Prosfic - Happiness Is A Warm Gun
Right, well... phew and all that... 1881 words! It felt slow, and I won't be able to do them at work every day, but according to my deal with myself, now I have to sign up for NaNoWriMo this year, which... is that really a good idea? Erp... At least I won't have to write completeness every day, right? That should speed things up... Is this a really bad idea?
In the meantime, from a prompt from tears_of_nienna - thank you! - a wee Prosfic...
Happiness Is A Warm Gun
by Slantedlight
Post-Involvement
The pub was warm after the sunshine-chill of the morning, frost and cold air dispelled at eleven o'clock opening, chased by the first large whisky, harried by pint after pint after that. They'd slowed down, at last, and Bodie'd managed a steak pie and chips to start it all soaking up, but he couldn't tempt Doyle to eat, couldn't convince him that the morning - the last fortnight - wouldn't be better smothered with stodge and sleepiness. The beer seemed to have pulled all his edges together instead, sharpened them, honed his aim.
"You said you did this job for the money, once."
Had he said that? Vague memories rushed in, dusty floors and sleeping bags, the scrape-scrape of Doyle's brush through his .44, the smell of gun oil, of nerves. "Joined this mob for the money,'s what I said."
"You could make ten times as much back in Africa. I hear South America's very up and coming these days."
"Yeah, well…"
"You're not here for the money, so why are you here?" Doyle's glass hit the table with more force than perhaps even he'd meant, a loud and sudden thunk that raised eyes, turned heads.
For you, he wanted to say, but how did you say that to someone whose girl had just walked out on him? How did you say that, ever? "Think she was going to make you happy, did you?" he asked instead, feeling suddenly stung by it all. He managed to shut up and get on with it, why couldn't Doyle? "Nice little semi-detached somewhere, a couple of kids in the garden, cocktail on the table when you get home?"
Unsurprisingly, Doyle bit back, draining the last of his beer, turning to stare at him. "Alright, well you tell me - Bodie - what makes you happy, then?"
Bodie made a face. Why couldn't he just leave it alone, get drunk, get over it… Deeply, distantly, he considered the possibility of getting drunk and getting over Doyle, knew it could never be done. "Happiness is…" All those stupid cards that Carol had liked, with the little simpering figures on them… Could Doyle have felt about Ann the way he…? "Happiness is a warm gun."
Doyle snorted. "'course it is. Touch of the velvet hand? High on acid and lying in a gutter the next day - unless you're in some penthouse suite to start with, of course…"
Bodie stood up, pushed the table away as he sidled out. "Same again?" It wasn't a good idea, but he needed a minute, just a minute to breathe, to think, to come up with something… He turned to the bar without waiting for an answer, leaned heavily against it, and nodded at the barmaid. Sylvia, nice girl, they'd spent a lazy weekend in bed once, months and months ago, now. It wouldn’t be Sylvia who tamed him, though, just as it wouldn’t be Ann to tame Doyle - and Doyle knew it as well as he did, just… wouldn't admit it.
The drinks came quickly - too quickly, perhaps, but would he ever be ready for days like this? - and he turned back and settled them smoothly on the table, neatly on the beermats because it gave him an extra second, took his place again. When he looked up, Doyle was watching him.
"Sorry mate…"
Bodie shrugged, managed a nod.
"…I'm not good company today. You should leave me to it."
"Ah, you'll do." Bodie took a fortifying sip. "Been with worse."
That earned him a glimpse of a smile. "I'll bet you have. But… That's what Ann said - I volunteered because I wanted it…" He paused, scratching with his thumbnail at a chip in the table, as if that was what was important. "She wasn't wrong. Like you said, happiness is a warm gun."
"It's a song, Ray, first thing that came into my head…"
"There's a psychology test like that - associations. First thing you think of is the one you really mean."
"It isn't…"
"I enjoy it, Bodie. I go out, every day, with a gun in my hand, and if it's warm when we come back, if neither of us are dead and the bad guys are lying on the floor somewhere, then it feels like I've accomplished something."
