Discovered in a Box of Baubles - 6th January 2021 - Prosfic - Christmas Feast
I'm cheating, I'm afraid, because I've been totally distracted by the bizarre scenes in Washington tonight, from finishing the fic I was going to post. I will finish it, and post it here before I go to bed... but it's going to take me slightly longer!
In the meantime, have one last shiny bauble while you're waiting...
For milomaus, who had a plot bunny.
Christmas Feast
by Slantedlight
They came together that night because neither of them had any other place to go. It was after 11pm on Christmas eve, and even the pubs were shut, everyone getting ready for a cosy night, for Father Christmas, and stockings and trees. Still hyped up on blood and adrenaline, Doyle hadn’t said anything when Bodie turned off the car engine outside his place, and claimed that was as far as he was going because his heating was off and he’d run out of booze.
They both knew that wasn’t why.
Doyle took the stairs three at a time, still wanting to punch things, aware of Bodie behind him, steps more measured, but following. He jammed the key in the lock, shoved the door open hard enough that it bounced back from the wall, caught it and left it open for Bodie. Diplo-fucking-matic immunity again! All some people had to do to get away with murder - literally murder - was explain ever-so-civilly that they had diplomatic immunity, and that was it - they didn’t have to take responsibility for a thing.
He strode through to his bedroom, wanting nothing less than a shower so hot it scalded the blood from his skin. Other people’s blood. He felt like he’d been soaking in it all day, from the moment Cowley had called them in that morning, and he’d found himself kneeling beside bomb victims, through to tracking down the bombers who’d refused to give up until all but one of them was shot dead, until their final confrontation with McGevney and his wife. That blood had been invisible - the blood of a dozen good agents far away, whose covers had been blown by the careless words of a politician who thought he had the right to fund someone else’s cause without having any fucking clue about anything. And now they were going to trot off back home to their…
Too much. He slammed the bathroom door behind him, turned around and thumped it hard with his fists. The wooden panels gave, but they held, and he closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath, reached into the shower cubicle to turn the water on, and began to strip off his clothes. By the time he’d kicked them into an untidy pile in the corner, the room was starting to steam up, and he climbed into the shower and then just stood there, arms propped against the wall, eyes shut and head bowed under the stream of water.
He heard the door open, ignored it, concentrating on the heat against his skin, washing everything away - needing it to wash everything away. He ignored the rush of colder air as the shower door opened, couldn’t ignore Bodie’s arms coming around him, pulling them together, Bodie’s mouth against his neck. Bodie reached down and wrapped a hand around Doyle’s prick, which had come up hard the way it always did, so that Doyle almost cried out. He turned his head instead, to meet Bodie’s lips, the angle awkward enough to be painful, ignoring it because if Bodie just didn’t stop…
Bodie’s hand left him, and this time Doyle did moan a protest, but Bodie had pulled back and taken him by the hips, so that Doyle reached out to brace himself on the wall again, breath held in anticipation. Then Bodie was stroking his own solid prick between Doyle’s arse, over and again and again, until he found his mark, until he was pushing in, and Doyle pushed back, feeling the pain of the stretch, wanting it. He wanted Bodie’s hand again too, so he moved forward, closer to the wall, Bodie following him until he was plastered hard down Doyle’s back, and his hand was where Doyle wanted it to be, the water falling hard and hot on both of them. Doyle came bare moments before Bodie did, leaning gasping between the wall and Bodie, eyes closed, mind empty of everything except the man behind him, and inside him.
Eventually they had to move, but when Bodie would have backed out of the shower, Doyle pulled him back, reaching for the shampoo and lathering it into Bodie’s short hair, then smoothing it down across hard planes and muscles, turning him to rinse it all away. Bodie let himself be washed, then returned the favour, kissing Doyle again as he massaged shampoo through his hair, and while the shower washed it all away again.
Neither of them, Doyle thought, reaching out to finally turn off the water, had even said a word.
