Happy last-minute Christmas, everybody!
(I've got three minutes left here.) Have a ficlet.
Title: Let Your Heart Be Light
Author: Sarah K
Fandom: The Professionals
Pairing and / or characters: Doyle/Bodie
Rating: Everyone
Word count: 675
Summary: Christmas has never been Doyle's favorite season.
Notes: For Obbo Amnesty #77. Crossposted to teaandswissroll
He knew what they said about blokes who fancied Judy Garland. Still, Christmas Eve found Doyle in his flat, with a glass of scotch and Meet Me in St Louis on the record player.
Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow...
He felt like he'd spent most of his life muddling through, one way or another. And here he was, thirty-one years old, alone on Christmas. His only family was a partner who was spending the evening with a blonde air hostess. She had a friend, Bodie had said, who'd be happy to come along if Doyle wanted.
But that was the problem, wasn't it? Wanting. He took another swallow of scotch as Judy's voice faded out. Doyle stood up to move the needle, starting the song over again. He was halfway back to his chair when the buzzer started droning, one long irritating note. He hoped it wasn't carollers, he wasn't particularly in the mood.
He lifted the receiver. "Yeah?"
"Oi, let me up, it's freezing out here."
A moment later Bodie was standing in the flat, stamping his feet to warm them. He pushed back the hood of his parka, revealing a face flushed by the wind.
"What happened to Linda, then?" Doyle asked, trying not to think of thoroughly inappropriate ways to warm Bodie up.
"Her flight was grounded in New York. Snow."
"Bad luck."
Bodie shrugged. "Can't be helped, can it? Anyway, what are you doing here? You said you were going up to Derby to see your family."
"Er--"
The music broke into a sudden march, saving Doyle from having to answer the question.
Bodie raised an eyebrow. "What is that?"
Doyle quickly lifted the needle off the record. "Just something I was listening to," he said dismissively, but Bodie was already reaching for the album sleeve.
"Meet Me in St. Louis?" He gave Doyle a scandalized look. "You know what they say about blokes who like Judy Garland."
"I know what they say," Doyle said evenly, meeting Bodie's gaze.
Something flickered in Bodie's expression, surprise or maybe disgust. Doyle turned his back to pour himself another drink, giving Bodie a chance to leave if he wanted.
The floor creaked behind him, and Doyle sighed, waiting for the soft click of the door.
Instead, he heard the soft buzz of a needle sliding into its groove.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas...
He turned around. Bodie was throwing his coat over the back of a chair, apparently unconcerned. He looked up and caught Doyle watching him. "Go on and pour me a drink, then, would you?"
Doyle grinned and dropped down onto the sofa. "Fix it yourself, sunshine."
Bodie shook his head. "Some host you are." He poured himself a generous measure of scotch, then eyed the room like a general gauging a battlefield. He passed by the armchair that sat to one side of the room and settled onto the sofa beside Doyle. The worn springs sagged gently beneath their weight, tilting them just slightly towards each other, so that Bodie's thigh brushed against Doyle's.
Instead of shifting away, Bodie leaned even closer and clinked their glasses together. "Happy Christmas, Doyle."
"You too." Doyle raised the glass to his lips, willing his fingers not to shake. If Bodie was taking the piss, he was going to kill him, Christmas or no. "Didn't get you anything, mind."
"No?"
He shook his head. "Too cold to do any shopping."
"I can see that," Bodie said, glancing around the flat. "Not even a sprig of mistletoe in the place."
"What do you care about mistletoe?"
"Well...it would give me an excuse, wouldn't it?"
Doyle glanced up. Bodie's eyes were very blue, his face not far at all from Doyle's own. Carefully, Doyle set his glass down on the end table. "You don't need an excuse," he said.
Bodie smiled and leaned forward to kiss him.
The song faded out, replaced by the marching tune, the finale, and finally crackling quiet as the record itself ran out.
Neither of them noticed.
Title: Let Your Heart Be Light
Author: Sarah K
Fandom: The Professionals
Pairing and / or characters: Doyle/Bodie
Rating: Everyone
Word count: 675
Summary: Christmas has never been Doyle's favorite season.
Notes: For Obbo Amnesty #77. Crossposted to teaandswissroll
He knew what they said about blokes who fancied Judy Garland. Still, Christmas Eve found Doyle in his flat, with a glass of scotch and Meet Me in St Louis on the record player.
Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow...
He felt like he'd spent most of his life muddling through, one way or another. And here he was, thirty-one years old, alone on Christmas. His only family was a partner who was spending the evening with a blonde air hostess. She had a friend, Bodie had said, who'd be happy to come along if Doyle wanted.
But that was the problem, wasn't it? Wanting. He took another swallow of scotch as Judy's voice faded out. Doyle stood up to move the needle, starting the song over again. He was halfway back to his chair when the buzzer started droning, one long irritating note. He hoped it wasn't carollers, he wasn't particularly in the mood.
He lifted the receiver. "Yeah?"
"Oi, let me up, it's freezing out here."
A moment later Bodie was standing in the flat, stamping his feet to warm them. He pushed back the hood of his parka, revealing a face flushed by the wind.
"What happened to Linda, then?" Doyle asked, trying not to think of thoroughly inappropriate ways to warm Bodie up.
"Her flight was grounded in New York. Snow."
"Bad luck."
Bodie shrugged. "Can't be helped, can it? Anyway, what are you doing here? You said you were going up to Derby to see your family."
"Er--"
The music broke into a sudden march, saving Doyle from having to answer the question.
Bodie raised an eyebrow. "What is that?"
Doyle quickly lifted the needle off the record. "Just something I was listening to," he said dismissively, but Bodie was already reaching for the album sleeve.
"Meet Me in St. Louis?" He gave Doyle a scandalized look. "You know what they say about blokes who like Judy Garland."
"I know what they say," Doyle said evenly, meeting Bodie's gaze.
Something flickered in Bodie's expression, surprise or maybe disgust. Doyle turned his back to pour himself another drink, giving Bodie a chance to leave if he wanted.
The floor creaked behind him, and Doyle sighed, waiting for the soft click of the door.
Instead, he heard the soft buzz of a needle sliding into its groove.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas...
He turned around. Bodie was throwing his coat over the back of a chair, apparently unconcerned. He looked up and caught Doyle watching him. "Go on and pour me a drink, then, would you?"
Doyle grinned and dropped down onto the sofa. "Fix it yourself, sunshine."
Bodie shook his head. "Some host you are." He poured himself a generous measure of scotch, then eyed the room like a general gauging a battlefield. He passed by the armchair that sat to one side of the room and settled onto the sofa beside Doyle. The worn springs sagged gently beneath their weight, tilting them just slightly towards each other, so that Bodie's thigh brushed against Doyle's.
Instead of shifting away, Bodie leaned even closer and clinked their glasses together. "Happy Christmas, Doyle."
"You too." Doyle raised the glass to his lips, willing his fingers not to shake. If Bodie was taking the piss, he was going to kill him, Christmas or no. "Didn't get you anything, mind."
"No?"
He shook his head. "Too cold to do any shopping."
"I can see that," Bodie said, glancing around the flat. "Not even a sprig of mistletoe in the place."
"What do you care about mistletoe?"
"Well...it would give me an excuse, wouldn't it?"
Doyle glanced up. Bodie's eyes were very blue, his face not far at all from Doyle's own. Carefully, Doyle set his glass down on the end table. "You don't need an excuse," he said.
Bodie smiled and leaned forward to kiss him.
The song faded out, replaced by the marching tune, the finale, and finally crackling quiet as the record itself ran out.
Neither of them noticed.