December 26th - Discovered while A-Carolling challenge fic
Ack! Finally finished this and HUGE thanks to byslantedlight who beta'd it for me on Christmas Day - and it wasn't easy. I sent her what was basically a rough draft, simply because I was running out of time, and it was byslantedlight who beta'd it into a halfway decent story that is - I think - now just about postable.
So many, many thanks to J, who I really think should be credited as co-author given the number of changes she had to make... what's that thing authors put at the front of their books? 'Any good qualities this piece might have are entirely down to my beta, while any errors that may be present are mine alone."
The Hunting of the Wren
His head hurt.
And he was cold.
Slowly Doyle opened his eyes to see an abstract of grey and white and silver-blue, a crazy pattern across his sight. He watched for a while, liking the colours…
Then he realised that the white was moving, a sideways, fluttering drizzle of - of snow.
He was staring out the crazy-paved windscreen of a motionless Capri, and it was snowing.
Feeling and thought rushed back together, and Doyle cursed though gritted teeth as his abused body began to complain bitterly. He shifted in his seat, trying to ease both his bruises and his cramped legs - and froze as the car rocked. Carefully he eased his head round, trying to look through the snow-crusted window, and relaxed. They weren’t hanging over a cliff, the Capri’s front wheels were resting precariously on one of the moss-covered, boulder-strewn field boundaries so characteristic of Dartmoor. Over to Doyle’s left he could just make out, through the gathering gloom of a snowy winter’s afternoon, a dilapidated wooden gate…
That’s right, Doyle thought. Bodie had tried to aim at the gate rather than the wall -
Bodie!
Snapping his head round he saw his partner slumped back in his seat. The upward angle of the car meant that Bodie’s head was lying back against the headrest so that Doyle could see his face, and Ray did not like what he saw. Bodie was as pale as a ghost, long, dark eyelashes motionless on white cheeks, and surely there was an open wound hidden in his short hair, judging by the way blood was seeping steadily down his neck. At least that means Bodie’s alive, Doyle told himself fiercely, and the cold weather’ll slow the bleeding...
Bodie’s side of the car was far more battered than Doyle’s - the whole of the driver’s side was beaten in, part of the windscreen had deposited itself all over Bodie’s unconscious form in glittering shards of toughened glass, and worst of all the steering wheel had been shoved forward and appeared to be buried in the folds of Bodie’s snow-dappled parka.
“Bodie! Bodie, come on, wakey wakey sunshine!”
Doyle’s deliberately loud voice had no effect. Hastily he withdrew the hand he had automatically placed on Bodie’s shoulder preparatory to giving the unconscious man a good shake - Stupid, Doyle, he castigated himself. ,What if he’s got internal injuries? Got to get out - get a closer look at him from the other side of the car… And then, breaking through the rigid control he had clamped on himself as soon as he saw his partner’s unconscious form - Please be okay . You’d better be okay…
His own side of the car seemed relatively undamaged, and when Doyle cautiously tried to open the door he was gratified to find that it moved freely, though with a screech of complaining metal. As it reluctantly swung wide the snow whirled through the resulting gap in a cloud of desultory flakes. Gritting his teeth, Doyle hastily half-stepped, half-fell on to wet, snow-covered ground. For a moment his legs threatened to give way and he staggered sideways, muscles screaming into life as he fought to keep his balance on slippery rocks, melting snow dribbling icily down his neck inside his coat, making him shiver. Next time I buy a coat I’m making damn sure it’s got a bloody hood!
Wincing at the biting cold eating at his extremities and freezing his face numb - Christ, even me fucking cheekbone’s cold! - Doyle painstakingly edged sideways to step down on to the road at the rear of the car, and then made his careful way up the other side and cautiously tried the door. It was jammed solid, just as he’d guessed it would be, and as quickly as he could manage Doyle grabbed the toolbox out of the boot. He glanced briefly at the first aid kit but let it be for the moment - first he had to get Bodie clear…
It did not take long - good use of the biggest spanner as a lever and some comprehensive swearing got the door open and the steering wheel free. It hadn’t been pushed as far forward as Doyle had thought - the shaft supporting the wheel had been damaged, and the wheel had dropped downwards rather than forwards. Which meant that there was a good chance that Bodie wasn’t too badly hurt. He managed to wrest the wheel off its support, which gave him some room to manoeuvre, and finally, hunching his shoulders against the swirling snow, Doyle set about examining the unconscious man.
It was a somewhat relieved Doyle who finally straightened up to lean against the car roof and look around, shivering. Bodie was okay, more or less. He had some nasty bruising on his torso but the ribs did not appear to be broken, though they might be cracked - Doyle couldn’t tell. Somehow, miraculously, there were no broken bones - though Bodie had extensive bruising the damage seemed superficial. The cut on Bodie’s head could have been bad, but the cold had prevented serious blood loss and Doyle, finally thankful for Cowley’s insistence on regular first-aid courses for all his agents, thought he had made a decent fist of putting a dressing on the injury.
Doyle dropped his head briefly on to his hands, resting on the car roof, with a sigh of relief. Thank God Bodie’s got a thick skull! He probably had a concussion, of course, but Doyle could only hope that there was nothing more seriously wrong. If Bodie had internal injuries, or bleeding on the brain… there was little if anything he could do about it-
A sudden strong gust of wind hit him, almost pushing him away from the car, and abruptly Doyle returned to the present. The wind was getting up, and it wouldn’t be long before the weather developed into a full-fledged snowstorm - There’s no way we can stay here, Bodie needs shelter - I can’t carry him, especially not with those ribs and that head injury, but there is no fucking way I’m leaving him here. There has to be another way… He squinted into the snow now slanting past him in a hissing pattern of white-and-grey, trying to spot any sign of life, but the rapidly dimming yellow-grey gloom was devoid of human lights. Hardly surprising, given where they were...
