Weekly Obbo 338 - Blushing
Title: One More For The Collection
Author: ubicaritas
Archive: not yet (it’s incomplete)
Pairing and/or characters: Bodie/Doyle
Rating: everyone
Word count: 1740
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Just taking the lads out to play for a while. I’ll return them when I’m done.
Prompts: Blushing
This is an extract from my current work-in-progress, One More For The Collection.
Also, I have been angsting over this posting interface for more than an hour and a half... and I'm ready to chuck the whole lot out the window. So I'm late for the challenge deadline...
Bodie eased the door shut behind him, automatically turning back to set the locks before making his way down the hall to the kitchen. He’d slipped out to the store to pick up some fresh food, including a variety of fruits and vegetables, to try and tempt his partner’s lacklustre appetite. Ray claimed his medication was making him nauseous, and Bodie himself had enough experience with post-surgical drugs to make his gut twist in sympathy. So, comfort food was definitely the way to go, although his own preferences differed extensively from those of his partner. In the end, Bodie had compromised and brought back the best of both worlds, figuring the proteins in the ingredients for a good fry-up were necessary for the healing process, while the fruit and veg would provide the spiritual lift Ray clearly needed.
He quietly entered the kitchen and began to empty the shopping bags. Doyle had been sleeping when he left, and he had no desire to disturb his needed rest. Ray was taking a bit longer to bounce back from this injury; even his stay in hospital had stretched to an extra day or two. Of course, what with leaving as much of his blood on that warehouse floor as he had done, it was no wonder that his get-up-and-go hadn’t fully returned. There had been a tense few hours during and after the surgery to remove the bullet from Ray’s shoulder, until the transfusions had finally begun to work their magic. Bodie shook his head, pushing aside the remembered fear that this time might have had a very different outcome.
He plugged in the kettle and tossed a tea bag into his favourite mug (one he himself had bought as a Christmas gift a couple of years ago, proudly showing a tourist-bait caricature of a London bobby), deciding he’d wait until Doyle awoke before preparing them both something to eat.
Bodie had just settled into a chair in the lounge when he heard a crash, followed by a collection of muffled curses that threatened to peel the paint off the walls. Dropping his mug of tea on the coffee table, he charged down the hallway to the closed bedroom door. When he swung the door open, he was greeted by the sight of an overturned stool, a shoebox-sized container with its contents scattered about, and Ray Doyle sitting awkwardly on the floor, arm cradled against his body where it had slipped out of the sling.
*
Blackness flickered at the edge of Ray’s vision as he hit the floor. He’d automatically rolled on landing, protecting his immobilized arm and shoulder as best he could by landing hard on his hip, but the abrupt stop jarred the wound and its stitches anyway, wringing from him a sharp cry and then leaving him gasping for breath. He shifted his weight to his good side, swearing creatively as his arm swung free from its sling. By the time the door burst open and Bodie stood there looking down at him in an equal combination of frowning concern and glowering anger, he’d managed to pull himself up to a half-sitting position, leaning against the end of the bed. The evidence of the mishap, an overturned footstool, lay surrounded by the spilled contents of a shoebox-sized wooden container, also upended on the floor beside the stool.
“Bloody fucking hell, Doyle,” Bodie said. “What d’you think you’re playing at, climbing and reaching for things,” he swept a hand over the debris-strewn floor, “when you’re just out of hospital and have a gimpy wing?! Christ, you’re barely able to stand upright on your own without… wobbling!”
“ ‘M all right, Bodie,” said Doyle, but the colour had yet to return to his face and there were new lines of strain around his eyes. “Just give me half a minute to catch my breath, yeah?”
Bodie let Doyle have his requested thirty seconds, then prepared to light into him again. But first, he plunked himself down on the floor beside his partner, checking to make sure he was actually all right, and hadn’t managed to injure himself further in his tumble. Doyle’s muttered “Gerroff” and his good hand batting questing fingers away were good signs, and Bodie allowed himself to relax slightly.
But only slightly.
“You great daft pillock,” Bodie said. “Do you want to tell me what was so all-fired important that you had to go climbing right now? When you can barely stand on your own two feet, let alone reach a box over your head?! You could have seriously done yourself in, you know. What if I wasn’t here?”
“Knew you were.” Doyle’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Made enough noise clattering around in the kitchen to wake up the dead, you did.”
“That’s because I thought you might be sensible and want to enjoy a quiet meal with me later.” Bodie didn’t back off from his disapproval. “Clearly I was mistaken. About you being sensible, that is.”
