Discovered in a Snowglobe - 21st December 2022 - Prosfic: The Loaded Gun by Slantedlight
Happy Winter Solstice! And of course summer solstice, for some people. *g*
For the third year in a row I've not managed to finish my Big Story Project, but I can at least offer a littler Pros fic for you - one with the promise of sunshine to come!
The Loaded Gun
by Slantedlight
“You know, we could have been anyone,” Doyle said, gazing around them. “Insurance salesmen, brain surgeons…”
“Deep sea divers?” Bodie was too comfortable to move, the sand just right under his towel, arms stretched up and head cradled perfectly on his hands, the Spanish sun on his face as hot as it had ever been in Africa, but he opened his eyes and squinted up. The expanse of Doyle’s naked back stretched beside him, already tinged a warm old-gold. He was still sitting up, feet planted firmly apart, arms loosely clasped around bent knees, scanning the ranks of other holiday-makers splayed on the beach around them. Not just nosiness, Bodie thought, Doyle still hadn’t relaxed into their two weeks away yet, was still a little tense at the idea of not having his shooter with him in case they might need it. A little tense at the idea of what that shooter could do.
No guns through Heathrow this time though, no forms filled in in triplicate and signed off by Cowley, just him and Doyle and beaches and beers. This was the life.
“Go on,” he said, when Doyle stayed quiet. “Who’d you be then?”
Eventually Doyle’s shoulder shrugged, skin rising briefly to curling hair that was just a little too long at the moment, sun-touched in places after just a couple of days, almost to red. He’d probably get it cut before they went back in to work, but Bodie liked it the way it was, loose and relaxed, like the rest of Doyle needed to be.
“You’ve gotta have some idea.” Bodie wanted to hear him speak again, wanted Doyle’s voice in his ears, above the sounds of gulls and the shouts of children and the thwack-thump of the nearby family playing swingball. “Butcher? Baker? Light-bulb maker?”
Doyle’s shoulders rose and fell together this time as he took a deep breath of sea air, the kind he took, Bodie knew, when he was thinking too hard. When he needed Bodie to stop him thinking. There were easier ways to do that, but right now they were in public.
“Lie down.”
“You what?” Doyle turned his head towards Bodie without looking at him, frowning slightly into the distance, and Bodie took in his profile, the set of his jaw, and knew he was right. It was still there, the sound of gunshots, the aftermath of the dum-dums. He could still see it all himself, if he let it come, pale blue eyes across a bar, outside a pub, a handshake, and then across a room, and realisation, and chaos and blood.
“Lie down,” he said, pitching his voice low. “Let’s have a story.”
“What you on about?” Doyle twisted his head far enough then to peer suspiciously at him, attention finally caught and all on Bodie. Bodie shifted, pulling himself up with his stomach muscles in the way he knew drew Doyle’s eyes down his abdomen, and reaching out a hand to drag Doyle down beside him. Doyle’s skin was smooth, and warm.
After a moment’s token wilful resistance, Doyle let himself be pulled, sinking down to lie on his own towel, limbs stretched out beside Bodie’s at last, away from their everyday world, back on the beach.
Bodie settled back again himself, arms behind his head, eyes closed, and face angled towards Doyle’s. They were close enough that he could feel Doyle’s hair lightly against his outstretched elbow. This was just for the two of them. “Once upon a time,” he began, “There was a man who made…” What the hell was the furthest thing from a CI5 agent he could think of? “…clockwork toys.”
“Clockwork toys?” He could feel Doyle looking sceptically at him.
“Shuddup, or I won’t buy you an ice cream later.”
Doyle snorted, but shut, obediently, up, and Bodie knew he’d caught him.
“So yeah - clockwork toys. He lived in a valley surrounded by hills...”
“Funny sort of valley if it wasn’t surrounded by hills.”
Bodie ignored that, because he had him. “…surrounded by hills covered in trees, so that no one disturbed him, ever. Sometimes he had to go out into the big bad world to sell his toys, but he always came back to the valley where the sun always shone…”
“Desert, was it?”
“…in the daytime, and the rain fell in a soft… fall, at night time, just enough to make everything grow green and lush, and cover the meadows in wildflowers.” Bodie could almost see it himself now. Maybe they should get off the beach tomorrow, head inland somewhere. “The man was happy and content with everything, except for one thing.”
“He was hungry.”
“He had a farm with an orchard and a garden, a river full of fish at one end of the valley, and he traded his toys for everything else he needed.” Pedantic bloody Doyle. “He woke up every morning and went for a run to keep fit, then he came home and set about his work, making the most amazing toys to make the children happy.”