Muttering in frustration Doyle turned back to the car and began to work on ways and means. Time for a bit of make do and mend... He headed for the remains of the wooden gate that he had spotted earlier.
“You’re a right prat, you know that?” he demanded breathlessly of his unconscious companion a little later as he worked on two of the planks from the old gate. Maybe the sound of me voice’ll help Bodie to wake up - they try it in hospital with coma patients, maybe it’ll work here…and it’ll help me to stay awake. “If you ‘adn’t insisted on us stopping at that bakery in Okehampton Nicholls would never ‘ave made us! Might ‘ave known the little creep would make a run for it, and bugger the weather forecast...Yeah, yeah -” as he finally got the planks fixed the way he wanted them, “- I know, this crap wasn’t supposed to hit until tonight, but come on, mate -” he dived into the boot and pulled out Bodie’s survival kit “- since when has the British weather ever been predictable?”
Doyle dumped the bag next to the planks and set to work, shaking his hair back as the wet curls dropped over his eyes. “You realise we’d be back home in time for Christmas if he ‘adn’t seen us... And what the hell’s Nicholls doing down ‘ere anyway? Supposed to be in Europe somewhere, isn’t he?”
“Once he ran, we ‘ad to go after him, of course...” he added after a pause, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the increasing pain in his head. It was only a bruise after all - Doyle reckoned he ought to know what a concussion felt like by now, and he was sure he didn’t have one. Well, almost sure... He slithered round to the passenger side again and with the help of one of the odd tools on the Swiss Army knife - so that was what that thing was for! - ripped the long cushion from the back seat. ”Wonder what that blackmailing bastard is doing down ‘ere,” he mused. “Must be something being developed at Goonhilly - Cowley’ll be able to find out what. He’ll ‘ave to warn them to check their staff in case Nicholls ‘as got ‘is claws into anyone…”
The cushion arranged to his satisfaction, Doyle turned back to the survival kit and hauled out Bodie’s latest purchase - a space blanket. “Of course we ‘ad to go after him when he ran for it, mate, I’m not arguing about that - but if you ‘adn’t wanted to feed your face, we’d never ‘ave spooked him in the first place, would we? Now look at us - stranded in the wilds of Dartmoor, no radio, no transport, no map - and it’s the day before Christmas fuckin’ Eve!”
Doyle had wrapped both car blankets around Bodie as he grumbled gently on - now he added the crinkling, oddly fragile-feeling sheet of silvery foil-like material, hoping that its much-vaunted insulating properties would work on Bodie and keep what remained of his body heat where it belonged. With a grunt of effort he hauled Bodie across to the seat cushion and carefully, wary of those possibly-fractured ribs - and the head injury - rolled Bodie on to it, fastening him securely with bungees from the survival kit. Bodie was proud of the bag of carefully-chosen bits and pieces of equipment that he called his ‘survival kit’, Doyle reflected as he stood back and checked that his partner was fully covered. When he woke up, Doyle would tell him that he had every right to be...
“’Course it’s all right for you,” he commented as he tied the Capri’s tow rope to the ends of the two planks, which had been fastened in a ‘V’ shape to support the seat cushion and its securely-wrapped passenger, “You just lie there, mate, and let me do all the work, yeah?”
Now that he had everything securely fastened the way he wanted, Doyle laboriously hauled the contraption down on to the road surface, grunting at its weight. A travois might be the best way of transporting goods that were too heavy to carry, but it was still ungainly - and bloody hard work. Even with the snow that worn-out old road surface’s going to make it a bumpy ride, and it won’t do my shoulders any good either...
Doyle looked dubiously to his left, where the road continued uphill after the abrupt right turn which had sent Bodie skidding off and into the stone wall earlier. There were no tracks from Nicholls’ vehicle - when they’d come off the road the snow was threatening but hadn’t actually started to fall, and Doyle couldn’t help wondering how far Nicholls had got once the snow had begun, heavy duty tyres or no. Nicholls wasn’t a local, he didn’t know the area any better than the CI5 men, as witnessed by his getting them all utterly lost in some of the most hostile country in England with a snowstorm in the offing. Of course, once he realised he was no longer being pursued he would have been able to slow down to a safer speed - but Doyle couldn’t help hoping that Nicholls too was stranded, preferably up among the tors where the conditions would be far worse than down here. But the fact remained that Nicholls might be waiting for them up ahead, so Doyle and Bodie would go down, back the way they’d come. Doyle was almost sure that he remembered passing some kind of cottage or house back down the hill a bit - couldn’t be more than a mile, and it was mostly downhill, which would be largely out of the wind . It was the safer route even if his memory proved to be faulty.
It’ll be a piece of piss, he told himself determinedly as he made one last check on Bodie, gratified to feel that the body inside all the blankets was distinctly warmer than it had been. Space blanket’s working, then... In the shadow of his fur-lined hood, behind the scarf Doyle had painstakingly wrapped around his bandaged head, Bodie’s face was pale and serene, and as far as Doyle could tell his patient’s breathing was deep and regular. Hesitantly Doyle reached out and laid his palm against Bodie’s cheek. Ah, Bodie... what would you do if you knew...? His heart leapt into his throat as Bodie stirred, turning his head towards Doyle’s touch, but then he settled again with a sigh and Doyle removed his hand with mixed disappointment and relief.
Yeah. That’s right, mate. You keep on breathing, and stay fucking warm! With that last, admonitory thought, Doyle looped the tow rope under his arms and over his head to lie on the back of his neck, carefully settling it on the double thickness of his heavy wool collar. Then he took a firm grip on the rope with his gloved hands and set off down the winding, gradual slope of road.
