A New Refrain by Fiorenza_a with apologies to Joana Dey (whose permission I have no way of asking)

[fiorenza_a]

A little something inspired by the CI5 HQ reading and posting challenge.

Lifted and twisted from the Joana Dey story No Greater Love



A New Refrain by Fiorenza_a with apologies to Joana Dey
Raymond Doyle gasped and coughed, wood and plaster raining down about him. The thunder of the explosion still reverberating through the empty building, the air hazy with choking dust. His eyes leaked moisture as his brain frantically catalogued the creaking and cracking as the two floors above him threatened to bury everything on the ground floor. An everything which included himself, his boss and his partner, Bodie. Stupid, bastard, son of a bitch, Bodie.

Mind recoiling from the unthinkable, hearing dulled by the bomb, Doyle finally became aware of a voice frantically calling his name. The wrong voice, but familiar anyway, the desperation deserving of an answer. Doyle made his way towards it, slamming his shin against something sharp edged in the process. A typewriter, standing on its side in the rubble of what, mere minutes before, had been the local branch of Barclays Bank.

As he stumbled through what remained of the bank entrance, a hand grabbed hold of his arm and yanked him unceremoniously into the daylight.

"Christ, mate, are you all right?" demanded an obviously anxious Anson, brows drawn together.

"Bo-" attempted Doyle, clearing his throat and trying again "Bodie?"

Anson's eyes darted behind Doyle, towards what was left of the bank entrance "Still in there. Him and Cowley, both."

Doyle spun dizzily on his feet, heading back inside the unstable building even as Anson's protest died on the air behind him. Managing to dodge most of the still falling debris, Doyle nevertheless contrived to trip over the upended typewriter. Slamming into the wreckage strewn floor with a bone-jarring thump. Winded, he dragged himself back to his feet and made a beeline for the moaning mound, just a few feet in front of him, trying to lift itself from the floor.

Frantically plucking away unidentifiable detritus to get at the man beneath, Doyle demanded "Bodie? Bodie!" But turning the body over, he found himself staring into the dazed eyes of his Controller, George Cowley.

Then, from behind him, muffled as a whisper in his still ringing ears "Doyle? Ray!"

Crouched on his haunches, Doyle turned, Cowley cradled in his arms, as the Controller had once cradled him. Bodie was lying perhaps twelve feet away, smothered to his hips in rubble.

Barely sparing a downward glance for the semi-conscious man in his arms, Doyle's eyes found his partner's. Stupid, half-Irish bastard. Unblinkingly, Bodie stared back, grimaced, then gave him a tight little smile.

Taking a steadying breath, eyes never leaving Bodie's stoically patient presence, Doyle clambered to his feet and hauled his boss over his shoulder. Then, securing his burden and controlling the flailing limbs as he'd been taught long before any thought of the Met or CI5 had entered his schoolboy brain, he made his way over the treacherous, rubble littered floor. Something fell from the ceiling and a searing pain scorched the exposed skin of his neck before the burning brand tumbled away. He staggered under the assault, nearly losing his footing as his skin bubbled and blistered, the meat underneath it an agony of cooking flesh.

"Almost there, sir" Doyle muttered through gritted teeth in a blind mantra of determination, more for himself than the insensible man over his shoulder "Almost there." His concentration was so focussed, he had no awareness of reaching the outside world until capable hands tugged Cowley from his shoulder.

Then, dazed and blinking in the sunlight, Anson's hand a vice on his arm, Doyle announced implacably "Bodie."

Anson shook his head "It's too late, Doyle. Everything's coming down. You can't go back in there."

Doyle paid no heed, Anson didn't understand. How could he? Doyle didn't understand himself, but if Bodie was in the bank, if Bodie couldn't leave, then neither could he. He didn't leave Bodie behind, it was that simple. Something of the mystical nature of that bond must have transferred itself to Anson, because Anson was CI5 and Anson could stop him. Instinctively, Anson would have catalogued his injuries. Would know how to use them against him. But Anson didn't.