And what could he say to that? It was true. He wished his brain was a bit clearer, that the world didn't look as if it was about to wink at him and do something sly. He looked down at his beer - it was that last mouthful that had done it, he knew he shouldn't have got another round in…
"Come on - let's go 'ome. 's nearly last orders anyway…"
Doyle looked at his beer, seemed to consider for a moment, then lifted the glass and finished it in one long, elegant movement. Bodie found himself mesmerised by the way he swallowed, by the way his eyes were closed, his neck stretched upwards, his… Christ, he must be drunk…
"Fresh air," he said, tugging on Doyle's sleeve to get him moving, and Doyle followed him, strangely obedient, as if he'd given up on everything, holding tight to his pint glass all the way to the door, where he seemed to remember that he mustn't take it with him, and set it down carefully on the ledge by the entrance.
"Night, Sylvie!"
"Good afternoon, Bodie!" Sylvie called back, mock-sternly, and Bodie winked at her, and pushed Doyle in front of him, out the door into the sunshine, where they both paused for a minute, blinking.
What were they going to do next?
"Home…" Doyle said, leaning back slightly against Bodie's hand on his back, feeling heavy, malleable. Bodie turned him to the right, towards Hope Street, then Ephraim Road, then… whatsits Park. Desmesne Park. Home…
They walked side by side for a while, quietly, peacefully, close enough and just out of step enough that their shoulders knocked together now and then. Bodie found himself wanting to take hold of Doyle's hand, pull him into rhythm, and then he found himself giggling at the idea of holding Doyle's hand as they walked down the street.
Doyle turned to look at him, lifted his eyebrows in question, and Bodie shook his head. To explain that he'd have to explain… well, everything really, and that would hardly be a very good idea. "Can't quite imagine you with a pack of kids at your knee," he said instead, and was ridiculously relieved when Doyle actually smiled, carried on walking beside him.
"Maybe not," he said, and tucked his hands in his pockets so that it was his elbow now that bumped into Bodie at each step. "Didn't ask her to marry me, you know."
"You might have…"
"Nah. Like she said, we were too different. I'd've worked it out eventually, with or without her father."
"You could have…"
But Doyle was shaking his head. "Nah, you're right, I can't imagine it either. I dunno…" He kicked at a stone in his path, it spun away to the side, and hit the sill of a parked car with a dull metallic twing, so that they both winced, walked a bit faster. "D'you fancy it?"
Bodie snorted. "Even Cowley said he'd never have to worry about me getting married!"
"Yeah? Why'd he say that then?" Doyle gave him a strangely measuring look, nudged him around the corner and through the gate to his block of flats.
"Day I know why the Cow says anything apart from on your bikes, I'll let you know…"
"You coming up?" Doyle paused with his key halfway in the lock.
Hadn't thought about that, had he? Well, why not? He didn't feel like going back to face the job right now, and if he went home he'd just… well, if he stayed it'd be easier to make sure Ray was safely in one place, rather than off trying to apologise to Ann or whatever crazy idea came to him when he was on his own. "Least you can do is offer me a cup of tea, when I sacrificed my all to look after you in the pub!"
"You're a real comfort in my times of trial," Doyle said, and somehow it was ressuringly real, when Bodie felt sure it should have sounded sarcastic.
They clumped up the stairs together, swaying now and then against the walls, Bodie reaching up a hand to steady Doyle at one point, when he looked ready to pitch backwards and have them both down. He found himself clutching a handful of warm, denim-clad thigh, his hand remaining there longer than it needed, his throat catching. It wasn't fair that Doyle should moon over that made-up little cow, the one who'd left him, when Bodie was right here, was right here and wanting…
He gave Doyle's leg a resounding slap to get it moving upwards again, said nothing when Doyle complained loudly, and pushed past him to the kitchen when they got inside, running himself a large glass of water from the tap, then putting the kettle on. He turned to find Doyle paused with his jacket half-off, and that odd look on his face again.
"You're not going to be sick, are you?"
Doyle rolled his eyes, took his jacket all the way off, and hung it over the back of a chair. "Give me some credit."
"Tea or coffee?" Bodie asked, feeling light-headed himself. That was it… "It's not because you want to kill them though, is it?"
Doyle didn't even blink, was right there with him. "Sometimes…"
"I mean," Bodie put down the mugs he'd picked up, though he didn't let them go, "You don't kill them because you want them dead personally, you kill them because if you didn't they'd kill someone else. Ann. Me."
"Yeah, but…"
"You - we - don't kill them for the same reasons they kill us. I knew she was wrong."