Doyle realised as soon as he started moving that it was going to be more difficult than he’d anticipated. The wind dropped a little as he dragged his way round the first bend, but that only meant that the thickly-falling snowflakes, instead of being whipped past him, were now gusting randomly and irritatingly into his already frozen, aching face, making it difficult to see and even occasionally breathe - and he was working hard, much harder than he’d expected. Before long he was sweating - not a good thing in these conditions, Doyle knew, but he simply dropped his head a little like an ox in harness, leaned into the ropes, and kept going.
After a while Doyle fell into a routine. Step into the wind. Take a breath through the falling snow. Shake snow-sodden hair to lose the worst of it. Check the side of the road for an entrance. Keep close to the hedge line - and it was a hedge line now, they had dropped below the high tor country - both for shelter and to keep the line of the road…
The snowfall had become so heavy that the hedge lining the other side of the road was barely visible. The world was nothing but wind and snow and bumpy worn-out road surface, full of holes and the unexpected dips of old, sketchy repairs that sent Doyle sprawling, only to stagger to his feet again, re-settle the rope on his shoulders and trudge slowly on, his boots crunching through the fresh snow and creating footsteps which he knew were steadily being filled in behind him.
It grew darker. The snow was a pale glimmer all around him, air and ground almost the same colour. His shoulders felt as if someone had laid a red-hot bar of iron across them, his lungs were burning, he was soaked through with a combination of melted snow and sweat, and his hands and feet felt like lumps of ice... Not cold enough for frostbite, mate, he kept telling himself. It can’t be. It’s only just below freezing, I know it feels colder but that’s just the wind, honest...whatever, got to keep going. Not going to lose Bodie. Not going to let him down. Can’t stop. Won’t stop. Can’t stop. Won’t stop...
When a sudden gust of wind hit Doyle from an unexpected direction, sending him sideways, he was jerked out of his self-imposed trance and came to a stop, swaying and looking around with dazed, blinking eyes.
There was a gap in the hedge he had been using as a guide. Two stone gateposts reared up on either side of the gap and beyond them a smooth expanse of untrodden snow formed a path through the uneven shapes of a snow-covered garden… and just at the very edge of visibility Doyle was almost sure he could see the dim lights of a house shining through the darkness.
Suddenly Doyle was wide awake. “Nearly there, mate! You’ll soon be nice and warm an’ tucked up in bed -” carefully he dragged his cargo through the open gateway and down the drive, feeling the gravel shift under his feet “ - bet there’s a pretty daughter for you to chat up as well…” and I’m not going to think about why I really hope there aren’t any birds within twenty miles of here…
Still talking hard, Doyle reached the end of the short drive and found himself facing a rambling building of varying height but mainly two storeys. The house was in darkness apart from the brightly-shining globe in the porch and a dim glow from an upstairs window. Doyle’s heart sank - he had been hoping for someone who could help, maybe even someone who knew the area and would know who to contact to get Bodie the medical care he needed - and hastily lowering the travois on to the front step, he beat a tattoo on the door, first with his fist, and then when his eyes had adjusted to the shadows under the porch roof, with the door knocker, which was almost buried in a large and impressive Christmas wreath.
There was no reply, and Doyle, his worst fears confirmed, snarled in frustration and kicked at the door before looking around for a door key. This is the country - chances are the key’s under a flowerpot somewhere…
But if it was, Doyle couldn’t find it, and his fingers were far too cold and stiff for him to have any hope of picking the lock. Was he going to have to break a window, and lose some of the warmth within, the warmth that he and Bodie - especially Bodie - needed…?
Blowing on his fingers in the hope of thawing them sufficiently for his usual dexterity to return, Doyle remembered another country house, and a weekend spent at gunpoint in the hands of some dangerously unpredictable bank robbers… and Judy’s mother saying, “We don’t lock our doors in the country.” This was a damn sight more isolated than Judy’s family home...
The doorknob turned stiffly under Doyle’s optimistic hand and with a snort of disbelief he stepped into the warmth of central heating, and when he tried the light switch it too worked. Central heating must be oil-fired from a generator... maybe the lights are too. He’d take a look around as soon as he got Bodie sorted out and make sure the heating wasn’t about to switch off - in this weather they’d have to keep it running all night.
But at least Bodie had shelter and warmth… he’d be all right now. He had to be…
A couple of hours later Doyle had checked the generator, switched the water on to heat, tried the telephone (dead - not surprising given the strength of the wind howling outside), and with a mind to Bodie’s appetite when - not if - he woke up, examined the cupboards and the fridge. Clearly whoever lived here only intended to be gone for the day - all the Christmas decorations were up, the makings of Christmas dinner were residing in fridge, freezer and pantry, the Christmas tree had a pile of presents underneath it and most telling of all was an entry on the kitchen calendar for the 23rd which said simply ‘Exeter - lunch, 12 o’clock, Mum and Dad’.
The bedrooms were up a steep and narrow staircase and Doyle was afraid of doing Bodie further injury trying to get him upstairs. He was uneasy about the state of Bodie’s ribs - and he was still unconscious! Doyle could only hope that his partner’s deep, regular breathing and the trace of colour beginning to return to his cheeks were signs of recovery… if only he’d wake up!
Bodie was under a mound of blankets on the large, comfortable sofa in the big main room. There were two radiators in here, both belting out heat, and Doyle had lit the wood fire - for the comfort of its presence rather than for warmth. For the same reason he switched on the Christmas lights on the big tree standing in the bay window, managing a tired smile as the twinkling, multi-coloured strings flickered into life, turning the tree into something magical... Bodie would love it when he woke up. His partner took an almost childlike pleasure in the traditions of an English Christmas - he’d missed out on too many Christmases in Africa, he’d said once, so he really appreciated them now.
