Fic: A Letter to My Love (The Professionals, Bodie/Doyle)
Title: A Letter to My Love
Author: JoJo
Fandom: The Professionals
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Prompt: here
Summary: There are a shed-load of obstacles between them. Starting with the desert.
A/n: Late!
The box sat on the wall across the road, taunting him. It was squat, dented, scratched. From under the awning of the Al Baslaqun Café, Doyle stared at it, resentful. Telephone and stamps in one - should be the answer to all his prayers. His fingertips itched, his pulse bumped and his jaw ached from the way he was clenching his teeth.
Okay, so the lines were down. Not much new, there, especially during Ramadan. But all he needed was one lousy book of stamps - the little red ones with the Pyramids. Magic.
Doyle picked up his glass of tea, sucked at it, cross. The sweetness zinged through his bloodstream, emphasizing his emotions.
“Another machine?” he’d asked Hanny the café owner, a Copt who did good business at this time of year.
Hanny had crossed his arms, shaken his head.
“Only that one.” He’d shrugged, fatalistic, swiping his cloth across the next door table, a sea of spilled black coffee and sugar. Then he’d flipped his cloth over his shoulder, wandered back inside. As if he was busy. Which he plainly wasn’t.
After a while, predictably, he came back out. Probably bored sitting in there in the quiet with no air-conditioning and nothing much to do. “Two days,” he said. “Then Post Office open, half day. Alexandria.”
“Ha.” Doyle raked a hand through his hair, frustrated. Alexandria was 35k behind them.
His scalp felt slick from the mid-morning heat, coated in sand. Bodie bloody loved his barnet when it was like this, curls tight and roots malleable. The thought of Bodie’s hands threading through his hair made Doyle sweat even more than he was already doing.
“No good?”
“No, no good.”
Just one poxy row of magic squares was all he needed. For the flimsy envelope stuffed in his shirt’s breast pocket. It was heating his chest with its importance. If Jax could just get it into the creaky postal system before his private meet in Cairo... before they set off again in-country, following the Nile south, far out of range. Get it, more vitally, through the Edwardes Square letterbox before Bodie had done what he’d threatened and sodded off for good.
Doyle ground his teeth and could feel the grit.
One day, he thought grimly. One day I’ll be able to whip some shiny gadget out of my pocket, press a few buttons and talk to him straightaway, wherever either of us bloody well are, whatever bloody stupid mission we’re on. Maybe even see him too. God. The idea of being able to see Bodie’s smirking face, from a roadside café at the other side of the world, made his stomach hurt.
He looked at his watch. Jax was due anytime.
“You have stamps?” he said to Hanny in sudden hope. The man patted his pockets obligingly but then signaled a negative. It clearly seemed an odd request to him. Perhaps Hanny had no need of stamps - all his family probably lived in the village, and paperwork, obviously, could wait.
Doyle sipped more of the hot tea. Up the road he could see nothing but the yellow-tinged heat haze.
“She very lovely?”
Doyle blinked, shocked. The barest of breezes tugged his hair, hot and relentless. He shifted on the chair feeling his holster rub sharply against his back.
“Yeah. Tall, dark. Beautiful.”
Bolshy, he could have added. Arrogant. Bloody hilarious and all.
Hanny seemed to approve. “Need to tell her nice things?”
Doyle was grateful for the protection of his Ray-bans. He pursed his lips but didn’t respond.
“Very important nice things?”
Hanny was a pushy bugger. Doyle took a breath. “Yeah, you know.”
“You are my sweetheart.” Hanny was evidently an alumni of the Hallmark School of English. “Will you be mine.”
A smile tugged at Doyle’s lips. “Something like that.”
The letter was a matey scrawl, with everything between the lines.
Just make up your mind, you selfish, annoying bastard. Jesus, Bodie, it was you just as much as me. OK so I’ve changed my mind and I’m sorry all right? Sorry for the things I said. I’m an arse and you’re a pillock but don’t let’s do this. Please, mate. Don’t let’s do this.
“Darling,” Hanny said with a croaky little laugh, enjoying himself. “Darling, I love you.”
Doyle’s stomach hurt again. Then his spine stiffened. He could see a dust cloud billowing up at the end of the road, the abrupt, searing, flash of sunlight on chrome. Hanny’s eyes followed his gaze.
“Time to go?”
“Yeah.” Doyle dug in his back pocket. Some local, he thought, and some dollars, just for friendliness and because in his line of work you never knew where you might need friends. He slipped the notes under the sugar bowl.
The gun in the holster bumped his shoulder blade as he scraped back the chair. Through the shimmer of heat the oncoming vehicle drew closer, dipping up and down on the rutted road. He stuck out a hand towards Hanny and they shook, grave.
“Darling will wait,” Hanny said, confident. His teeth showed. “Insha’Allah, God willing.” It was all he needed, all that made sense - blind faith. Doyle wished, not for the first time in his life, that he had some himself.
As the Landrover rolled to a halt, the window rolled down.
“Morning,” said Jax from behind his shades.
Doyle rounded the bonnet, climbed in and slammed the door.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got any stamps?”
Jax glanced across, amused that this was Doyle’s first salvo. “What’s up, missed your Mum’s birthday?”
“Yeah,” Doyle said, jokey. “She’ll kill me.”
The tires span, kicking up dirt.
Doyle watched the al-Baslaqun Café disappearing into the clouds of sand in the wing mirror. Maybe the phone lines would be back up wherever it was he had to wait for Jax. Maybe there’d be a stamp machine that worked.
Or maybe Bodie would realize what was good for him.
