Prosfic - A Shiver of Grey by Slantedlight
My last job for today (well, sort of) - some writing. I beat 165 words to just over 500, and it turned out they were Pros after all... just a snippet of a moment of them, but it's still words. *g*
A Shiver of Grey
by Slantedlight
The world is grey, fogged grey and dark, full of shadows and muffled sounds, and things that don't make sense. Doyle's cold, and his head hurts, and he can't see properly or hear properly, and he doesn't want to be awake.
"Alright, sunshine?"
He turns towards the voice, Bodie's voice, solid and upbeat in the strange dark of the night. The reason his eyes won't open far enough to see properly, he remembers, is because McKlackan got in two good punches before he went down himself, and the reason the dark looks strange is because it's not night dark, it's curtains drawn against the wet London day dark, letting a sharp shiver of light, a creep of cold, into his bedroom. And he can see Bodie, a soft-edged Bodie, but Bodie all the same.
"Time?" he manages, trying to pull the blankets more tightly around him, wincing against the puffs of icy air that get in anyway.
"'bout two," Bodie says, and Doyle hears him step closer to the bed, and then he feels almost as if he's falling, the bed dipping down because Bodie's sitting beside him, and he whimpers slightly despite himself, holding tight to the covers, letting his eyes close again. Everything hurts, there's no comfortable oblivion for him.
"Gave you a good wallop, didn't he. Told you to duck."
Doyle remembers that. He remembers seeing Bodie's mouth wide open in a shout, and turning his head just in time to see the strange angle of the wood coming at him, smacking hard against the side of his head, and then falling, falling backwards and down, and into the filthy cold water of the canal, and then a gunshot, and nothing but cold...
"'koff," he says now, not wanting to remember, not wanting to be jollied into wakefulness, or dragged out of bed and back to work. He pulls at the blankets again, keeps his eyes shut. He just wants to sleep. "Cold."
"Heating's off." A movement in the air above him, and then there's a warm heavy weight on his head, Bodie's hand threaded into his hair, fitted against him. It should hurt, but it doesn't, because it's warm, and solid and safe and there.
"I'm supposed to get back to the office if you're alright," Bodie says softly, and Doyle means to grunt in acknowledgement, but it comes out a whimper again. The warm heavy hand moves, lifts, strokes briefly down his cheek, and then the bed rises again, and he knows he's on his own. He keeps his eyes shut, hearing the rustle of fabric as Bodie pulls on his jacket.
He's cold and his head hurts, and...
There's a rush of winter air again, like ice stabbing across his skin, down his back, and then the bed dips behind him, and Bodie's arms are coming around him, and pulling him close, and he's warm and solid and safe and there, the entire naked length of him, and Doyle lets go of the blanket, and holds Bodie tightly to him instead, burrows backwards against him, and falls asleep.
A Shiver of Grey
by Slantedlight
The world is grey, fogged grey and dark, full of shadows and muffled sounds, and things that don't make sense. Doyle's cold, and his head hurts, and he can't see properly or hear properly, and he doesn't want to be awake.
"Alright, sunshine?"
He turns towards the voice, Bodie's voice, solid and upbeat in the strange dark of the night. The reason his eyes won't open far enough to see properly, he remembers, is because McKlackan got in two good punches before he went down himself, and the reason the dark looks strange is because it's not night dark, it's curtains drawn against the wet London day dark, letting a sharp shiver of light, a creep of cold, into his bedroom. And he can see Bodie, a soft-edged Bodie, but Bodie all the same.
"Time?" he manages, trying to pull the blankets more tightly around him, wincing against the puffs of icy air that get in anyway.
"'bout two," Bodie says, and Doyle hears him step closer to the bed, and then he feels almost as if he's falling, the bed dipping down because Bodie's sitting beside him, and he whimpers slightly despite himself, holding tight to the covers, letting his eyes close again. Everything hurts, there's no comfortable oblivion for him.
"Gave you a good wallop, didn't he. Told you to duck."
Doyle remembers that. He remembers seeing Bodie's mouth wide open in a shout, and turning his head just in time to see the strange angle of the wood coming at him, smacking hard against the side of his head, and then falling, falling backwards and down, and into the filthy cold water of the canal, and then a gunshot, and nothing but cold...
"'koff," he says now, not wanting to remember, not wanting to be jollied into wakefulness, or dragged out of bed and back to work. He pulls at the blankets again, keeps his eyes shut. He just wants to sleep. "Cold."
"Heating's off." A movement in the air above him, and then there's a warm heavy weight on his head, Bodie's hand threaded into his hair, fitted against him. It should hurt, but it doesn't, because it's warm, and solid and safe and there.
"I'm supposed to get back to the office if you're alright," Bodie says softly, and Doyle means to grunt in acknowledgement, but it comes out a whimper again. The warm heavy hand moves, lifts, strokes briefly down his cheek, and then the bed rises again, and he knows he's on his own. He keeps his eyes shut, hearing the rustle of fabric as Bodie pulls on his jacket.
He's cold and his head hurts, and...
There's a rush of winter air again, like ice stabbing across his skin, down his back, and then the bed dips behind him, and Bodie's arms are coming around him, and pulling him close, and he's warm and solid and safe and there, the entire naked length of him, and Doyle lets go of the blanket, and holds Bodie tightly to him instead, burrows backwards against him, and falls asleep.