At last Doyle could take a breather. He turned away from the tree to make one last check on Bodie and suddenly felt himself sway with exhaustion... and, he realised with astonishment, he was absolutely starving. He’d better eat something before getting some rest. He was too tired even for that lovely hot bath he’d been anticipating, he realised glumly, and resigned himself to a bowl of soup in front of a TV that, although it seemed to have been invaded by the snowstorm, was at least getting a signal. I’ll stay downstairs tonight - sleep in the chair, it’s comfy enough. Bodie might wake up and he won’t know where he is…
Half an hour later Doyle, full of soup and some really excellent bread, was settled comfortably in an armchair by Bodie’s couch watching his partner sleep, a slight smile warming his uneven features as the glow of the sinking fire played over Bodie’s face. Doyle’s eyelids were getting heavier, but he couldn’t quite relax. Though he did not realise it, his eyes were fixed on Bodie’s face looking for any change - any sign, however slight, that his partner was beginning to regain consciousness.
Suddenly noticing what he was doing, Doyle blinked and looked away briefly, but found himself returning to examine Bodie’s face feature by feature with loving care, storing it away in the depths of his memory along with other treasured memories of the man who had become the most important person in Doyle’s world. Normally he would never dare to stare so long or so lovingly, for fear of Bodie sensing his gaze and demanding an explanation, one which Doyle dreaded having to give. If he told the truth - no. He didn’t dare. At least this way he had Bodie’s friendship and affection - it was greedy to want more…
Light-headed with fatigue as he was, Doyle was unaware that he was muttering to himself, talking to his unconscious partner as he had been doing almost since he’d dragged Bodie free of the wrecked Capri… Thoughts turning into drowsy, murmured words. Things said which could never be unsaid.
“ Bodie...You... mean everythin’ to me, you do... Stupid, isn’t it?... I wonder if you know? Sometimes I catch you looking at me with such a... but next second it’s gone, an’ I never know if I’m seein’ what I want t’ see... I wish I knew for certain, mate. I wish I was braver....”
His voice trailed away into silence as exhaustion finally got the better of him, and he slept.
On the sofa a pair of dazed blue eyes whose owner had been floating on the sound of that rough, warm voice - his favourite sound in the entire world - also drifted shut in the comforting silence, while outside the wind continued to shriek in the snow-filled night.
The pale light of a snowy morning was filtering through the curtains when Doyle woke, stiff and thirsty and desperate for the loo. After a quick check on Bodie, who was still sleeping - Doyle was beginning to wonder if his partner would ever wake up, though he was trying to stay hopeful. Of course Bodie would wake up. He had to - he went for his morning ablutions, failing utterly at getting any antiseptic cream onto his sore, abraded shoulders - he was too stiff to manage that, this morning. Got to have that hot bath, or I’ll seize up altogether. Maybe later, if - no, when Bodie’s woken up…
When Doyle was back downstairs he decided to check outside, just to see if there was anything moving. The front door opened easily enough, but all that could be seen of the garden and drive was a mound of snow, and only the very tops of the hedges were visible above it. Beyond the road the snow swept in an uninterrupted swathe up to the skyline, the field boundaries only visible because the trees were tall enough to remain uncovered. There was no other dwelling in sight… and it was still snowing, in a desultory sort of way, although at least the wind had dropped to a lovely ice-tipped breeze.
Shivering in the chill air, Doyle hastily closed the door and headed for the kitchen, the kettle, and tea. One look confirmed that they had no easy exit there - on this side of the house the snow was right up against both the door and the windows.
Optimistically he made two mugs of tea, setting one up just the way Bodie liked it, and bore them into the sitting room along with a plateful of toast and the radio, tuned to BBC South-West. Refusing to acknowledge his apprehension at Bodie’s continued slumber, Doyle switched the radio on and sat down to tea and toast, and the local news and weather.
The snow was blanketing the whole of Devon and Cornwall and even parts of Somerset, it seemed. The stretch of the A30 which ran along the edge of Dartmoor was closed completely and the snow ploughs were out, fighting to get to all the stranded motorists caught by surprise when the storm arrived so much earlier than expected… so it would be some time before the emergency services would be able to reach the more isolated settlements, the announcer continued. However they would be working round the clock to bring in help as soon as possible. Apparently storms like this one only occurred every ten or fifteen years… Doyle snorted, then turned the radio off with a quick, impatient turn of the dial. No help today then. But Bodie might need it - Christ, what if he doesn’t wake up by the evening?
Doyle looked helplessly over at the supine form on the couch. “Oi, mate,” he said pleadingly, “You must ‘ave had enough sleep by now! I’m getting bored - need some of that crap humour of yours! Come on, you pillock - bloody wake up, will you!”
There was no response, and with a sigh Doyle took the debris of breakfast into the kitchen and washed up.
On his return to the main room he noticed a guitar and music stand tucked away in a dark corner, and grateful for anything that might distract him he brought them over to the chair near Bodie’s couch.
There was a book of carols on the stand, open at a heavily-annotated page - the owner of the guitar was clearly trying to learn it, and Doyle blinked as he looked at the tune. Fuckin’ hell, it’s intricate. Weird tune for a Christmas carol… Must be some modern thing. Let’s see…
o0o
Bodie could hear a guitar. Stopping, stumbling, playing the same passage over and over - he knew that tune! Every now and then a familiar voice muttered curses, and another attempt was made to get the notes right…
Why was Doyle trying to play an old carol on a guitar?
And where the bloody hell were they?
Now he thought about it, Bodie had a feeling he knew that, if he could only remember… he knew Doyle had brought him here - wherever here was... and it had been snowing, and dark, and then Doyle had talked to him… Had he dreamed Doyle talking to him? And had he imagined the things Doyle had said?