Bodie waited for “Which children?” but it didn’t come. “He listened to the birds sing, and the wind whispering in the trees, and the susurration of the river in the distance.” He grinned to himself. Poetic that, maybe he should take this up. “Trouble was, there was one more thing he needed, so one day he woke up and started work. He sorted out his best clockwork, his finest materials, and most perfect design, and then he began putting it all together. He worked day and night, and slowly it took shape. A body, arms, legs…”
“Let me guess - he made himself a clockwork bird, and not the feathered kind. The one thing man can’t live without…”
“It was a clockwork man,” Bodie corrected. “The one thing he couldn’t live without. Someone to go for a run with, and go fishing with, and tend the garden and the farm.” He took a deep breath of his own, and rolled onto his side, leaning on an elbow, to look down at Doyle, and forgot all about being poetic. “It was a best mate, all green eyes and hair, and just bolshy enough to keep him on his toes. They worked together and went out into the big bad world together, and they always came home to their valley. Didn’t matter what else happened, they always had their valley.”
“Valley in Spain, was it?” Doyle asked, but he turned his head towards Bodie and opened his eyes.
“Magic valley,” Bodie corrected. “Any place they went, there was the valley.”
Doyle shook his head, but his lips stretched into a smile, and he took another one of his deep breaths, chest rising and falling. “You don’t ‘alf talk bollocks sometimes,” he said at last, locking gazes with Bodie. A green gaze, sharp and intense as Doyle ever was, and as knowing and as warm, here in Bodie’s real world, their own real world. “I wouldn’t be anything else, you dumb crud.” He waited until Bodie’s lips quirked back at him in his own smile, and then he sat up again, his turn to look down at Bodie. “Come on - you can buy the tapas and vino. And if you’re very lucky, I’ll let you wind me up later…”
~*0*~
764
by Emily Dickinson
My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -
And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him
The Mountains straight reply -
And do I smile, such cordial light
Opon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let it’s pleasure through -
And when at Night - Our good Day done -
I guard My Master’s Head -
’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s
Deep Pillow - to have shared -
To foe of His - I’m deadly foe -
None stir the second time -
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -
Or an emphatic Thumb -
Though I than He - may longer live
He longer must - than I -
For I have but the power to kill,
Without - the power to die -
Title: The Loaded Gun
Author: Slantedlight
Slash or Gen: Always slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Certainly
Disclaimer: The lads, of course, do not belong to me.
Notes: Originally written for Write Time 2022.
For the third year in a row I've not managed to finish my Big Story Project, but I can at least offer a littler Pros fic for you - one with the promise of sunshine to come!
The Loaded Gun
by Slantedlight
“You know, we could have been anyone,” Doyle said, gazing around them. “Insurance salesmen, brain surgeons…”
“Deep sea divers?” Bodie was too comfortable to move, the sand just right under his towel, arms stretched up and head cradled perfectly on his hands, the Spanish sun on his face as hot as it had ever been in Africa, but he opened his eyes and squinted up. The expanse of Doyle’s naked back stretched beside him, already tinged a warm old-gold. He was still sitting up, feet planted firmly apart, arms loosely clasped around bent knees, scanning the ranks of other holiday-makers splayed on the beach around them. Not just nosiness, Bodie thought, Doyle still hadn’t relaxed into their two weeks away yet, was still a little tense at the idea of not having his shooter with him in case they might need it. A little tense at the idea of what that shooter could do.
No guns through Heathrow this time though, no forms filled in in triplicate and signed off by Cowley, just him and Doyle and beaches and beers. This was the life.
“Go on,” he said, when Doyle stayed quiet. “Who’d you be then?”
Eventually Doyle’s shoulder shrugged, skin rising briefly to curling hair that was just a little too long at the moment, sun-touched in places after just a couple of days, almost to red. He’d probably get it cut before they went back in to work, but Bodie liked it the way it was, loose and relaxed, like the rest of Doyle needed to be.
“You’ve gotta have some idea.” Bodie wanted to hear him speak again, wanted Doyle’s voice in his ears, above the sounds of gulls and the shouts of children and the thwack-thump of the nearby family playing swingball. “Butcher? Baker? Light-bulb maker?”
Doyle’s shoulders rose and fell together this time as he took a deep breath of sea air, the kind he took, Bodie knew, when he was thinking too hard. When he needed Bodie to stop him thinking. There were easier ways to do that, but right now they were in public.
“Lie down.”
“You what?” Doyle turned his head towards Bodie without looking at him, frowning slightly into the distance, and Bodie took in his profile, the set of his jaw, and knew he was right. It was still there, the sound of gunshots, the aftermath of the dum-dums. He could still see it all himself, if he let it come, pale blue eyes across a bar, outside a pub, a handshake, and then across a room, and realisation, and chaos and blood.