Blind bloody faith. Doyle grinned and touched a finger to the paper lying against his heart.
Author: JoJo
Fandom: The Professionals
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Prompt: here
Summary: There are a shed-load of obstacles between them. Starting with the desert.
A/n: Late!
The box sat on the wall across the road, taunting him. It was squat, dented, scratched. From under the awning of the Al Baslaqun Café, Doyle stared at it, resentful. Telephone and stamps in one - should be the answer to all his prayers. His fingertips itched, his pulse bumped and his jaw ached from the way he was clenching his teeth.
Okay, so the lines were down. Not much new, there, especially during Ramadan. But all he needed was one lousy book of stamps - the little red ones with the Pyramids. Magic.
Doyle picked up his glass of tea, sucked at it, cross. The sweetness zinged through his bloodstream, emphasizing his emotions.
“Another machine?” he’d asked Hanny the café owner, a Copt who did good business at this time of year.
Hanny had crossed his arms, shaken his head.
“Only that one.” He’d shrugged, fatalistic, swiping his cloth across the next door table, a sea of spilled black coffee and sugar. Then he’d flipped his cloth over his shoulder, wandered back inside. As if he was busy. Which he plainly wasn’t.
After a while, predictably, he came back out. Probably bored sitting in there in the quiet with no air-conditioning and nothing much to do. “Two days,” he said. “Then Post Office open, half day. Alexandria.”
“Ha.” Doyle raked a hand through his hair, frustrated. Alexandria was 35k behind them.
His scalp felt slick from the mid-morning heat, coated in sand. Bodie bloody loved his barnet when it was like this, curls tight and roots malleable. The thought of Bodie’s hands threading through his hair made Doyle sweat even more than he was already doing.
“No good?”
“No, no good.”
Just one poxy row of magic squares was all he needed. For the flimsy envelope stuffed in his shirt’s breast pocket. It was heating his chest with its importance. If Jax could just get it into the creaky postal system before his private meet in Cairo... before they set off again in-country, following the Nile south, far out of range. Get it, more vitally, through the Edwardes Square letterbox before Bodie had done what he’d threatened and sodded off for good.
Doyle ground his teeth and could feel the grit.
One day, he thought grimly. One day I’ll be able to whip some shiny gadget out of my pocket, press a few buttons and talk to him straightaway, wherever either of us bloody well are, whatever bloody stupid mission we’re on. Maybe even see him too. God. The idea of being able to see Bodie’s smirking face, from a roadside café at the other side of the world, made his stomach hurt.
He looked at his watch. Jax was due anytime.
“You have stamps?” he said to Hanny in sudden hope. The man patted his pockets obligingly but then signaled a negative. It clearly seemed an odd request to him. Perhaps Hanny had no need of stamps - all his family probably lived in the village, and paperwork, obviously, could wait.
Doyle sipped more of the hot tea. Up the road he could see nothing but the yellow-tinged heat haze.
“She very lovely?”
Doyle blinked, shocked. The barest of breezes tugged his hair, hot and relentless. He shifted on the chair feeling his holster rub sharply against his back.
“Yeah. Tall, dark. Beautiful.”
Bolshy, he could have added. Arrogant. Bloody hilarious and all.
Hanny seemed to approve. “Need to tell her nice things?”
Doyle was grateful for the protection of his Ray-bans. He pursed his lips but didn’t respond.
“Very important nice things?”
Hanny was a pushy bugger. Doyle took a breath. “Yeah, you know.”
“You are my sweetheart.” Hanny was evidently an alumni of the Hallmark School of English. “Will you be mine.”
A smile tugged at Doyle’s lips. “Something like that.”
The letter was a matey scrawl, with everything between the lines.
Just make up your mind, you selfish, annoying bastard. Jesus, Bodie, it was you just as much as me. OK so I’ve changed my mind and I’m sorry all right? Sorry for the things I said. I’m an arse and you’re a pillock but don’t let’s do this. Please, mate. Don’t let’s do this.
“Darling,” Hanny said with a croaky little laugh, enjoying himself. “Darling, I love you.”
Doyle’s stomach hurt again. Then his spine stiffened. He could see a dust cloud billowing up at the end of the road, the abrupt, searing, flash of sunlight on chrome. Hanny’s eyes followed his gaze.
“Time to go?”
“Yeah.” Doyle dug in his back pocket. Some local, he thought, and some dollars, just for friendliness and because in his line of work you never knew where you might need friends. He slipped the notes under the sugar bowl.
The gun in the holster bumped his shoulder blade as he scraped back the chair. Through the shimmer of heat the oncoming vehicle drew closer, dipping up and down on the rutted road. He stuck out a hand towards Hanny and they shook, grave.
“Darling will wait,” Hanny said, confident. His teeth showed. “Insha’Allah, God willing.” It was all he needed, all that made sense - blind faith. Doyle wished, not for the first time in his life, that he had some himself.
As the Landrover rolled to a halt, the window rolled down.
“Morning,” said Jax from behind his shades.
Doyle rounded the bonnet, climbed in and slammed the door.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got any stamps?”
Jax glanced across, amused that this was Doyle’s first salvo. “What’s up, missed your Mum’s birthday?”
“Yeah,” Doyle said, jokey. “She’ll kill me.”
The tires span, kicking up dirt.
Doyle watched the al-Baslaqun Café disappearing into the clouds of sand in the wing mirror. Maybe the phone lines would be back up wherever it was he had to wait for Jax. Maybe there’d be a stamp machine that worked.
Or maybe Bodie would realize what was good for him.
Blind bloody faith. Doyle grinned and touched a finger to the paper lying against his heart.