i'll stop the world
Nothing says "last-minute" like 11:58 Pacific time. Happy birthday, squeeful!
Title: Melt With You
FAndom: The Professionals
Pairing and / or characters: Bodie/Doyle (pre-relationship)
Rating: Everyone
Word count: 800
Warnings: None.
Summary: A fall, a bottle of pills, and Salvador Dalí.
Notes: This fic is not yet beta'd, because it's probably rude to ask someone to beta their own birthday fic.
Doyle's few experiences with drugs had always reminded him, in some way, of the Surrealists. He remembered getting stoned with his mates after one of their art classes, feeling like he was in a painting by Magritte. "Ceci n'est pas une hash-pipe," he'd said, and they'd all laughed like it was the funniest thing anyone had ever thought of.
LSD had felt like being trapped in a Buñuel film. He'd done that exactly once, and years later the thought of Un Chien Andalou still made him shudder.
Then he'd joined the police, and Doyle had put a swift end to that sort of thing.
Until tonight.
They were chasing a handful of gun-runners over a rooftop. Bodie went to head them off, and Doyle went up an old fire escape to block their retreat. He was nearly two storeys up when the bolts came free of the wall, sending him to the ground shoulder-first with a screech of rusted metal.
The gun-runners got clean away, and Doyle got a trip to hospital. Bodie shouted at him the whole way, making sure he had plenty of time to do it--he drove at half-speed to keep from jarring Doyle's shoulder any more. Doyle bit his lip to keep from shouting back at him and wished that Bodie would drive faster.
It was nearly nine when they sent him home, with his shoulder popped back into place and a bottle of pills for the pain. Bodie took him straight home; Doyle didn't know how they'd managed to escape debriefing, and he was simply too tired to care.
Despite Bodie's careful driving, Doyle's shoulder was throbbing in its sling before they left the hospital car park. He curled one hand into a fist and said nothing, determined not to give Bodie an opening for another tirade.
At the first stoplight, Bodie rummaged around in the backseat of the car and finally came up with a dented thermos. "Here," he said shortly. "Take one of those pills before you pass out."
So much for playing the stoic. Doyle fished the bottle out of his pocket and fumbled it open one-handed. The thermos turned out to be half-full of stone cold tea, but it did its job. Doyle leaned his good shoulder against the window and waited.
By the time he stumbled up the stairs, refusing to let Bodie chivvy him into the lift, the painkiller was finally starting to set in. When he sat down on the sofa, he found himself sliding into a boneless sprawl. "Hello, Dalí," he muttered.
Bodie raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't think you'd be in the mood for musical theatre tonight."
Doyle shook his head; the room blurred at the edges of his vision, colours merging and shimmering. "Nah, Dalí. The painter."
"The one with the clocks melting in the desert?"
"Exactly."
"What about him?"
"That's what it feels like. Like I'm living in a Dalí painting. The one where the faces are unravelling, curling up like apple peels..."
"You might be a mess, sunshine, but you're not unravelling yet."
Doyle smiled. That was just like Bodie, to tease him and reassure him all at once. He shifted his shoulder experimentally. It hurt, but not as much as he had expected.
"How is it?" Bodie asked.
"Not too bad."
"You scared the hell out of me, Ray."
And there it was, that dark look in Bodie's eyes, the elephant in the room. One of Dalí's monstrous elephants, all long, spindly spider legs, carrying the whole room on its back. Looking into Bodie's eyes was like falling from the fire escape all over again; Doyle turned away before he could hit bottom.
"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."
As suddenly as it had appeared, the intensity in Bodie's eyes faded. "It wasn't your fault."
"No, but still..." Doyle closed his eyes and found it a struggle to open them again. He heard the armchair creak, and he looked up.
Bodie was standing beside the sofa, between Doyle and the lamp. At this angle, in the dim light, he wasn't much more than a silhouette. "Do you want to go to bed?"
Doyle noted the double entendre, but he couldn't be bothered to make a decent retort. "Not especially," he said. The distance between the sofa and the bed seemed like miles.
"All right, then." Bodie picked up the blanket that lay folded on the back of the sofa and spread it over Doyle. "Go ahead and melt on the sofa all you like, Salvador Doyle. I'll be here when you wake up."
"Course you will," Doyle murmured, his eyes already closing. He ought to do a painting--The Persistence of Bodie. He must have said it out loud, because Bodie's chuckle was the last thing he heard before he fell asleep.
Notes:
Doyle's joke is based on Magritte's The Treachery of Images, which you can see here.
I have not seen Buñuel's Un Chien Andalou, because I know better than to watch stuff that will give me nightmares forever.
The Dalí painting with the melted clocks is The Persistence of Memory.
The unraveling/expanding faces are found in a few pieces, as are the spindly elephants (NSFW)--which, by the way, frighten me to an unreasonable degree.
