they learned long ago never to make dates for Valentine’s day, so there’s no rush to buy garish cards or gaudy presents, no need for wrapping paper and sellotape.
They could go to the pub, but it will be full of couples cooing and doving and gurning at each other, and it’s been a long day, so they stop at Karnival Kebabs instead, which doesn’t have a single table to its name, and no gurning couples, and buy chicken and chips to take home, and into the offie next door for a bottle of gin, because Doyle’s remembered that he’s stocked up on lemon and tonic, and Cowley’s given them the morning off.
Valentine’s day is opening the door to Doyle’s flat, the flat they’d left together over fourteen hours before, the flat where they can close the door and lock the door, and lock it again. It’s coats dropped over the backs of chairs in the living room, and a race to get to the shower first, which Doyle wins, and it’s food shoved into the oven to keep warm, music put on Doyle’s stereo to take them deeper into the night, lamps turned on instead of the harsher overhead lights. It’s finding that peace at the end of the day, winding down, breathing normally.
Doyle has left a sketch on the bedside table, on the side that Bodie prefers, of two hands clasped tightly together, in the kind of detail where you can see their callouses from holding a gun for hours almost every day. If you squint a little, and look sideways, the hands might be in the shape of a heart, fingers overlapping and palms held firmly together, but only if you squint, because hearts are messy things that pain and bleed, and Doyle knows this.
Bodie has written a poem, and left it on the kitchen table, where Doyle will see it when he gets their dinner out of the oven and puts it on plates, while Bodie’s taking his turn in the shower, washing the day away.
Roses are red
My eyes are blue
There’s beer in the fridge
Get me one too.
There’s nothing pink about this Valentine’s day, except that when they finally shut the bedroom door and draw the curtains, Doyle’s lips are dark pink, and they meet Bodie’s lips that are pink too. Bodie’s skin, Doyle thinks, with an artist’s eye, is pale pale pink. Doyle’s is darker, not pink, not really, but Bodie ducks his head down to lick a hard nipple, areola a dusky blush. Doyle’s cock rises to meet Bodie’s, jousts with it, and they’re both a hard, wanting, thrusting pink.
Maybe, just maybe, what they whisper might be an endearment, or a confession, or something like that. Do that again, sunshine or Harder, do it harder love, or Yes… yes Bodie or just Ray…. Falling asleep together is I trust you, and it’s I love you and it’s You are mine. It’s as close as they’ll get to Hallmark.
Every day - every day that they’re both still breathing - is Valentine’s day.
14th February 2019
Title: Never Valentine's Day
Author: Slantedlight
Slash or Gen: Always slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Certainly
Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle and the CI5-verse don't belong to me, and this is all just for love. Valentine's day or not. *g*
Happy lads-type Valentine's Day! *g*
Never Valentine's Day
by Slantedlight
It’s never Valentine’s day for them. Valentine’s day is pink and smells like chocolate and roses and expensive restaurants, and it’s for the birds. They don’t have that.
What they have is the roar of Brownings when they corner Meach and his cronies down by the docks, the smell of cordite and the heart-stopping moment when they’re out of each other’s sight, and out of sound, and the guns go quiet. They have blood smeared across the concrete, and a ringing in their ears, and fear and death, and Cowley glaring daggers yet again, because Meach isn’t alive to talk, and they are.
They have the moment when they catch sight of each other again, Doyle at the top of the stairs to the first floor, Bodie just about to start up them, to come searching, to make sure everything is alright.
They have that moment when everything is alright.
Doyle’s got a gash across his shoulder, right through his jacket and shirt and t-shirt, flecked with orange and brown rust because he did it on a nail, ducking back against the wall and out of the line of fire. The doctor smiles pleasantly, and gives him a tetanus shot that he feels more than the injury itself now that the adrenaline’s gone. Bodie’s got bruises up and down one side of his face, where one of Meach’s mates got in a lucky punch and followed up by throwing him against the doorjamb. It didn’t break the skin, and there’s nothing to be done about it now, but he’s going to be a lovely shade of purple come tomorrow.
They have to write their reports, but Cowley sends them home at last, nothing more they can do with the villains all dead, their excuses made, their actions accounted for. If they’d had dates lined up they would have been long-gone in disgust, because it’s past eight o’clock by now, but they learned long ago never to make dates for Valentine’s day, so there’s no rush to buy garish cards or gaudy presents, no need for wrapping paper and sellotape.
They could go to the pub, but it will be full of couples cooing and doving and gurning at each other, and it’s been a long day, so they stop at Karnival Kebabs instead, which doesn’t have a single table to its name, and no gurning couples, and buy chicken and chips to take home, and into the offie next door for a bottle of gin, because Doyle’s remembered that he’s stocked up on lemon and tonic, and Cowley’s given them the morning off.
Valentine’s day is opening the door to Doyle’s flat, the flat they’d left together over fourteen hours before, the flat where they can close the door and lock the door, and lock it again. It’s coats dropped over the backs of chairs in the living room, and a race to get to the shower first, which Doyle wins, and it’s food shoved into the oven to keep warm, music put on Doyle’s stereo to take them deeper into the night, lamps turned on instead of the harsher overhead lights. It’s finding that peace at the end of the day, winding down, breathing normally.
Doyle has left a sketch on the bedside table, on the side that Bodie prefers, of two hands clasped tightly together, in the kind of detail where you can see their callouses from holding a gun for hours almost every day. If you squint a little, and look sideways, the hands might be in the shape of a heart, fingers overlapping and palms held firmly together, but only if you squint, because hearts are messy things that pain and bleed, and Doyle knows this.
Bodie has written a poem, and left it on the kitchen table, where Doyle will see it when he gets their dinner out of the oven and puts it on plates, while Bodie’s taking his turn in the shower, washing the day away.
Roses are red
My eyes are blue
There’s beer in the fridge
Get me one too.
There’s nothing pink about this Valentine’s day, except that when they finally shut the bedroom door and draw the curtains, Doyle’s lips are dark pink, and they meet Bodie’s lips that are pink too. Bodie’s skin, Doyle thinks, with an artist’s eye, is pale pale pink. Doyle’s is darker, not pink, not really, but Bodie ducks his head down to lick a hard nipple, areola a dusky blush. Doyle’s cock rises to meet Bodie’s, jousts with it, and they’re both a hard, wanting, thrusting pink.
Maybe, just maybe, what they whisper might be an endearment, or a confession, or something like that. Do that again, sunshine or Harder, do it harder love, or Yes… yes Bodie or just Ray…. Falling asleep together is I trust you, and it’s I love you and it’s You are mine. It’s as close as they’ll get to Hallmark.
Every day - every day that they’re both still breathing - is Valentine’s day.
14th February 2019
Title: Never Valentine's Day
Author: Slantedlight
Slash or Gen: Always slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Certainly
Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle and the CI5-verse don't belong to me, and this is all just for love. Valentine's day or not. *g*