Anson let him go. Let him stumble back into the collapsing building. Let him clamber over the bricks which had fallen even in the time it had taken to get George Cowley out. Which were still falling, bouncing with a hollow sounding chink off the rubble burying Bodie. Bodie's arms were up in a futile attempt to protect himself, to keep the missiles from his head. The air was getting thick, unseen fires raising the temperature and stealing the oxygen. Doyle could smell the smoke and hear the incendiary crackle adding its voice to the ship-timber creaking of failing floorboards.

But Doyle's eyes were only for Bodie. For the daft, valiant sod drowning in bricks and refusing to go down without a fight. Bodie's eyes flicked up, wide and scared. Taking in Doyle and the ceiling above him in one frightened glance.

There were times when Doyle would swear his instincts were tied symbiotically to Bodie's neural switches. Because his own reactions were still processing the meaning of that blue-eyed apprehension when his body flung itself over Bodie's. Tucking itself round the vulnerably exposed torso and shielding the impenetrable skull. Briefly, he felt Bodie clutch him, hands already bloodied and torn attempting to cover his spine and the back of his head, and then the roof fell in. Literally.

Dead. They had to be.

Except his nose was full of grit and his neck was on fire. So, either hell smelled like brick-dust and Bodie, which was not impossible, or they were alive and not dead.

Throat sore from sucking in mucky air, Doyle tried tentatively "Bodie?"

Contrary to the prevailing theories, hell was apparently silent and black. Or life was. Doyle tried moving. Hell or life was also, apparently, a festival of pain. Doyle stopped moving and instead tried rasping insistently to the leather clad warmth beneath him "Bodie?"

Bodie, his partner, the man for whom he had often suspected he harboured more love than he did for life itself, remained stubbornly, unnervingly, silent.

"Bodie, you great lump" demanded Doyle "Answer me."

The great lump remained unmoved. Doyle's hands slid under the battered leather jacket. Slithered over the gun wedged under his partner's arm. Felt the dampness of sweat mingled with the sandpaper layer of grit. But couldn't feel the slick, sticky ooze of blood, even when they wormed their way to try and map his partner's sturdy back.

In the darkness, all he had was touch. Touch and smell and silence. Silence broken by his own harsh breathing and the intermittent rattle of man-made scree shifting and settling in answer to the inexorable call of gravity. This then, his kingdom; touch, smell, silence and hope. For even if this was hell, they were in it together.

"Oh, Bodie" sighed Doyle, burying his face in the crook of his partner's filthy neck and feeling the pulse jump against his cheek. So it was heaven that was silent and dark, for Bodie who had saved him, was alive. "Stupid great lump" Doyle sniffed weakly, irrationally comforted by the slow thud of life pulsing under his cheek.

Irrational, because if they were not yet dead, they were buried. Fire raged somewhere above them, the façade of the shiny new bank had been inserted into a building as venerable as its name. A building whose old and weak bricks would explode when roasted, whose desiccated, varnished and waxed timbers would wick the heat of the inferno until the whole building became a chimney. A cremation then. Alive, just when being dead looked like the better option. Pity.

Frivolously, it occurred to Doyle that in such circumstances someone, Cowley perhaps, indestructible himself, might order the destruction of the building. A blast to douse the conflagration. London had seen enough of fire. He started to chuckle gently at the thought. A bomb to start the fire and a bomb to end it. And them under both. With just enough time to rescue Cowley so he could order their destruction between explosions.

The great lump beneath him shifted slightly and an uncertain voice asked "Ray? You okay?"

Doyle had tears of mirth in his eyes now, nodding vigorously against his partner's neck "Oh yes, doing just great, we're buried, the building's on fire, the Cow'll probably have us blown to smithereens to extinguish it, but I'm fine. How are you?"

"Apparently about to gasp my last in the clutches of a raving nutter" observed Bodie sardonically and not a little breathlessly "Answer me one thing, Doyle, just why are you hanging on to me like a drowning rat?"

Suddenly feeling his previously comforting posture to be utterly ridiculous, and not a little stung by the rejection, Doyle retorted defensively "How much room do you think there is in here?"

"Dunno" admitted Bodie equitably.