Doyle looked amused. "You've only just worked this out?"
Bodie did let go of the mugs then, put his hands on his hips. "Then what've you been complaining about?"
"I'm not complaining!"
"You said…"
"I said she was right, that it feels good to do the job."
Bodie waited.
"She couldn't live with that, and I can - it wouldn't have worked."
"So..?"
Doyle tilted his head to one side, stared at him again. "An' I thought I was the slow one."
"That beer's gone to your head…" Bodie watched warily as Doyle rounded the kitchen counter, moving slowly to stand in front of him, so that he found himself backing up a step, formica hard against his back, nowhere else to go.
"Addled my brains, you mean? Maybe…"
And Doyle kissed him.
It wasn't what he imagined, and it was everything he'd ever imagined at the same time, warm and urgent and patient and knowing, just like it always was between them. Like passing off ammo, or being in the right place at the right time, like finishing Doyle's sentences, like Doyle knowing exactly what he was thinking…
He pulled away, considered for a brief second. "You were right," he said with a grin, "I have been slow, haven't I?" And then he leaned in again, and he kissed Doyle back, and the world winked, slyly.
Fin
Happiness Is A Warm Gun
She's not a girl who misses much
Do do do do do do, oh yeah
She's well acquainted with the touch of the velvet hand
Like a lizard on a window pane
The man in the crowd with the multicoloured mirrors
On his hobnail boots
Lying with his eyes while his hands are busy
Working overtime
A soap impression of his wife which he ate
And donated to the National Trust
I need a fix 'cause I'm going down
Down to the bits that I left uptown
I need a fix cause I'm going down
Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun
Happiness (is a warm gun)
Bang Bang Shoot Shoot
Happiness (is a warm gun, momma)
Bang Bang Shoot Shoot
(When I hold you in my arms)
Oooooooooh, oh yeah!
And when I feel my finger on your trigger
Oooooooooh, oh yeah!
I know nobody can do me no harm
Oooooooooh, oh yeah!
Happiness (is a warm gun, momma)
Bang Bang Shoot Shoot
Happiness (is a warm gun)
Bang Bang Shoot Shoot
Yes it is, gun!
Happiness (is a warm gun)
Bang Bang Shoot Shoot
Happiness (is a warm gun)
is a warm gun, yeeeaahhh!
- The Beatles, 1968
In the meantime, from a prompt from tears_of_nienna - thank you! - a wee Prosfic...
Happiness Is A Warm Gun
by Slantedlight
Post-Involvement
The pub was warm after the sunshine-chill of the morning, frost and cold air dispelled at eleven o'clock opening, chased by the first large whisky, harried by pint after pint after that. They'd slowed down, at last, and Bodie'd managed a steak pie and chips to start it all soaking up, but he couldn't tempt Doyle to eat, couldn't convince him that the morning - the last fortnight - wouldn't be better smothered with stodge and sleepiness. The beer seemed to have pulled all his edges together instead, sharpened them, honed his aim.
"You said you did this job for the money, once."
Had he said that? Vague memories rushed in, dusty floors and sleeping bags, the scrape-scrape of Doyle's brush through his .44, the smell of gun oil, of nerves. "Joined this mob for the money,'s what I said."
"You could make ten times as much back in Africa. I hear South America's very up and coming these days."
"Yeah, well…"
"You're not here for the money, so why are you here?" Doyle's glass hit the table with more force than perhaps even he'd meant, a loud and sudden thunk that raised eyes, turned heads.
For you, he wanted to say, but how did you say that to someone whose girl had just walked out on him? How did you say that, ever? "Think she was going to make you happy, did you?" he asked instead, feeling suddenly stung by it all. He managed to shut up and get on with it, why couldn't Doyle? "Nice little semi-detached somewhere, a couple of kids in the garden, cocktail on the table when you get home?"
Unsurprisingly, Doyle bit back, draining the last of his beer, turning to stare at him. "Alright, well you tell me - Bodie - what makes you happy, then?"
Bodie made a face. Why couldn't he just leave it alone, get drunk, get over it… Deeply, distantly, he considered the possibility of getting drunk and getting over Doyle, knew it could never be done. "Happiness is…" All those stupid cards that Carol had liked, with the little simpering figures on them… Could Doyle have felt about Ann the way he…? "Happiness is a warm gun."
