Weekly Obbo Challenge #50A - Gesture
Title: It’s In His Touch
Author: Ice Bear
Genre: Slash
Pairing: B/D
Archive: Pros Lib, Please
Word Count: 500
Disclaimer: All things related to The Professionals belong to others. I borrow them solely for my own entertainment.
Summary: The Controller has a bit of a mystery on his hands.
Removing his glasses, palms wearily rubbed bloodshot eyes. Pushing back from the desk he gingerly rose and made his way to the small drinks cabinet in the corner. Pouring a rather generous portion of whisky into a glass he took his first sip while staring out the window. He was perplexed - felt like he was missing something, something important and it was putting him on edge that he couldn’t grasp it.
He knew it had been a long day and that he should go home, eat, sleep and whatever was bothering him would likely come to him, but he just couldn’t let it go. Sighing heavily he moved back to the desk and sat down, stretching his bad leg out carefully.
Another sip and gray eyes closed, as he let his mind drift back through the day’s chaos. A rather routine stake out had gone bad quickly and was salvaged only through the efforts of his top team. Shaking his head slightly he stole another sip. The intell on the men in the house they’d staked out had been wrong, something he would address tomorrow with MI6. The small smuggling operation they were supposedly watching had, in fact, been a group of IRA terrorists sitting on a large stash of explosives.
Bodie and Doyle had been the team closest when the call for backup went out. Four teams had been in or near the house when the ex-SAS sergeant had bellowed an order to run. His quick action was the only thing that had saved him the expense of burying eight agents. McCabe’s and Anson’s verbal reports had made that point quite clear.
There was nothing there that he should be concerned about, except for the fact that 3-7 had ended up in hospital with a serious concussion and three broken ribs along with the usual assortment of bumps and bruises.
After he’d supervised the clean up he’d gone to hospital, spoken to the doctor and looked in on his agent. He was not at all surprised to find 4-5 in the room, speaking quietly to the unconscious patient. In fact, he would have found it odd if Doyle had not been at Bodie’s bedside. So that wasn’t it.
They’d talked quietly for a few minutes before he took his leave. He’d nearly made it to the lift when he realised he’d forgotten to remind Doyle of a court date the next morning. He’d opened the door to the private room only to stop: Doyle was leaning over the bed, one hand gently pushing the unruly dark hair off the pale forehead.
He straightened up. That was what had been bothering him, that small, insignificant gesture. Bodie was the toucher of that duo. Doyle, if he was going to touch, only did so in anger: 3-7 had worn the bruises over the years as proof of that fact.
What he’d witnessed had been the touch of a lover…how had he possibly missed that development? He must be getting old.
Author: Ice Bear
Genre: Slash
Pairing: B/D
Archive: Pros Lib, Please
Word Count: 500
Disclaimer: All things related to The Professionals belong to others. I borrow them solely for my own entertainment.
Summary: The Controller has a bit of a mystery on his hands.
Removing his glasses, palms wearily rubbed bloodshot eyes. Pushing back from the desk he gingerly rose and made his way to the small drinks cabinet in the corner. Pouring a rather generous portion of whisky into a glass he took his first sip while staring out the window. He was perplexed - felt like he was missing something, something important and it was putting him on edge that he couldn’t grasp it.
He knew it had been a long day and that he should go home, eat, sleep and whatever was bothering him would likely come to him, but he just couldn’t let it go. Sighing heavily he moved back to the desk and sat down, stretching his bad leg out carefully.
Another sip and gray eyes closed, as he let his mind drift back through the day’s chaos. A rather routine stake out had gone bad quickly and was salvaged only through the efforts of his top team. Shaking his head slightly he stole another sip. The intell on the men in the house they’d staked out had been wrong, something he would address tomorrow with MI6. The small smuggling operation they were supposedly watching had, in fact, been a group of IRA terrorists sitting on a large stash of explosives.
Bodie and Doyle had been the team closest when the call for backup went out. Four teams had been in or near the house when the ex-SAS sergeant had bellowed an order to run. His quick action was the only thing that had saved him the expense of burying eight agents. McCabe’s and Anson’s verbal reports had made that point quite clear.
There was nothing there that he should be concerned about, except for the fact that 3-7 had ended up in hospital with a serious concussion and three broken ribs along with the usual assortment of bumps and bruises.
After he’d supervised the clean up he’d gone to hospital, spoken to the doctor and looked in on his agent. He was not at all surprised to find 4-5 in the room, speaking quietly to the unconscious patient. In fact, he would have found it odd if Doyle had not been at Bodie’s bedside. So that wasn’t it.
They’d talked quietly for a few minutes before he took his leave. He’d nearly made it to the lift when he realised he’d forgotten to remind Doyle of a court date the next morning. He’d opened the door to the private room only to stop: Doyle was leaning over the bed, one hand gently pushing the unruly dark hair off the pale forehead.
He straightened up. That was what had been bothering him, that small, insignificant gesture. Bodie was the toucher of that duo. Doyle, if he was going to touch, only did so in anger: 3-7 had worn the bruises over the years as proof of that fact.
What he’d witnessed had been the touch of a lover…how had he possibly missed that development? He must be getting old.