"Sardines, mate" Doyle informed his partner "And unless you want me to think you're about to be pleased to see me, you can let go now."

"Eh?"

"You've still got one of your ruddy great paws on me rear end" Doyle announced smugly. Bodie's protective cuddling of him had relaxed, leaving only the hand which had been shielding his spine resting in the small of his back.

"That's not your rear end, Doyle" countered Bodie, squeezing a firmly rounded, denim clad buttock with an impressive amount of pressure "This is."

"Oi" yelped Doyle.

A reaction which prompted the immediate reanimation of Bodie's hand, followed instantly by his other, both urgently pressing and exploring.

Squirming under the assault, Doyle protested "I'm not hurt. Okay, I think I've busted me ankle and me neck feels like its on fire, but I'm not really hurt. God's truth, Bodie."

An exploring hand stilled on his curls "Singed your crowning glory, Angelfish. It's all frizz back here, you'll have to have it cut."

"It'll grow back" replied Doyle with glum stoicism.

"Think I've buggered me legs" announced Bodie with an awkward off-handedness.

Doyle hesitated, swallowed, and then asked nervously "Bad?"

"Bad enough."

"Oh, Bodie" breathed Doyle.

"Don't start, Ray. Couple of broken bones aren't going to kill me."

"I couldn't feel any blood, but I couldn't get to your legs, too much rubble. Couldn't get under your back properly either."

"You been feeling me up, Doyle?" asked Bodie and even in the pitch darkness Doyle knew the expression that went with the tone. Eyebrow lifted, mouth pursed in a superior smirk. And in that moment he knew he loved Bodie. Knew why he was buried alive when he could have been free. Bodie was the reason his relationships failed, he wanted a woman he could love like this. With an easy devotion. Bodie was the gold standard against which he judged all comers.

"Stupid sod" said Doyle, because at least one of them was.

"You shouldn't have come back, Goldilocks" chided Bodie gently.

"You telling me, you wouldn't have?" challenged Doyle with equally gentle belligerence.

Silence. Stretching uncomfortably between them. A creeping horror began to spread through Doyle. All the years? Spent and unspent? Had he been mistaken? Given his devotion where it was not reciprocated? Had he just given his life?

Then another thought, he pressed his cheek to Bodie's neck, seeking the reassurance of a pulse and met...wetness.

"Bodie?"

"What d'you want me to say?" snapped Bodie roughly "I don't want to die alone? Well, I don't. Don't want to bloody die at all, come to that. But you were safe, you stupid git. You could've stuck a ruddy wreath on me grave and walked away. And now I've got to watch you..." Bodie heaved beneath him, no way of turning, finishing desperately "There are bloody worse things than dying alone."

"Stay still, you stupid sod" ordered Doyle through exasperated, happy tears.

"Right pair" observed Bodie wryly under the absolution of the blanketing darkness.

"Make you a promise" offered Doyle.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. If I think I'm about to kark it, I'll do you first."

"Oh, cheers" responded Bodie unenthusiastically.

"Make you another" said Doyle with quiet resolution.

"You're not my type" countered Bodie automatically.

"We're getting out of here" promised Doyle sincerely.

"Yeah" concluded Bodie "Feet first, even if they have to hack 'em off to do it."

"No" said Doyle firmly "We're getting out of here. Make your mind up about that right now, Colonel Custer. No bloody going down with your ship."

"Doyle" pointed out Bodie with dry amusement "Custer was in the cavalry."

"No bloody going down with your horse, then" snapped Doyle.

This statement was followed by a sudden intense silence and then both men were guffawing, helpless with mirth in each other's arms.

"Always said you weren't right, Doyle" spluttered Bodie "It's that bloody mane of yours, promise of a good curry comb and you're anybody's."

Bodie's body continued to heave with laughter, but Doyle realised with dismay that his partner's laboured breathing was increasingly less to do with his humour and more to do with the fact that Doyle's full bodyweight was piled on Bodie's ribcage. He was suffocating the man beneath him.

Doyle attempted to wriggle his weight off Bodie's sternum.