They still didn’t say a word as they dried off, gave up on the idea of a stiff drink in mutual, soundless agreement, and cleaned their teeth instead, then headed to Doyle’s bed. They fell languidly onto soft pillows, into warm, brushed-cotton sheets, and Doyle’s thirteen-tog duvet, and then asleep, legs tangled together and a hand each entwined.
Christmas eve ticked over into Christmas day.
o0o
Doyle woke to the realisation that he might run to a couple of slices of toast each for breakfast, and maybe a scratching of muesli, but beyond that his cupboards were still waiting to be stocked, a chore he’d planned for their day off yesterday, which of course had never come.
He woke to the realisation that he didn’t want Bodie to go home yet.
That wasn’t how it usually worked. Usually they’d fuck their way through the tension of a bad day, or occasionally through the celebration of a good one, and one of them would wake up early and go home, all well with the world again. This morning…
Well this morning was Christmas, and neither of them had anywhere to go, so of course it was different. Obvious really.
Bodie was still sleeping. Sometime in the night he’d turned onto his stomach, and now his face was half-hidden in the pillow, but Doyle could see the dark lashes of one eye against Bodie’s pale skin, and hear him breathing puffs of air against the sheets and into the room. If he wanted he could reach out and trace the maze of Bodie’s ear…
Coffee, that was what he needed. He slid out of bed quietly, managed to retrieve jeans and a shirt from his drawers without Bodie doing more than breathe a little more deeply for a moment, and then he escaped out of the room, pulled on his clothes, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. The half loaf he’d remembered was still toastable, and he had butter and marmalade, and even a jar of honey at the back of a cupboard. There wasn’t enough muesli for two after all, but Bode didn’t really like it anyway… He stared consideringly at a tin of salmon and his bag of rice, then smiled and began pulling out ingredients.
He was halfway through his second cup of coffee and near the end of his book when Bodie emerged, wearing his own cords from the day before, one of Doyle’s baggier jumpers, and a half-awake expression. He didn’t look like he was about to run off home, shuffling somewhat blearily across to the stove, and peering under the pan lid.
He turned to Doyle with one eyebrow raised. “Is this what I think it is?”
“If you think it’s kedgeree, then yes. Bucks fizz?”
“Do they?” Bodie slitted his eyes suspiciously, watched as Doyle got up and opened the fridge, brought out the jug he’d prepared ready. “Wait, you mean actual Bucks fizz? Champagne and…”
“Asti Spumante and lump it, mate,” Doyle interrupted. “You might have bottles of champagne lying around...” He poured them each a glass, passed one to Bodie, and raised his own into the air. “Cheers.”
“And there I thought it was going to be a dull Christmas!” Bodie raised his own glass with a grin and drank, then sat down, and watched in brighter approval as Doyle piled his plate high. “Did you get stocked up before Cowley kicked off then? Mince pies,” he added cheerfully, through a mouthful of kedgeree, “Turkey dinner - or goose, don’t mind a bit of goose. Christmas pud…”
“Not exactly…”
“Stuffing and… What d’you mean not exactly?”
“When did I have time to go shopping?” Doyle asked, taking refuge in aggression. “You want mince pies you’re going to ‘ave to get your own.”
“We could make some,” Bodie suggested, and then his face fell. “If you’ve got some mincemeat, that is…” He watched as Doyle slowly shook his head. “Christmas cake? Christmas pud? Well, what have you got?”
Doyle had prepared for this. “Chicken in the freezer, spuds, a couple of carrots, and either frozen peas or frozen beans.”
“Peas or beans? You can’t have peas or beans at Christmas!
“Well unless you’re hiding Brussel sprouts somewhere about your person, it’s the best you’re going to get.”
Bodie wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Doyle shot him a repressive glare that had no effect whatsoever.
“Yeah, but is that really all you got?”
“You’re eating the rest of it now,” Doyle pointed out. “I’ve barely got enough milk for a cup of tea later.” Bollocks he hadn’t meant to say that. He was supposed to be finding reasons for Bodie to stay. “I’ve got a bottle of wine.”