Title: Melt With You
FAndom: The Professionals
Pairing and / or characters: Bodie/Doyle (pre-relationship)
Rating: Everyone
Word count: 800
Warnings: None.
Summary: A fall, a bottle of pills, and Salvador Dalí.
Notes: This fic is not yet beta'd, because it's probably rude to ask someone to beta their own birthday fic.
Doyle's few experiences with drugs had always reminded him, in some way, of the Surrealists. He remembered getting stoned with his mates after one of their art classes, feeling like he was in a painting by Magritte. "Ceci n'est pas une hash-pipe," he'd said, and they'd all laughed like it was the funniest thing anyone had ever thought of.
LSD had felt like being trapped in a Buñuel film. He'd done that exactly once, and years later the thought of Un Chien Andalou still made him shudder.
Then he'd joined the police, and Doyle had put a swift end to that sort of thing.
Until tonight.
They were chasing a handful of gun-runners over a rooftop. Bodie went to head them off, and Doyle went up an old fire escape to block their retreat. He was nearly two storeys up when the bolts came free of the wall, sending him to the ground shoulder-first with a screech of rusted metal.
The gun-runners got clean away, and Doyle got a trip to hospital. Bodie shouted at him the whole way, making sure he had plenty of time to do it--he drove at half-speed to keep from jarring Doyle's shoulder any more. Doyle bit his lip to keep from shouting back at him and wished that Bodie would drive faster.
It was nearly nine when they sent him home, with his shoulder popped back into place and a bottle of pills for the pain. Bodie took him straight home; Doyle didn't know how they'd managed to escape debriefing, and he was simply too tired to care.
Despite Bodie's careful driving, Doyle's shoulder was throbbing in its sling before they left the hospital car park. He curled one hand into a fist and said nothing, determined not to give Bodie an opening for another tirade.
At the first stoplight, Bodie rummaged around in the backseat of the car and finally came up with a dented thermos. "Here," he said shortly. "Take one of those pills before you pass out."
So much for playing the stoic. Doyle fished the bottle out of his pocket and fumbled it open one-handed. The thermos turned out to be half-full of stone cold tea, but it did its job. Doyle leaned his good shoulder against the window and waited.
By the time he stumbled up the stairs, refusing to let Bodie chivvy him into the lift, the painkiller was finally starting to set in. When he sat down on the sofa, he found himself sliding into a boneless sprawl. "Hello, Dalí," he muttered.
Bodie raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't think you'd be in the mood for musical theatre tonight."
Doyle shook his head; the room blurred at the edges of his vision, colours merging and shimmering. "Nah, Dalí. The painter."
"The one with the clocks melting in the desert?"
"Exactly."
"What about him?"
"That's what it feels like. Like I'm living in a Dalí painting. The one where the faces are unravelling, curling up like apple peels..."
"You might be a mess, sunshine, but you're not unravelling yet."
Doyle smiled. That was just like Bodie, to tease him and reassure him all at once. He shifted his shoulder experimentally. It hurt, but not as much as he had expected.
"How is it?" Bodie asked.
"Not too bad."
"You scared the hell out of me, Ray."
And there it was, that dark look in Bodie's eyes, the elephant in the room. One of Dalí's monstrous elephants, all long, spindly spider legs, carrying the whole room on its back. Looking into Bodie's eyes was like falling from the fire escape all over again; Doyle turned away before he could hit bottom.
"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."
As suddenly as it had appeared, the intensity in Bodie's eyes faded. "It wasn't your fault."
"No, but still..." Doyle closed his eyes and found it a struggle to open them again. He heard the armchair creak, and he looked up.
Bodie was standing beside the sofa, between Doyle and the lamp. At this angle, in the dim light, he wasn't much more than a silhouette. "Do you want to go to bed?"
Doyle noted the double entendre, but he couldn't be bothered to make a decent retort. "Not especially," he said. The distance between the sofa and the bed seemed like miles.
"All right, then." Bodie picked up the blanket that lay folded on the back of the sofa and spread it over Doyle. "Go ahead and melt on the sofa all you like, Salvador Doyle. I'll be here when you wake up."
"Course you will," Doyle murmured, his eyes already closing. He ought to do a painting--The Persistence of Bodie. He must have said it out loud, because Bodie's chuckle was the last thing he heard before he fell asleep.
Notes:
Doyle's joke is based on Magritte's The Treachery of Images, which you can see here.
I have not seen Buñuel's Un Chien Andalou, because I know better than to watch stuff that will give me nightmares forever.
The Dalí painting with the melted clocks is The Persistence of Memory.
The unraveling/expanding faces are found in a few pieces, as are the spindly elephants (NSFW)--which, by the way, frighten me to an unreasonable degree.