"Where d'you think you're going, Goldilocks?" gasped Bodie.

"I'm crushing you" said Doyle.

"You're doing more than that, Sunshine" announced Bodie, sounding strained.

"Your legs? Bloody hell, Bodie, you should have said something" scolded Doyle anxiously "How bad?"

"Can't bloody cross 'em, can I?" replied Bodie tightly.

"Eh?"

"Me bladder's about to burst" complained Bodie peevishly "And you digging your knobbly knees in it isn't helping."

"Oh, sorry mate" apologised Doyle and attempted to wriggle back the few inches to his original position.

"Christ, Doyle!" snapped Bodie, his obvious desperation laced with a hint of hysteria.

Abruptly, Doyle became aware of a warm dampness spreading itself between them. Bodie's embarrassment was palpable.

"Kinky" observed Doyle "Never 'ad a golden shower before."

"Berk" sniffed Bodie gratefully.

"Straight up" Doyle assured his partner.

"Miss Coventry would've had me up in front of the class with a sign round me neck." Unlike Doyle, Bodie was congenitally incapable of ignoring elephants.

"Bitch" said Doyle quietly.

"Timmy Wadworth left 'ome. Found him a week later with the gypsies. His old lady couldn't care less, but his old man was okay. Told the police it had all been a misunderstanding. Didn't believe him of course, but they couldn't do anything about it, 'cept move the gypsies on."

"That why you ran away to sea? Miss Coventry?"

"I was fourteen, Doyle" said Bodie, audibly affronted.

"Oh yeah" said Doyle "S'pose Timmy Wadworth would've been that bit younger."

"Yeah, Doyle" said Bodie, still sounding aggrieved "Just a bit. Miss Coventry was infants and I didn't bloody run. I'd just 'ad enough."

"Of what?" asked Doyle, hoping that in the darkness secrets could be revealed.

"I just 'ad" sniffled Bodie "I don't 'ave a mad Mum in the attic, or anything. But I took one look at me old man and 'is mates and just figured there 'ad to be more."

"Most people run..um...move away to London" said Doyle, speaking from his own experience and adding as an afterthought "Or the circus."

"I'm not going to London, place is full of bloody cockneys" protested Bodie, scandalised.

"Well, you ended up here, mate" pointed out Doyle.

Doyle felt his partner's shoulders move in a shrug, accompanied by Bodie's snuffled "Bloody Cowley."

"You okay, Bodie?" asked Doyle.

"You mean, apart from busted legs and pissing me pants?" asked Bodie pointedly.

"Yeah" agreed Doyle reasonably "Apart from that."

"Bloody dust everywhere, isn't there?" grumbled Bodie "'S gone right up me hooter."

"Yeah" reflected Doyle "We picked a great place to die."

"Thought we'd elbowed that idea" protested Bodie "You going back on your word, Doyle?"

Except for the roughness of his breathing, Doyle lay still and silent for a moment, then he said into the darkness "I love you, Bodie."

For almost a minute, Bodie seemed to stop breathing altogether, then he rallied enough to say "You try and kiss me now, Doyle, I'll bloody kill you myself."

"I don't want to kiss you, you great berk" responded Doyle, inured to his partner's meaningless death threats. If he had kissed him, Bodie would have found a way to come to terms with it "I just wanted you to know, in case...well, you know...in case the same cretinous bastards who chose a bank holiday to blow up a bank decide to make a liar of me."

"You wouldn't be the first bloke who wanted to kiss me" announced Bodie with surreal airiness.

"I don't want to kiss you" repeated Doyle.

"I let one of 'em, once" continued Bodie loftily.

"I don't want-What?" stumbled Doyle "You 'ave? With a fella? This more African stuff?"

"Behind the bike sheds" Bodie informed his partner "Got three gobstoppers and a crack at Mavis George."

"Who's Mavis George?"

"Best bird in the school" explained Bodie with the air of a man dealing with an incurable simpleton "Very early developer, was Mavis."

"So...You kissed this lad-"

"He kissed me" interrupted Bodie, with what he clearly considered to be an important distinction.

