Weekly Obbo 191: brass, crispy, picture prompt
Title: A Choice
Author: Merentha13
Pros-Lib / Circuit Archive: Yes
Pairing and / or characters: Doyle
Rating: adult
Word count: 560
Warnings: none
Note: a possible scene from Discovered in a Graveyard
Disclaimer: Just borrowing the lads, no copyright infringement intended
A corridor stretched out in front of him. Cold. Empty. Dark despite the feeble attempt of the brass fixtures hanging from the arched ceiling to light his way. Murky pools of weak illumination dotted a patterned, thread-bare carpet, pulling him towards - what? Where was he supposed to be going? Words, angry yet strangely pleading do it for yourself; don’t let them beat you, repeated in a rhythm that wrapped itself around and through his mind - wanting him to decide. But decide what?
There was a light at the end of the passageway. He laughed silently. A cliché, surely. Then the bright whiteness was replaced by odd, unfocused images: himself, wearing a blood stained t-shirt, a strangely lit pub and more familiar words: You won’t fall when they push. But that was a lie. He had fallen. Hadn’t he? The next image, of men carrying a lonely wooden casket while autumn’s colourful, crispy detritus crunched under their boots, was proof of that. His casket.
Unbearable pain in his chest and shoulder pulled him away from the arched shadows. The words in his head and the scratch of the swirling leaves as they scurried across the pavement were replaced by the not so steady beat of a heart monitor and the efficient rush of a respirator. It was all too much.
He willed himself back into the quiet of the hallway. It was familiar. He’d been there before. Last time the pain had been centred in his head and there had been no decision about survival to be made. In his youth, with idealistic arrogance, there had been a clear reason to fight for life - vengeance. He would recover, if only to get the fucking bastards that had broken his face and had killed a friend.
Back then he had run down this corridor with its brass lamps and wooden archways and on out through that bright light without stopping. And even though he hadn’t found his own attackers, he’d chosen to do what he could to protect others from a similar fate. His path had been clear, Hendon, the Met, the Yard and, finally, CI5. So much for idealism. His chosen path had landed him here again, this time with no vengeance to seek. Only a need to understand the sadness and resignation in pair of almond eyes.
He looked around the hallway. It seemed older, more worn, the brass lamps tarnished. Like him. He wanted to run. Run up the corridor and through the light that promised an end to his pain, his torment and his uncertainty. To hell with the consequences. But there was something that held him back, something that kept him in the hall. A pressure surrounding his hand made this time different.
The low repetitious murmur was back, drumming in his head. He was being pulled back into himself. He looked up the passageway. This time there was a figure in the light waiting for him. St. Peter? A silent laugh. No, this shadow was no angel. Had no wings, did it? But he knew that silhouette. He lived for it. Loved it. Bodie. No decision then. He knew the choice had already been made. He, Raymond Doyle would live.
The light grew brighter. The pressure surrounding his hand became warmth. The murmur became words.
“For Christ’s sake, Ray, open your bloody eyes!”
And he did.
Author: Merentha13
Pros-Lib / Circuit Archive: Yes
Pairing and / or characters: Doyle
Rating: adult
Word count: 560
Warnings: none
Note: a possible scene from Discovered in a Graveyard
Disclaimer: Just borrowing the lads, no copyright infringement intended
A corridor stretched out in front of him. Cold. Empty. Dark despite the feeble attempt of the brass fixtures hanging from the arched ceiling to light his way. Murky pools of weak illumination dotted a patterned, thread-bare carpet, pulling him towards - what? Where was he supposed to be going? Words, angry yet strangely pleading do it for yourself; don’t let them beat you, repeated in a rhythm that wrapped itself around and through his mind - wanting him to decide. But decide what?
There was a light at the end of the passageway. He laughed silently. A cliché, surely. Then the bright whiteness was replaced by odd, unfocused images: himself, wearing a blood stained t-shirt, a strangely lit pub and more familiar words: You won’t fall when they push. But that was a lie. He had fallen. Hadn’t he? The next image, of men carrying a lonely wooden casket while autumn’s colourful, crispy detritus crunched under their boots, was proof of that. His casket.
Unbearable pain in his chest and shoulder pulled him away from the arched shadows. The words in his head and the scratch of the swirling leaves as they scurried across the pavement were replaced by the not so steady beat of a heart monitor and the efficient rush of a respirator. It was all too much.
He willed himself back into the quiet of the hallway. It was familiar. He’d been there before. Last time the pain had been centred in his head and there had been no decision about survival to be made. In his youth, with idealistic arrogance, there had been a clear reason to fight for life - vengeance. He would recover, if only to get the fucking bastards that had broken his face and had killed a friend.
Back then he had run down this corridor with its brass lamps and wooden archways and on out through that bright light without stopping. And even though he hadn’t found his own attackers, he’d chosen to do what he could to protect others from a similar fate. His path had been clear, Hendon, the Met, the Yard and, finally, CI5. So much for idealism. His chosen path had landed him here again, this time with no vengeance to seek. Only a need to understand the sadness and resignation in pair of almond eyes.
He looked around the hallway. It seemed older, more worn, the brass lamps tarnished. Like him. He wanted to run. Run up the corridor and through the light that promised an end to his pain, his torment and his uncertainty. To hell with the consequences. But there was something that held him back, something that kept him in the hall. A pressure surrounding his hand made this time different.
The low repetitious murmur was back, drumming in his head. He was being pulled back into himself. He looked up the passageway. This time there was a figure in the light waiting for him. St. Peter? A silent laugh. No, this shadow was no angel. Had no wings, did it? But he knew that silhouette. He lived for it. Loved it. Bodie. No decision then. He knew the choice had already been made. He, Raymond Doyle would live.
The light grew brighter. The pressure surrounding his hand became warmth. The murmur became words.
“For Christ’s sake, Ray, open your bloody eyes!”
And he did.