Slowly, with an enormous effort, Bodie made himself open his eyes, wincing at the all-encompassing pain in his head and frowning up at the unfamiliar ceiling, but refusing to be distracted. He had followed that music, and that voice, out of the dark - he wasn’t going to go back.
All that came out when he opened his mouth was a hoarse croak - he was too dry to manage anything more. Suddenly Doyle’s face appeared above him, hollow-eyed and limp-curled, and Bodie thought he was quite possibly the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life. It was something that had struck him many times before, but this time Bodie’s usual alarm bells did not go off. He found himself returning the beaming smile shining down on him with no attempt to put up the defensive walls he had been maintaining around Ray for so long... his head hurt, he felt rather sick and very thirsty, but for some reason he didn’t care. Not when he saw that smile.
There were no two ways about it, though - he was bloody thirsty…
He tried another pathetic croak, and this time Doyle figured it out. “Thirsty?” he enquired, and at Bodie’s emphatic nod his grin, impossibly, widened. “Ok, then, here you are.” He produced a glass of water, placed a straw in it and held it to Bodie’s lips until the patient had drunk his fill without having to lift his head off its cushion.
“Thanks… Ray,” was the response, and then, just as Doyle was about to shrug it off, Bodie’s free hand shot out and clasped his wrist. “Mean it,” he said, his deep blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on his partner’s face. “I don’t remember much, but I’m sure I remember you dragging me through a snowstorm. You prat. Why didn’t you call in or go for help or something?”
“The radio was fucked,” Doyle retorted, “And if you think I was going to leave you in the middle of nowhere with a snowstorm threatening you’re even stupider than I thought, if that’s possible. Besides, what if Nicholls ‘ad come back?”
“Nicholls? You mean that little slime of a blackmailer? What about him?”
Bodie looked thoroughly confused, and his other hand fought free of the blankets to rub fretfully at his head. Doyle captured it before any damage was done to his inexpert bandaging, making a mental note that the dressing would have to be changed soon.
“You leave that alone,” he said severely, keeping hold of Bodie’s hand when his partner made no attempt to pull away. “I want to show that to the old bat who ran our last first aid course - remember her?”
“The one who fell for my irresistible good looks and said that she couldn’t understand how you’d ever passed your first aid course in the Met? Of course I do. Why?”
“Well, this should prove ‘er wrong!” Doyle eyed the dressing proudly. “Done a good job of this, I ‘ave. If I -”
“- Ray.”
Bodie’s voice was quiet, but Doyle could hear the strain in it. He glanced down at the pale face and raised a questioning eyebrow. He might have known that his attempt to distract Bodie would fail...
“I can’t remember anything that happened before the crash yesterday. Nothing! What did we do?”
Doyle hesitated, but knew that if Bodie had a severe concussion - and judging by the time he’d been unconscious, it had to be pretty severe - he might never gain full recall. Bodie was an agent in the middle of a case - stuff the doctors and their ‘see what he can remember on his own’! Bodie needed to know...
Settling back in his seat Doyle said, “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Booking out of the hotel after delivering the blueprints and deciding to get back to London as soon as possible.” Bodie sent a sly glance Doyle’s way and added softly, “Didn’t want to miss out on our Christmas together, did I?”
Doyle stiffened, holding Bodie’s gaze with his own. Bodie waited, deliberately keeping his face open and unguarded, his heart thudding so loudly he was sure that Doyle could hear it... He was sure now that he hadn’t imagined Ray speaking to him in the dark, not after seeing Ray’s expression earlier, when he’d woken up. He couldn’t have imagined all that - could he?
Time seemed to stretch while Bodie waited. He was just beginning to think he’d made a terrible mistake when Doyle leaned forward, captured Bodie’s head between his hands - carefully avoiding the bandage - and took his mouth in a long, gentle kiss.
Bodie’s mouth opened willingly beneath Doyle’s, but Ray seemed content just to kiss, gentle but sure, and when Bodie wrestled his arms free and tried to pull his partner down on top of him he found out why.
“Ow!”
Arms snapping back to his sides Bodie hastily lay back, breathing very slowly and carefully, and glared at his unsympathetic partner who had burst out laughing at his yelp of pain.
“You’ve buggered your ribs, mate,” Doyle finally explained. “No nookie on the sofa for at least a week, I reckon. It’s bloody bad timing,” he added when he saw Bodie’s face darken, guessing that Bodie was afraid he was having second thoughts. No way, sunshine. You wait until you’re healthy, and then... A shiver of pure lust went through him at the thought but he blinked it away.
“Ah, come on Ray. Couldn’t we at least -?” Bodie began hopefully, then fell silent at Doyle’s silent but definite negative. Now that his initial uninhibited reaction to Ray’s kiss was fading he realised that he was feeling decidedly under the weather, but he wasn’t about to admit it… and then Doyle said firmly,
“We’ll wait until you’re back on your feet.” he grinned suddenly, “Er… so to speak.” Suddenly he was serious, Bodie saw the heat in the green eyes meeting his and swallowed as Doyle said, “Mind you, when you are ‘back on your feet’, you won’t be there long if I’ve got anythin’ to do with it!”
Bodie blinked, the fierce emotion in Doyle’s voice catching him by surprise - until he realised that he felt exactly the same way. “No more will you,” he shot back. “You wait until I’m back up to speed - and it’ll be a lot less than a week, sunshine, believe me! And, one last thing,” he added, “This -” he grabbed Doyle’s hand, watching his face, “What we’ve got... it’s exclusive. Just you and me. In case you were wondering...”