“S’pose I’ll have to go home then,” Bodie said, as if he’d read Doyle’s mind, but he scooped up another mouthful of kedgeree. “After another glass of course - wouldn’t want to waste all that orange juice…”
The day slid slightly closer to normality while they ate, chatting about nothing much, and definitely not about the day before. Doyle wasn’t thinking about that any more than he was thinking about Bodie leaving, or the reasons that he didn’t want Bodie to leave. He’d finish his book, roast the chicken for himself, have a quiet, relaxing day. Bodie no doubt had Tanya or Kelly or whoever it was lined up for later - a phone call would usually bring someone running. Doyle considered his own phone briefly, but he wasn’t in the mood. He couldn’t be bothered wooing someone into bed, not when the person he wanted in bed again was…
They did the dishes together, Bodie surprising him with sudden domestic zeal, but then he disappeared into the bedroom again and came out properly dressed.
Well, it wasn’t as if they were in the habit of spending Christmas together. If they weren’t on duty then one of them usually had a bird on the go. It had never been an issue before, no reason why it should be this year. A quiet day in. Just what he needed.
“Right then!” Bodie reached out to ruffle Doyle’s hair as he passed. “See you.”
“Yeah.” Keep it casual. No problem here.
The closing door echoed hollowly around the living room, and Doyle was alone again.
o0o
He’d finished his novel and begun a second one when there was a sudden muffled thumping on the door to the flat. He thought about ignoring it - it was probably the kids from two floors up messing around - but it came again, harder this time, and by the time he got to the door it had turned into a string of mild swear words, in a voice… He pulled open the door.
“Bodie!”
“About time! I’ve been knocking for half a century.”
Bodie clearly hadn’t been knocking at all, his hands full of plastic carrier bags, which he thrust in front of him as he pushed past Doyle and made his way to the kitchen. Doyle trailed after him, bemused.
“Where’d you find shops open on Christmas day? I thought you were going home.”
“I did.” Bodie frowned at him. “I told you I was going to. You know, Doyle,” he grinned suddenly, and slipped into one of his upper class twit accents. “You really need to pay more attention when people are talking to you.” He heaved the carrier bags up onto the table. “Besides there aren’t any shops open on Christmas day. Even Jamil is shut.”
“Jamil’s Catholic,” Doyle said absently. “From Sri Lanka.” He watched for a moment as Bodie began unpacking the bags. “What are you doing?”
“Unpacking, what’s it look like? You said you didn’t have any food in except for a manky old chicken and some ancient vegetables.”
“They’re perfectly good vegetables…”
“…so I went back and got my stuff. I reckon if we pool it together we can come up with a proper Christmas dinner. Plus I’ve still got half a bottle of brandy.” He smirked cheerfully at Doyle. “You can cook while I…” He caught Doyle’s eye. “…while I help you cook.”
Doyle blinked, surveying the various packets and tins strewn across his table.
Bodie’d gone home to get groceries. For them both. For Christmas day.
Baked beans. A tin of ham. Tinned fruit. Mr Kipling’s fondant fancies. A scattering of tomatoes, and some rather wilted broccoli. A carton of UHT milk. A couple of tins of sweetcorn. Half a dozen eggs. A bag of macaroni and some spaghetti. The brandy.
“Well they say Christmas is a time of miracles,” he said, and nodded to the last carrier bag on the table, not yet opened. “What you got in there - the Christmas pud?”
“Ah, well…” Bodie swept the bag up, held it behind his back. “Brought me toothbrush, didn’t I. Some clean socks. Thought I might stay the night again. If you like. Don’t want to drive after all that wine and brandy. Irresponsible, that.”
“Not on top of the Bucks fizz, no,” Doyle agreed, and then he was smiling, and Bodie was smiling back, so that Doyle reached out to hook a finger over his belt, pulling him close, and kissing him, because it was Christmas.
They both knew that wasn’t why.
Title: Christmas Feast
Author: Slantedlight
Slash or Gen: Always slash!
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Certainly.
Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle and the CI5-verse aren't mine, but playing with them is lovely...
Notes: For milomaus, who had a plot bunny. This probably isn't quite the way you were going with it, but... fic? *g*
In the meantime, have one last shiny bauble while you're waiting...
For milomaus, who had a plot bunny.
Christmas Feast
by Slantedlight
They came together that night because neither of them had any other place to go. It was after 11pm on Christmas eve, and even the pubs were shut, everyone getting ready for a cosy night, for Father Christmas, and stockings and trees. Still hyped up on blood and adrenaline, Doyle hadn’t said anything when Bodie turned off the car engine outside his place, and claimed that was as far as he was going because his heating was off and he’d run out of booze.
They both knew that wasn’t why.
Doyle took the stairs three at a time, still wanting to punch things, aware of Bodie behind him, steps more measured, but following. He jammed the key in the lock, shoved the door open hard enough that it bounced back from the wall, caught it and left it open for Bodie. Diplo-fucking-matic immunity again! All some people had to do to get away with murder - literally murder - was explain ever-so-civilly that they had diplomatic immunity, and that was it - they didn’t have to take responsibility for a thing.
He strode through to his bedroom, wanting nothing less than a shower so hot it scalded the blood from his skin. Other people’s blood. He felt like he’d been soaking in it all day, from the moment Cowley had called them in that morning, and he’d found himself kneeling beside bomb victims, through to tracking down the bombers who’d refused to give up until all but one of them was shot dead, until their final confrontation with McGevney and his wife. That blood had been invisible - the blood of a dozen good agents far away, whose covers had been blown by the careless words of a politician who thought he had the right to fund someone else’s cause without having any fucking clue about anything. And now they were going to trot off back home to their…
Too much. He slammed the bathroom door behind him, turned around and thumped it hard with his fists. The wooden panels gave, but they held, and he closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath, reached into the shower cubicle to turn the water on, and began to strip off his clothes. By the time he’d kicked them into an untidy pile in the corner, the room was starting to steam up, and he climbed into the shower and then just stood there, arms propped against the wall, eyes shut and head bowed under the stream of water.
He heard the door open, ignored it, concentrating on the heat against his skin, washing everything away - needing it to wash everything away. He ignored the rush of colder air as the shower door opened, couldn’t ignore Bodie’s arms coming around him, pulling them together, Bodie’s mouth against his neck. Bodie reached down and wrapped a hand around Doyle’s prick, which had come up hard the way it always did, so that Doyle almost cried out. He turned his head instead, to meet Bodie’s lips, the angle awkward enough to be painful, ignoring it because if Bodie just didn’t stop…
Bodie’s hand left him, and this time Doyle did moan a protest, but Bodie had pulled back and taken him by the hips, so that Doyle reached out to brace himself on the wall again, breath held in anticipation. Then Bodie was stroking his own solid prick between Doyle’s arse, over and again and again, until he found his mark, until he was pushing in, and Doyle pushed back, feeling the pain of the stretch, wanting it. He wanted Bodie’s hand again too, so he moved forward, closer to the wall, Bodie following him until he was plastered hard down Doyle’s back, and his hand was where Doyle wanted it to be, the water falling hard and hot on both of them. Doyle came bare moments before Bodie did, leaning gasping between the wall and Bodie, eyes closed, mind empty of everything except the man behind him, and inside him.
Eventually they had to move, but when Bodie would have backed out of the shower, Doyle pulled him back, reaching for the shampoo and lathering it into Bodie’s short hair, then smoothing it down across hard planes and muscles, turning him to rinse it all away. Bodie let himself be washed, then returned the favour, kissing Doyle again as he massaged shampoo through his hair, and while the shower washed it all away again.
Neither of them, Doyle thought, reaching out to finally turn off the water, had even said a word.
They still didn’t say a word as they dried off, gave up on the idea of a stiff drink in mutual, soundless agreement, and cleaned their teeth instead, then headed to Doyle’s bed. They fell languidly onto soft pillows, into warm, brushed-cotton sheets, and Doyle’s thirteen-tog duvet, and then asleep, legs tangled together and a hand each entwined.