“Lie down,” he said, pitching his voice low. “Let’s have a story.”
“What you on about?” Doyle twisted his head far enough then to peer suspiciously at him, attention finally caught and all on Bodie. Bodie shifted, pulling himself up with his stomach muscles in the way he knew drew Doyle’s eyes down his abdomen, and reaching out a hand to drag Doyle down beside him. Doyle’s skin was smooth, and warm.
After a moment’s token wilful resistance, Doyle let himself be pulled, sinking down to lie on his own towel, limbs stretched out beside Bodie’s at last, away from their everyday world, back on the beach.
Bodie settled back again himself, arms behind his head, eyes closed, and face angled towards Doyle’s. They were close enough that he could feel Doyle’s hair lightly against his outstretched elbow. This was just for the two of them. “Once upon a time,” he began, “There was a man who made…” What the hell was the furthest thing from a CI5 agent he could think of? “…clockwork toys.”
“Clockwork toys?” He could feel Doyle looking sceptically at him.
“Shuddup, or I won’t buy you an ice cream later.”
Doyle snorted, but shut, obediently, up, and Bodie knew he’d caught him.
“So yeah - clockwork toys. He lived in a valley surrounded by hills...”
“Funny sort of valley if it wasn’t surrounded by hills.”
Bodie ignored that, because he had him. “…surrounded by hills covered in trees, so that no one disturbed him, ever. Sometimes he had to go out into the big bad world to sell his toys, but he always came back to the valley where the sun always shone…”
“Desert, was it?”
“…in the daytime, and the rain fell in a soft… fall, at night time, just enough to make everything grow green and lush, and cover the meadows in wildflowers.” Bodie could almost see it himself now. Maybe they should get off the beach tomorrow, head inland somewhere. “The man was happy and content with everything, except for one thing.”
“He was hungry.”
“He had a farm with an orchard and a garden, a river full of fish at one end of the valley, and he traded his toys for everything else he needed.” Pedantic bloody Doyle. “He woke up every morning and went for a run to keep fit, then he came home and set about his work, making the most amazing toys to make the children happy.”
Bodie waited for “Which children?” but it didn’t come. “He listened to the birds sing, and the wind whispering in the trees, and the susurration of the river in the distance.” He grinned to himself. Poetic that, maybe he should take this up. “Trouble was, there was one more thing he needed, so one day he woke up and started work. He sorted out his best clockwork, his finest materials, and most perfect design, and then he began putting it all together. He worked day and night, and slowly it took shape. A body, arms, legs…”
“Let me guess - he made himself a clockwork bird, and not the feathered kind. The one thing man can’t live without…”
“It was a clockwork man,” Bodie corrected. “The one thing he couldn’t live without. Someone to go for a run with, and go fishing with, and tend the garden and the farm.” He took a deep breath of his own, and rolled onto his side, leaning on an elbow, to look down at Doyle, and forgot all about being poetic. “It was a best mate, all green eyes and hair, and just bolshy enough to keep him on his toes. They worked together and went out into the big bad world together, and they always came home to their valley. Didn’t matter what else happened, they always had their valley.”
“Valley in Spain, was it?” Doyle asked, but he turned his head towards Bodie and opened his eyes.
“Magic valley,” Bodie corrected. “Any place they went, there was the valley.”
Doyle shook his head, but his lips stretched into a smile, and he took another one of his deep breaths, chest rising and falling. “You don’t ‘alf talk bollocks sometimes,” he said at last, locking gazes with Bodie. A green gaze, sharp and intense as Doyle ever was, and as knowing and as warm, here in Bodie’s real world, their own real world. “I wouldn’t be anything else, you dumb crud.” He waited until Bodie’s lips quirked back at him in his own smile, and then he sat up again, his turn to look down at Bodie. “Come on - you can buy the tapas and vino. And if you’re very lucky, I’ll let you wind me up later…”
~*0*~
764
by Emily Dickinson
My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -
And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him
The Mountains straight reply -
And do I smile, such cordial light
Opon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let it’s pleasure through -
And when at Night - Our good Day done -
I guard My Master’s Head -
’Tis better than the Eider Duck’s
Deep Pillow - to have shared -
To foe of His - I’m deadly foe -
None stir the second time -
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -
Or an emphatic Thumb -
Though I than He - may longer live
He longer must - than I -
For I have but the power to kill,
Without - the power to die -
Title: The Loaded Gun
Author: Slantedlight
Slash or Gen: Always slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Certainly
Disclaimer: The lads, of course, do not belong to me.
Notes: Originally written for Write Time 2022.