Bodie saw his partner’s body relax and knew he’d said the right thing. Of course it was - Ray was a possessive little sod, and so, it seemed, was he - when it was someone who mattered to him as much as Ray did. The only way they’d make this work was to keep it exclusive. Bodie sighed, realising that Doyle was right - until he had recovered, trying to do any of the things he wanted to do to Ray - or experiencing any of the things he wanted Ray to do to him, for that matter - would be far too painful. And he’d never been into pain.
“For God’s sake let’s change the subject, shall we?” he said eventually. ”Talking about it and not doing it - I mean, come on, Ray! It can’t get much worse than that!”
“Fair enough,” acquiesced Doyle, “What shall we talk about instead?”
“What happened after we left the hotel, where Nicholls saw us, and how I ended up with a sore head and bust ribs,” decided Bodie.
Doyle accepted the change of subject, aware that Bodie did like to keep his life in separate compartments. Work in one, play in another, love...yeah, well, that was something to think about, wasn’t it? ,Take it slow, he reminded himself. Bodie seemed to feel the same way he did, and that was enough for now - enough? It’s fucking marvellous, best Christmas present ever! Briskly he began an account of their movements the previous day. When he got to Okehampton and Bodie’s foray to the bakery, with its unexpected consequences, Bodie’s jaw dropped.
“You mean Nicholls was just there? And he saw me? And - oh, that’s priceless!”
“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”
A fresh gust of laughter shook Bodie at Ray’s bewildered tones, but he got himself back under control - helped by the fact that it did hurt to laugh - and said,
“If I hadn’t gone to the bakery, Nicholls wouldn’t have spotted us, yeah? And so he ran, and we chased him -”
“And we crashed. So what?”
“Yeah, but... that tune you were trying to play. Did you notice the title of the carol?”
Doyle, bemused now, simply shook his head and Bodie repressed his laughter yet again. “There was this mate of mine, in the Paras,” he said, apparently irrelevantly. “He was a bit of a folkie - you know, collected folk songs, went to concerts and clubs - did the whole scene. And that -” he nodded at the music stand, “Was one of his favourites. He sang it every bloody time he got pissed - no wonder I recognised it! And it was called...” Bodie smiled triumphantly at Doyle, “The Hunting of the Wren!”
Doyle stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
Insufferably smug now, Bodie just shook his head, and Doyle too began to chuckle. “We’ve got a carol named after one of our ops! That’s brilliant.”
“Yeah. You know, I’ve wondered what Nicholls’ parents were thinking, giving him initials like that.”
“Maybe they didn’t notice.”
“Of course they did. You don’t go around naming your son William Ronald Edward Nicholls without knowing that all his life, right from school onwards, he’ll be saddled with just one nickname.”
“Yeah. It must make it really difficult for ‘im when ‘e’s trying to do business. Would you be scared of a bloke whose nickname was The Wren?”
“Not me, sunshine. But then, I don’t scare easily - and neither do you... ah, fuck it.” Bodie shifted himself carefully into an easier position, “Forget about him, Ray. There’s more important things to consider. Like - if we take it carefully, I reckon we can still have some fun even before I’m back up to speed.” He smiled sunnily up at Doyle. “Stuff the Hunting of the bloody Wren... and c’mere.”
Doyle came.
The End
Title: The Hunting of the Wren
Author: SAC
Slash or Gen: Slash
Disclaimer: I really, really wish they belonged to me, but they don’t. I just like to play with them every now and then.
So many, many thanks to J, who I really think should be credited as co-author given the number of changes she had to make... what's that thing authors put at the front of their books? 'Any good qualities this piece might have are entirely down to my beta, while any errors that may be present are mine alone."
The Hunting of the Wren
His head hurt.
And he was cold.
Slowly Doyle opened his eyes to see an abstract of grey and white and silver-blue, a crazy pattern across his sight. He watched for a while, liking the colours…
Then he realised that the white was moving, a sideways, fluttering drizzle of - of snow.
He was staring out the crazy-paved windscreen of a motionless Capri, and it was snowing.
Feeling and thought rushed back together, and Doyle cursed though gritted teeth as his abused body began to complain bitterly. He shifted in his seat, trying to ease both his bruises and his cramped legs - and froze as the car rocked. Carefully he eased his head round, trying to look through the snow-crusted window, and relaxed. They weren’t hanging over a cliff, the Capri’s front wheels were resting precariously on one of the moss-covered, boulder-strewn field boundaries so characteristic of Dartmoor. Over to Doyle’s left he could just make out, through the gathering gloom of a snowy winter’s afternoon, a dilapidated wooden gate…
That’s right, Doyle thought. Bodie had tried to aim at the gate rather than the wall -
Bodie!
Snapping his head round he saw his partner slumped back in his seat. The upward angle of the car meant that Bodie’s head was lying back against the headrest so that Doyle could see his face, and Ray did not like what he saw. Bodie was as pale as a ghost, long, dark eyelashes motionless on white cheeks, and surely there was an open wound hidden in his short hair, judging by the way blood was seeping steadily down his neck. At least that means Bodie’s alive, Doyle told himself fiercely, and the cold weather’ll slow the bleeding...
Bodie’s side of the car was far more battered than Doyle’s - the whole of the driver’s side was beaten in, part of the windscreen had deposited itself all over Bodie’s unconscious form in glittering shards of toughened glass, and worst of all the steering wheel had been shoved forward and appeared to be buried in the folds of Bodie’s snow-dappled parka.
“Bodie! Bodie, come on, wakey wakey sunshine!”