Christmas eve ticked over into Christmas day.
o0o
Doyle woke to the realisation that he might run to a couple of slices of toast each for breakfast, and maybe a scratching of muesli, but beyond that his cupboards were still waiting to be stocked, a chore he’d planned for their day off yesterday, which of course had never come.
He woke to the realisation that he didn’t want Bodie to go home yet.
That wasn’t how it usually worked. Usually they’d fuck their way through the tension of a bad day, or occasionally through the celebration of a good one, and one of them would wake up early and go home, all well with the world again. This morning…
Well this morning was Christmas, and neither of them had anywhere to go, so of course it was different. Obvious really.
Bodie was still sleeping. Sometime in the night he’d turned onto his stomach, and now his face was half-hidden in the pillow, but Doyle could see the dark lashes of one eye against Bodie’s pale skin, and hear him breathing puffs of air against the sheets and into the room. If he wanted he could reach out and trace the maze of Bodie’s ear…
Coffee, that was what he needed. He slid out of bed quietly, managed to retrieve jeans and a shirt from his drawers without Bodie doing more than breathe a little more deeply for a moment, and then he escaped out of the room, pulled on his clothes, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. The half loaf he’d remembered was still toastable, and he had butter and marmalade, and even a jar of honey at the back of a cupboard. There wasn’t enough muesli for two after all, but Bode didn’t really like it anyway… He stared consideringly at a tin of salmon and his bag of rice, then smiled and began pulling out ingredients.
He was halfway through his second cup of coffee and near the end of his book when Bodie emerged, wearing his own cords from the day before, one of Doyle’s baggier jumpers, and a half-awake expression. He didn’t look like he was about to run off home, shuffling somewhat blearily across to the stove, and peering under the pan lid.
He turned to Doyle with one eyebrow raised. “Is this what I think it is?”
“If you think it’s kedgeree, then yes. Bucks fizz?”
“Do they?” Bodie slitted his eyes suspiciously, watched as Doyle got up and opened the fridge, brought out the jug he’d prepared ready. “Wait, you mean actual Bucks fizz? Champagne and…”
“Asti Spumante and lump it, mate,” Doyle interrupted. “You might have bottles of champagne lying around...” He poured them each a glass, passed one to Bodie, and raised his own into the air. “Cheers.”
“And there I thought it was going to be a dull Christmas!” Bodie raised his own glass with a grin and drank, then sat down, and watched in brighter approval as Doyle piled his plate high. “Did you get stocked up before Cowley kicked off then? Mince pies,” he added cheerfully, through a mouthful of kedgeree, “Turkey dinner - or goose, don’t mind a bit of goose. Christmas pud…”
“Not exactly…”
“Stuffing and… What d’you mean not exactly?”
“When did I have time to go shopping?” Doyle asked, taking refuge in aggression. “You want mince pies you’re going to ‘ave to get your own.”
“We could make some,” Bodie suggested, and then his face fell. “If you’ve got some mincemeat, that is…” He watched as Doyle slowly shook his head. “Christmas cake? Christmas pud? Well, what have you got?”
Doyle had prepared for this. “Chicken in the freezer, spuds, a couple of carrots, and either frozen peas or frozen beans.”
“Peas or beans? You can’t have peas or beans at Christmas!
“Well unless you’re hiding Brussel sprouts somewhere about your person, it’s the best you’re going to get.”
Bodie wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Doyle shot him a repressive glare that had no effect whatsoever.
“Yeah, but is that really all you got?”
“You’re eating the rest of it now,” Doyle pointed out. “I’ve barely got enough milk for a cup of tea later.” Bollocks he hadn’t meant to say that. He was supposed to be finding reasons for Bodie to stay. “I’ve got a bottle of wine.”