Doyle opened one eye to squint at his partner beside him, then closed it again and sighed. “Felt all right a few moments ago,” he said. “ ‘S only when I stood up I got a bit…”
“Wobbly?”
The word produced a narrow-eyed glare from Doyle, but he didn’t protest when Bodie shifted close enough to carefully ease an arm in behind him and draw his head down onto his own shoulder. He felt his partner’s hand stroke the tangled curls away from his forehead, and then the soft touch of a kiss. The action had soothed him when he’d woken up in hospital, tense and in pain, after the surgery on his shoulder. Now it did the same again; with a sigh, Doyle closed his eyes and relaxed, absorbing the comfort being offered.
“Not wobbly,” he said. “Hate having an arm in a sling, that’s all. Feel like I’m listing a bit to one side.”
“ ‘S’pose you are, after a fashion,” Bodie said. He trailed a finger over Doyle’s arm, which was once again supported by the sling. “You’ve got enough bandaging wrapped around that shoulder. It’s no surprised that you’re a bit off kilter. Not that I can really tell, of course” he added, and winced as Ray dug his unwrapped elbow smartly into Bodie’s ribs. “Oi! That hurt!”
“It was supposed to.”
*
Doyle roused himself enough to lean over and start to gather the items which had spilled form the box. His glare dared the other man to move, but in typical Bodie fashion he ignored the challenge and scooted over to help. With a sigh Ray accepted his presence and shoved the box between them. “Just put everything in,” he said, “and I’ll sort it all out later.” He reached out cautiously to retrieve a couple of things that had bounced under the bed.
Bodie watched for a moment, then leaned over and began to plunk things from the floor into the box. He picked up a yellowed ticket stub, frayed around the edges and soft-feeling with age. “Well, then,” he said, “this is a surprise. I would never have pegged you as a fan.”
“That was a long time ago.” Ray felt the need to defend his younger self’s taste in music. “Came all the way down to London for that concert, with a couple of mates from school.” He smiled at the memory. “Don’t think any of our parents knew what we were up to. Barely old enough to be making that journey on our own!” Shaking his head, he added, “Christ, that was a long time ago.”
“Don’t take it too hard,” Bodie said. “You older folks can get so, I don’t know, sentimental, about the good old days.”
Ray grabbed an item at hand and threw it at his partner. “Berk”
“Pillock.” Bodie picked it up and was about to return the throw when it dawned on him what he was holding. “Doyle,” he said, fixing a stare now growing with curiosity on him. “What the hell… Are these what I think they are?”
Doyle sighed. “Yeah, they are.” To his horror, he felt warmth creep up into his face, and he turned away, his desperate hope that Bodie wouldn’t notice simply not to be.
“Why, Raymond, old son, are you actually… blushing?” He tucked a hand under Doyle’s chin and turned his face back up toward him. “Christ, you are! And all over a few pieces of paper and plastic…”
Ray jerked away from his partner’s grasp, shuffling awkwardly to put some space between them.
Bodie shook his head. “Still, this is kind of… unusual… for a collection, there, mate. One might even say, a bit morbid.” He squinted, trying to read a faded smudge of handwriting.
Pointedly silent, Ray continued to pick up the scattered bits and pieces. Equally silent, Bodie watched, his gaze flicking over each item as it landed in the box. He remained still until one of the small bits of plastic caught his eye.
“What the hell,” he said again, reaching out to snag and read the writing on the item in question. He neatly evaded an almost frantic attempt to grab it back, unapologetic as Doyle hissed as he jostled his shoulder again. “This isn’t yours, it’s mine.” The familiar eyebrow climbed as he looked at his partner. “Why is this in your box, Ray?”
“Bodie,” said Doyle. “I …”
“No - not here,” Bodie said abruptly. “Let’s get you somewhere comfortable first.” He stood, stretching after his stint on the floor, and turned to Doyle to offer an arm up. But his stubborn, hard-headed partner had already pushed himself to his feet and stood, swaying slightly, his one good hand reaching out to the wall to steady himself.
“Bloody hell, Doyle, are you trying to pack your shoulder in again?” Bodie steered him out the door and into the hallway, pausing half way down when Ray indicated he wanted to step into the loo. “I’ll just make us some tea, then,” he said. “Call if you need…” But he was speaking to the door, as Doyle snapped it shut in his face. “… a hand.” He continued into the kitchen, plugged the kettle in, and grabbed the larger teapot Ray usually saved for company from its place in the cupboard. Getting the full story on his partner’s … collection … was going to take a bit of time, and he intended to be prepared.