Doyle’s deliberately loud voice had no effect. Hastily he withdrew the hand he had automatically placed on Bodie’s shoulder preparatory to giving the unconscious man a good shake - Stupid, Doyle, he castigated himself. ,What if he’s got internal injuries? Got to get out - get a closer look at him from the other side of the car… And then, breaking through the rigid control he had clamped on himself as soon as he saw his partner’s unconscious form - Please be okay . You’d better be okay…
His own side of the car seemed relatively undamaged, and when Doyle cautiously tried to open the door he was gratified to find that it moved freely, though with a screech of complaining metal. As it reluctantly swung wide the snow whirled through the resulting gap in a cloud of desultory flakes. Gritting his teeth, Doyle hastily half-stepped, half-fell on to wet, snow-covered ground. For a moment his legs threatened to give way and he staggered sideways, muscles screaming into life as he fought to keep his balance on slippery rocks, melting snow dribbling icily down his neck inside his coat, making him shiver. Next time I buy a coat I’m making damn sure it’s got a bloody hood!
Wincing at the biting cold eating at his extremities and freezing his face numb - Christ, even me fucking cheekbone’s cold! - Doyle painstakingly edged sideways to step down on to the road at the rear of the car, and then made his careful way up the other side and cautiously tried the door. It was jammed solid, just as he’d guessed it would be, and as quickly as he could manage Doyle grabbed the toolbox out of the boot. He glanced briefly at the first aid kit but let it be for the moment - first he had to get Bodie clear…
It did not take long - good use of the biggest spanner as a lever and some comprehensive swearing got the door open and the steering wheel free. It hadn’t been pushed as far forward as Doyle had thought - the shaft supporting the wheel had been damaged, and the wheel had dropped downwards rather than forwards. Which meant that there was a good chance that Bodie wasn’t too badly hurt. He managed to wrest the wheel off its support, which gave him some room to manoeuvre, and finally, hunching his shoulders against the swirling snow, Doyle set about examining the unconscious man.
It was a somewhat relieved Doyle who finally straightened up to lean against the car roof and look around, shivering. Bodie was okay, more or less. He had some nasty bruising on his torso but the ribs did not appear to be broken, though they might be cracked - Doyle couldn’t tell. Somehow, miraculously, there were no broken bones - though Bodie had extensive bruising the damage seemed superficial. The cut on Bodie’s head could have been bad, but the cold had prevented serious blood loss and Doyle, finally thankful for Cowley’s insistence on regular first-aid courses for all his agents, thought he had made a decent fist of putting a dressing on the injury.
Doyle dropped his head briefly on to his hands, resting on the car roof, with a sigh of relief. Thank God Bodie’s got a thick skull! He probably had a concussion, of course, but Doyle could only hope that there was nothing more seriously wrong. If Bodie had internal injuries, or bleeding on the brain… there was little if anything he could do about it-
A sudden strong gust of wind hit him, almost pushing him away from the car, and abruptly Doyle returned to the present. The wind was getting up, and it wouldn’t be long before the weather developed into a full-fledged snowstorm - There’s no way we can stay here, Bodie needs shelter - I can’t carry him, especially not with those ribs and that head injury, but there is no fucking way I’m leaving him here. There has to be another way… He squinted into the snow now slanting past him in a hissing pattern of white-and-grey, trying to spot any sign of life, but the rapidly dimming yellow-grey gloom was devoid of human lights. Hardly surprising, given where they were...
Muttering in frustration Doyle turned back to the car and began to work on ways and means. Time for a bit of make do and mend... He headed for the remains of the wooden gate that he had spotted earlier.
“You’re a right prat, you know that?” he demanded breathlessly of his unconscious companion a little later as he worked on two of the planks from the old gate. Maybe the sound of me voice’ll help Bodie to wake up - they try it in hospital with coma patients, maybe it’ll work here…and it’ll help me to stay awake. “If you ‘adn’t insisted on us stopping at that bakery in Okehampton Nicholls would never ‘ave made us! Might ‘ave known the little creep would make a run for it, and bugger the weather forecast...Yeah, yeah -” as he finally got the planks fixed the way he wanted them, “- I know, this crap wasn’t supposed to hit until tonight, but come on, mate -” he dived into the boot and pulled out Bodie’s survival kit “- since when has the British weather ever been predictable?”
Doyle dumped the bag next to the planks and set to work, shaking his hair back as the wet curls dropped over his eyes. “You realise we’d be back home in time for Christmas if he ‘adn’t seen us... And what the hell’s Nicholls doing down ‘ere anyway? Supposed to be in Europe somewhere, isn’t he?”
“Once he ran, we ‘ad to go after him, of course...” he added after a pause, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the increasing pain in his head. It was only a bruise after all - Doyle reckoned he ought to know what a concussion felt like by now, and he was sure he didn’t have one. Well, almost sure... He slithered round to the passenger side again and with the help of one of the odd tools on the Swiss Army knife - so that was what that thing was for! - ripped the long cushion from the back seat. ”Wonder what that blackmailing bastard is doing down ‘ere,” he mused. “Must be something being developed at Goonhilly - Cowley’ll be able to find out what. He’ll ‘ave to warn them to check their staff in case Nicholls ‘as got ‘is claws into anyone…”
The cushion arranged to his satisfaction, Doyle turned back to the survival kit and hauled out Bodie’s latest purchase - a space blanket. “Of course we ‘ad to go after him when he ran for it, mate, I’m not arguing about that - but if you ‘adn’t wanted to feed your face, we’d never ‘ave spooked him in the first place, would we? Now look at us - stranded in the wilds of Dartmoor, no radio, no transport, no map - and it’s the day before Christmas fuckin’ Eve!”
Doyle had wrapped both car blankets around Bodie as he grumbled gently on - now he added the crinkling, oddly fragile-feeling sheet of silvery foil-like material, hoping that its much-vaunted insulating properties would work on Bodie and keep what remained of his body heat where it belonged. With a grunt of effort he hauled Bodie across to the seat cushion and carefully, wary of those possibly-fractured ribs - and the head injury - rolled Bodie on to it, fastening him securely with bungees from the survival kit. Bodie was proud of the bag of carefully-chosen bits and pieces of equipment that he called his ‘survival kit’, Doyle reflected as he stood back and checked that his partner was fully covered. When he woke up, Doyle would tell him that he had every right to be...