"Right" acknowledged Doyle loyally "So, this lad kisses you...and you get the best girl in the school?"

"Yeah, and three gobstoppers" agreed Bodie readily "It was a bet. We were all behind the bike sheds, 'aving a quiet puff away from prying eyes, and Mavis bet me I wouldn't let her brother kiss me."

"What was it like?" asked Doyle, curiosity piqued.

"Like chewing a bloody slug" said Bodie in disgust "I mean, why would you? Not like there aren't enough birds to go around."

"Yeah" agreed Doyle "But, if you're gay, you're not gonna want one of them, are you?"

"Just one of the many reasons, Raymond my old son, not to knock the feather boa brigade."

"What's the others?" asked Doyle, intrigued by this insight into his partner's psyche.

"Well, if they didn't do each other, they'd want to do us, wouldn't they?" said Bodie "I mean, stands to reason, can't expect a bloke to go without."

Doyle pondered this for a moment and then asked "What about monks?"

"You can't count them, they're not normal" dismissed Bodie.

"Religious though" reasoned Doyle.

"Yeah, religious" conceded Bodie "But not normal."

"So you reckon gay blokes are normal, then?" asked Doyle.

"Any bloke who wants a shag is normal, Doyle" replied Bodie sagely "It's the ones that don't you have to worry about."

"What about birds?" asked Doyle.

"All in favour" Bodie responded promptly "Especially the ones that offer a warm welcome."

"No, I mean lesbian birds" said Doyle "What about them?"

"'S long as they're not fully paid up members of the hack 'em off with a blunt hacksaw society, I figure live and let live" said Bodie "Mean, can hardly criticise them for doing the same thing I want to, can I?"

"But they sleep with other birds" protested Doyle, feeling the need to play Devil's advocate in the face of Bodie's unassailable smug assurance "Increases the competition."

"How d'you figure that?" countered Bodie "It's like the blokes, right? They stick to their own. Explains a lot about the pitiful state of your love life, though. Wanna try barking up the right trees, mate."

"So, do you?" asked Doyle.

"Never barked up a wrong one yet" claimed Bodie.

"No, do you...you know...love me?" pressed Doyle awkwardly, and then yelped in surprise as a firm hand unceremoniously grabbed his unwary genitals "What the f- Bodie, what the hell's got into you?"

"Just checking, me old son" replied Bodie, unrepentantly.

"Well, you can keep your sodding great mitts to yourself."

Doyle felt Bodie pat the assaulted region, presumably by way of apology, and withdraw.

A little mollified, Doyle complained "If I get a sudden rush of blood, it's going to be your fault."

"Didn't know you liked the rough stuff" observed Bodie neutrally.

"Don't, get enough of that with the job" grumbled Doyle "Far as I'm concerned, someone hurts you, you hurt 'em back, twice as hard, so they don't think about doing it again."

"Always figured that was my job" said Bodie quietly.

"Eh?"

"Someone hurts you, Angelfish, I hurt 'em back and I'm not sure I care how hard, 's long as they never do it again."

"Big softie" mumbled Doyle happily.

"You going to sleep on me, Doyle?"

Doyle nodded contentedly against his partner's cheek and felt warm arms wrap themselves round him as Bodie whispered tenderly into his ear "Probably not the best idea, Goldilocks, we're both injured."

"I know."

"Could bugger up your plans for us getting out."

"I know."

"Ray?" prompted Bodie.

"Mmmm?" Doyle murmured drowsily in response.

"Sweet dreams."

"Yeah, sweet dreams" Doyle agreed sleepily "...and Bodie?"

"Yeah?"

"Wherever we are, be there when I wake up."

"Goes both ways, Sunshine."

"Wherever we wake up, Bodie, word of honour."

Forty minutes later Anson shone a torch through the chink he'd excavated in the rubble burying them and shouted ''Over here lads, it's this one. Dogs were spot on. Raise Cowley, tell him Tweedledum and Tweedledee are out for the count and for God's sake get some gear in here sharpish before what's left of this lot comes crashing down round our ears.''

Paradise, it turns out, is full of flashing blue lights and smells faintly of piss.

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