Doyle snorted. "'course it is. Touch of the velvet hand? High on acid and lying in a gutter the next day - unless you're in some penthouse suite to start with, of course…"
Bodie stood up, pushed the table away as he sidled out. "Same again?" It wasn't a good idea, but he needed a minute, just a minute to breathe, to think, to come up with something… He turned to the bar without waiting for an answer, leaned heavily against it, and nodded at the barmaid. Sylvia, nice girl, they'd spent a lazy weekend in bed once, months and months ago, now. It wouldn’t be Sylvia who tamed him, though, just as it wouldn’t be Ann to tame Doyle - and Doyle knew it as well as he did, just… wouldn't admit it.
The drinks came quickly - too quickly, perhaps, but would he ever be ready for days like this? - and he turned back and settled them smoothly on the table, neatly on the beermats because it gave him an extra second, took his place again. When he looked up, Doyle was watching him.
"Sorry mate…"
Bodie shrugged, managed a nod.
"…I'm not good company today. You should leave me to it."
"Ah, you'll do." Bodie took a fortifying sip. "Been with worse."
That earned him a glimpse of a smile. "I'll bet you have. But… That's what Ann said - I volunteered because I wanted it…" He paused, scratching with his thumbnail at a chip in the table, as if that was what was important. "She wasn't wrong. Like you said, happiness is a warm gun."
"It's a song, Ray, first thing that came into my head…"
"There's a psychology test like that - associations. First thing you think of is the one you really mean."
"It isn't…"
"I enjoy it, Bodie. I go out, every day, with a gun in my hand, and if it's warm when we come back, if neither of us are dead and the bad guys are lying on the floor somewhere, then it feels like I've accomplished something."
And what could he say to that? It was true. He wished his brain was a bit clearer, that the world didn't look as if it was about to wink at him and do something sly. He looked down at his beer - it was that last mouthful that had done it, he knew he shouldn't have got another round in…
"Come on - let's go 'ome. 's nearly last orders anyway…"
Doyle looked at his beer, seemed to consider for a moment, then lifted the glass and finished it in one long, elegant movement. Bodie found himself mesmerised by the way he swallowed, by the way his eyes were closed, his neck stretched upwards, his… Christ, he must be drunk…
"Fresh air," he said, tugging on Doyle's sleeve to get him moving, and Doyle followed him, strangely obedient, as if he'd given up on everything, holding tight to his pint glass all the way to the door, where he seemed to remember that he mustn't take it with him, and set it down carefully on the ledge by the entrance.
"Night, Sylvie!"
"Good afternoon, Bodie!" Sylvie called back, mock-sternly, and Bodie winked at her, and pushed Doyle in front of him, out the door into the sunshine, where they both paused for a minute, blinking.
What were they going to do next?
"Home…" Doyle said, leaning back slightly against Bodie's hand on his back, feeling heavy, malleable. Bodie turned him to the right, towards Hope Street, then Ephraim Road, then… whatsits Park. Desmesne Park. Home…
They walked side by side for a while, quietly, peacefully, close enough and just out of step enough that their shoulders knocked together now and then. Bodie found himself wanting to take hold of Doyle's hand, pull him into rhythm, and then he found himself giggling at the idea of holding Doyle's hand as they walked down the street.
Doyle turned to look at him, lifted his eyebrows in question, and Bodie shook his head. To explain that he'd have to explain… well, everything really, and that would hardly be a very good idea. "Can't quite imagine you with a pack of kids at your knee," he said instead, and was ridiculously relieved when Doyle actually smiled, carried on walking beside him.
"Maybe not," he said, and tucked his hands in his pockets so that it was his elbow now that bumped into Bodie at each step. "Didn't ask her to marry me, you know."
"You might have…"
"Nah. Like she said, we were too different. I'd've worked it out eventually, with or without her father."
"You could have…"
But Doyle was shaking his head. "Nah, you're right, I can't imagine it either. I dunno…" He kicked at a stone in his path, it spun away to the side, and hit the sill of a parked car with a dull metallic twing, so that they both winced, walked a bit faster. "D'you fancy it?"
Bodie snorted. "Even Cowley said he'd never have to worry about me getting married!"
"Yeah? Why'd he say that then?" Doyle gave him a strangely measuring look, nudged him around the corner and through the gate to his block of flats.
