A Pros ficlet
My fandom monogamy seems to be slipping...
531 words of 'The Professionals'. Your nana could read this, assuming she's not serious about her pacifist teetotallism.
Just For One Day
Bowie was wailing, "We can be heroes". It wasn't enough for Bodie to turn it down; instead, he lifted the needle away from the vinyl with quick precision, and then turned to Doyle, who had laid his length along the sofa.
"Stereo loud enough to wake the neighbours. Locks undone." Bodie picked up the bottle that lay on the coffee table and eyed the label in distaste. "Rotgut whisky. Maudlin doesn't suit you, Doyle."
The drink hadn't put any colour back into Doyle. Cinder-grey eyes stared out of a pale face over the top of a clear Swedish crystal glass that was very nearly empty. Pale face, washed out t-shirt and jeans, pale feet. "Locks were undone because I knew you'd be coming." Bodie fetched a glass for himself and poured out a measure. "And drinking my booze."
Bodie sat down in a chair opposite Doyle, stretching his legs out. It felt good. He'd spent too much time cramped into small spaces today. He took a tiny sip of whisky.
"Bloody hell. Greater love hath no man, that's all I can say."
"Don't drink it then."
"Gotta save you from yourself, mate." Bodie threw the dreadful stuff back.
"Not as if you owe me. All part of the service. Queen and country and keeping bullet holes out of the Cow's expensively trained agents."
Bodie poured another drink, but it sat in his hands. "Just worried about Cowley's book-keeping, were you? Can't say as I'm sorry to still be here and able to enjoy the good things in life." He tilted his glass towards Doyle. "Which this rubbish is not."
Doyle took a large swallow of his own drink. "Think that's what that bloody stupid kid wanted? To enjoy a few good things in life?"
"Dunno." Bodie took a mouthful. Disgusting, but it snaked down his gut in fire. Everyone needed warmth. "World's not fair about handing out good things to anybody, especially the stupid."
"So why aren't you and I dead, then?" Bodie turned his head away a moment. Unfair, unfair to them both, but even in the heat of a fire-fight he'd been horrified by the skinny, baby-faced corpse. The hope had sat in his mind through the clean-up. Let him just be baby-faced, some clear-skinned twit who was still old enough to know what he'd been doing. For Doyle's sake. But no. Fifteen. He'd seen Doyle wince when Cowley had given them the news.
"Like I said. World's not fair. Look at me. Blessed with good looks, intelligence, a discerning palate, and here I am on a Saturday night drinking your bloody awful whisky." He took another swallow. As punishments for stupidity went, enduring this was a doddle.
"Berk," said Doyle. "Want another one?" He extended the bottle in a rock-steady hand.
"You really do want me to suffer, don't you?" But Bodie leaned forward to hold out his glass and watched it filled with a generous dollop.
"Misery loves company, mate," Doyle said, leaning his head back against the padded arm of the sofa and shutting his eyes. But the lines of his face were set less tensely, and the glass lay cradled more loosely in his hands.
531 words of 'The Professionals'. Your nana could read this, assuming she's not serious about her pacifist teetotallism.
Just For One Day
Bowie was wailing, "We can be heroes". It wasn't enough for Bodie to turn it down; instead, he lifted the needle away from the vinyl with quick precision, and then turned to Doyle, who had laid his length along the sofa.
"Stereo loud enough to wake the neighbours. Locks undone." Bodie picked up the bottle that lay on the coffee table and eyed the label in distaste. "Rotgut whisky. Maudlin doesn't suit you, Doyle."
The drink hadn't put any colour back into Doyle. Cinder-grey eyes stared out of a pale face over the top of a clear Swedish crystal glass that was very nearly empty. Pale face, washed out t-shirt and jeans, pale feet. "Locks were undone because I knew you'd be coming." Bodie fetched a glass for himself and poured out a measure. "And drinking my booze."
Bodie sat down in a chair opposite Doyle, stretching his legs out. It felt good. He'd spent too much time cramped into small spaces today. He took a tiny sip of whisky.
"Bloody hell. Greater love hath no man, that's all I can say."
"Don't drink it then."
"Gotta save you from yourself, mate." Bodie threw the dreadful stuff back.
"Not as if you owe me. All part of the service. Queen and country and keeping bullet holes out of the Cow's expensively trained agents."
Bodie poured another drink, but it sat in his hands. "Just worried about Cowley's book-keeping, were you? Can't say as I'm sorry to still be here and able to enjoy the good things in life." He tilted his glass towards Doyle. "Which this rubbish is not."
Doyle took a large swallow of his own drink. "Think that's what that bloody stupid kid wanted? To enjoy a few good things in life?"
"Dunno." Bodie took a mouthful. Disgusting, but it snaked down his gut in fire. Everyone needed warmth. "World's not fair about handing out good things to anybody, especially the stupid."
"So why aren't you and I dead, then?" Bodie turned his head away a moment. Unfair, unfair to them both, but even in the heat of a fire-fight he'd been horrified by the skinny, baby-faced corpse. The hope had sat in his mind through the clean-up. Let him just be baby-faced, some clear-skinned twit who was still old enough to know what he'd been doing. For Doyle's sake. But no. Fifteen. He'd seen Doyle wince when Cowley had given them the news.
"Like I said. World's not fair. Look at me. Blessed with good looks, intelligence, a discerning palate, and here I am on a Saturday night drinking your bloody awful whisky." He took another swallow. As punishments for stupidity went, enduring this was a doddle.
"Berk," said Doyle. "Want another one?" He extended the bottle in a rock-steady hand.
"You really do want me to suffer, don't you?" But Bodie leaned forward to hold out his glass and watched it filled with a generous dollop.
"Misery loves company, mate," Doyle said, leaning his head back against the padded arm of the sofa and shutting his eyes. But the lines of his face were set less tensely, and the glass lay cradled more loosely in his hands.