“S’pose I’ll have to go home then,” Bodie said, as if he’d read Doyle’s mind, but he scooped up another mouthful of kedgeree. “After another glass of course - wouldn’t want to waste all that orange juice…”
The day slid slightly closer to normality while they ate, chatting about nothing much, and definitely not about the day before. Doyle wasn’t thinking about that any more than he was thinking about Bodie leaving, or the reasons that he didn’t want Bodie to leave. He’d finish his book, roast the chicken for himself, have a quiet, relaxing day. Bodie no doubt had Tanya or Kelly or whoever it was lined up for later - a phone call would usually bring someone running. Doyle considered his own phone briefly, but he wasn’t in the mood. He couldn’t be bothered wooing someone into bed, not when the person he wanted in bed again was…
They did the dishes together, Bodie surprising him with sudden domestic zeal, but then he disappeared into the bedroom again and came out properly dressed.
Well, it wasn’t as if they were in the habit of spending Christmas together. If they weren’t on duty then one of them usually had a bird on the go. It had never been an issue before, no reason why it should be this year. A quiet day in. Just what he needed.
“Right then!” Bodie reached out to ruffle Doyle’s hair as he passed. “See you.”
“Yeah.” Keep it casual. No problem here.
The closing door echoed hollowly around the living room, and Doyle was alone again.
o0o
He’d finished his novel and begun a second one when there was a sudden muffled thumping on the door to the flat. He thought about ignoring it - it was probably the kids from two floors up messing around - but it came again, harder this time, and by the time he got to the door it had turned into a string of mild swear words, in a voice… He pulled open the door.
“Bodie!”
“About time! I’ve been knocking for half a century.”
Bodie clearly hadn’t been knocking at all, his hands full of plastic carrier bags, which he thrust in front of him as he pushed past Doyle and made his way to the kitchen. Doyle trailed after him, bemused.
“Where’d you find shops open on Christmas day? I thought you were going home.”
“I did.” Bodie frowned at him. “I told you I was going to. You know, Doyle,” he grinned suddenly, and slipped into one of his upper class twit accents. “You really need to pay more attention when people are talking to you.” He heaved the carrier bags up onto the table. “Besides there aren’t any shops open on Christmas day. Even Jamil is shut.”
“Jamil’s Catholic,” Doyle said absently. “From Sri Lanka.” He watched for a moment as Bodie began unpacking the bags. “What are you doing?”
“Unpacking, what’s it look like? You said you didn’t have any food in except for a manky old chicken and some ancient vegetables.”
“They’re perfectly good vegetables…”
“…so I went back and got my stuff. I reckon if we pool it together we can come up with a proper Christmas dinner. Plus I’ve still got half a bottle of brandy.” He smirked cheerfully at Doyle. “You can cook while I…” He caught Doyle’s eye. “…while I help you cook.”
Doyle blinked, surveying the various packets and tins strewn across his table.
Bodie’d gone home to get groceries. For them both. For Christmas day.
Baked beans. A tin of ham. Tinned fruit. Mr Kipling’s fondant fancies. A scattering of tomatoes, and some rather wilted broccoli. A carton of UHT milk. A couple of tins of sweetcorn. Half a dozen eggs. A bag of macaroni and some spaghetti. The brandy.
“Well they say Christmas is a time of miracles,” he said, and nodded to the last carrier bag on the table, not yet opened. “What you got in there - the Christmas pud?”
“Ah, well…” Bodie swept the bag up, held it behind his back. “Brought me toothbrush, didn’t I. Some clean socks. Thought I might stay the night again. If you like. Don’t want to drive after all that wine and brandy. Irresponsible, that.”
“Not on top of the Bucks fizz, no,” Doyle agreed, and then he was smiling, and Bodie was smiling back, so that Doyle reached out to hook a finger over his belt, pulling him close, and kissing him, because it was Christmas.
They both knew that wasn’t why.
Title: Christmas Feast
Author: Slantedlight
Slash or Gen: Always slash!
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Certainly.
Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle and the CI5-verse aren't mine, but playing with them is lovely...
Notes: For milomaus, who had a plot bunny. This probably isn't quite the way you were going with it, but... fic? *g*