"Day I know why the Cow says anything apart from on your bikes, I'll let you know…"
"You coming up?" Doyle paused with his key halfway in the lock.
Hadn't thought about that, had he? Well, why not? He didn't feel like going back to face the job right now, and if he went home he'd just… well, if he stayed it'd be easier to make sure Ray was safely in one place, rather than off trying to apologise to Ann or whatever crazy idea came to him when he was on his own. "Least you can do is offer me a cup of tea, when I sacrificed my all to look after you in the pub!"
"You're a real comfort in my times of trial," Doyle said, and somehow it was ressuringly real, when Bodie felt sure it should have sounded sarcastic.
They clumped up the stairs together, swaying now and then against the walls, Bodie reaching up a hand to steady Doyle at one point, when he looked ready to pitch backwards and have them both down. He found himself clutching a handful of warm, denim-clad thigh, his hand remaining there longer than it needed, his throat catching. It wasn't fair that Doyle should moon over that made-up little cow, the one who'd left him, when Bodie was right here, was right here and wanting…
He gave Doyle's leg a resounding slap to get it moving upwards again, said nothing when Doyle complained loudly, and pushed past him to the kitchen when they got inside, running himself a large glass of water from the tap, then putting the kettle on. He turned to find Doyle paused with his jacket half-off, and that odd look on his face again.
"You're not going to be sick, are you?"
Doyle rolled his eyes, took his jacket all the way off, and hung it over the back of a chair. "Give me some credit."
"Tea or coffee?" Bodie asked, feeling light-headed himself. That was it… "It's not because you want to kill them though, is it?"
Doyle didn't even blink, was right there with him. "Sometimes…"
"I mean," Bodie put down the mugs he'd picked up, though he didn't let them go, "You don't kill them because you want them dead personally, you kill them because if you didn't they'd kill someone else. Ann. Me."
"Yeah, but…"
"You - we - don't kill them for the same reasons they kill us. I knew she was wrong."
Doyle looked amused. "You've only just worked this out?"
Bodie did let go of the mugs then, put his hands on his hips. "Then what've you been complaining about?"
"I'm not complaining!"
"You said…"
"I said she was right, that it feels good to do the job."
Bodie waited.
"She couldn't live with that, and I can - it wouldn't have worked."
"So..?"
Doyle tilted his head to one side, stared at him again. "An' I thought I was the slow one."
"That beer's gone to your head…" Bodie watched warily as Doyle rounded the kitchen counter, moving slowly to stand in front of him, so that he found himself backing up a step, formica hard against his back, nowhere else to go.
"Addled my brains, you mean? Maybe…"
And Doyle kissed him.
It wasn't what he imagined, and it was everything he'd ever imagined at the same time, warm and urgent and patient and knowing, just like it always was between them. Like passing off ammo, or being in the right place at the right time, like finishing Doyle's sentences, like Doyle knowing exactly what he was thinking…
He pulled away, considered for a brief second. "You were right," he said with a grin, "I have been slow, haven't I?" And then he leaned in again, and he kissed Doyle back, and the world winked, slyly.
Fin
Happiness Is A Warm Gun
She's not a girl who misses much
Do do do do do do, oh yeah
She's well acquainted with the touch of the velvet hand
Like a lizard on a window pane
The man in the crowd with the multicoloured mirrors
On his hobnail boots
Lying with his eyes while his hands are busy
Working overtime
A soap impression of his wife which he ate
And donated to the National Trust
I need a fix 'cause I'm going down
Down to the bits that I left uptown
I need a fix cause I'm going down
Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun
Mother Superior jump the gun
Happiness (is a warm gun)
Bang Bang Shoot Shoot
Happiness (is a warm gun, momma)
Bang Bang Shoot Shoot
(When I hold you in my arms)
Oooooooooh, oh yeah!
And when I feel my finger on your trigger
Oooooooooh, oh yeah!
I know nobody can do me no harm
Oooooooooh, oh yeah!
Happiness (is a warm gun, momma)
Bang Bang Shoot Shoot
Happiness (is a warm gun)
Bang Bang Shoot Shoot
Yes it is, gun!
Happiness (is a warm gun)
Bang Bang Shoot Shoot
Happiness (is a warm gun)
is a warm gun, yeeeaahhh!
- The Beatles, 1968