“’Course it’s all right for you,” he commented as he tied the Capri’s tow rope to the ends of the two planks, which had been fastened in a ‘V’ shape to support the seat cushion and its securely-wrapped passenger, “You just lie there, mate, and let me do all the work, yeah?”
Now that he had everything securely fastened the way he wanted, Doyle laboriously hauled the contraption down on to the road surface, grunting at its weight. A travois might be the best way of transporting goods that were too heavy to carry, but it was still ungainly - and bloody hard work. Even with the snow that worn-out old road surface’s going to make it a bumpy ride, and it won’t do my shoulders any good either...
Doyle looked dubiously to his left, where the road continued uphill after the abrupt right turn which had sent Bodie skidding off and into the stone wall earlier. There were no tracks from Nicholls’ vehicle - when they’d come off the road the snow was threatening but hadn’t actually started to fall, and Doyle couldn’t help wondering how far Nicholls had got once the snow had begun, heavy duty tyres or no. Nicholls wasn’t a local, he didn’t know the area any better than the CI5 men, as witnessed by his getting them all utterly lost in some of the most hostile country in England with a snowstorm in the offing. Of course, once he realised he was no longer being pursued he would have been able to slow down to a safer speed - but Doyle couldn’t help hoping that Nicholls too was stranded, preferably up among the tors where the conditions would be far worse than down here. But the fact remained that Nicholls might be waiting for them up ahead, so Doyle and Bodie would go down, back the way they’d come. Doyle was almost sure that he remembered passing some kind of cottage or house back down the hill a bit - couldn’t be more than a mile, and it was mostly downhill, which would be largely out of the wind . It was the safer route even if his memory proved to be faulty.
It’ll be a piece of piss, he told himself determinedly as he made one last check on Bodie, gratified to feel that the body inside all the blankets was distinctly warmer than it had been. Space blanket’s working, then... In the shadow of his fur-lined hood, behind the scarf Doyle had painstakingly wrapped around his bandaged head, Bodie’s face was pale and serene, and as far as Doyle could tell his patient’s breathing was deep and regular. Hesitantly Doyle reached out and laid his palm against Bodie’s cheek. Ah, Bodie... what would you do if you knew...? His heart leapt into his throat as Bodie stirred, turning his head towards Doyle’s touch, but then he settled again with a sigh and Doyle removed his hand with mixed disappointment and relief.
Yeah. That’s right, mate. You keep on breathing, and stay fucking warm! With that last, admonitory thought, Doyle looped the tow rope under his arms and over his head to lie on the back of his neck, carefully settling it on the double thickness of his heavy wool collar. Then he took a firm grip on the rope with his gloved hands and set off down the winding, gradual slope of road.
Doyle realised as soon as he started moving that it was going to be more difficult than he’d anticipated. The wind dropped a little as he dragged his way round the first bend, but that only meant that the thickly-falling snowflakes, instead of being whipped past him, were now gusting randomly and irritatingly into his already frozen, aching face, making it difficult to see and even occasionally breathe - and he was working hard, much harder than he’d expected. Before long he was sweating - not a good thing in these conditions, Doyle knew, but he simply dropped his head a little like an ox in harness, leaned into the ropes, and kept going.
After a while Doyle fell into a routine. Step into the wind. Take a breath through the falling snow. Shake snow-sodden hair to lose the worst of it. Check the side of the road for an entrance. Keep close to the hedge line - and it was a hedge line now, they had dropped below the high tor country - both for shelter and to keep the line of the road…
The snowfall had become so heavy that the hedge lining the other side of the road was barely visible. The world was nothing but wind and snow and bumpy worn-out road surface, full of holes and the unexpected dips of old, sketchy repairs that sent Doyle sprawling, only to stagger to his feet again, re-settle the rope on his shoulders and trudge slowly on, his boots crunching through the fresh snow and creating footsteps which he knew were steadily being filled in behind him.
It grew darker. The snow was a pale glimmer all around him, air and ground almost the same colour. His shoulders felt as if someone had laid a red-hot bar of iron across them, his lungs were burning, he was soaked through with a combination of melted snow and sweat, and his hands and feet felt like lumps of ice... Not cold enough for frostbite, mate, he kept telling himself. It can’t be. It’s only just below freezing, I know it feels colder but that’s just the wind, honest...whatever, got to keep going. Not going to lose Bodie. Not going to let him down. Can’t stop. Won’t stop. Can’t stop. Won’t stop...
When a sudden gust of wind hit Doyle from an unexpected direction, sending him sideways, he was jerked out of his self-imposed trance and came to a stop, swaying and looking around with dazed, blinking eyes.
There was a gap in the hedge he had been using as a guide. Two stone gateposts reared up on either side of the gap and beyond them a smooth expanse of untrodden snow formed a path through the uneven shapes of a snow-covered garden… and just at the very edge of visibility Doyle was almost sure he could see the dim lights of a house shining through the darkness.
Suddenly Doyle was wide awake. “Nearly there, mate! You’ll soon be nice and warm an’ tucked up in bed -” carefully he dragged his cargo through the open gateway and down the drive, feeling the gravel shift under his feet “ - bet there’s a pretty daughter for you to chat up as well…” and I’m not going to think about why I really hope there aren’t any birds within twenty miles of here…
Still talking hard, Doyle reached the end of the short drive and found himself facing a rambling building of varying height but mainly two storeys. The house was in darkness apart from the brightly-shining globe in the porch and a dim glow from an upstairs window. Doyle’s heart sank - he had been hoping for someone who could help, maybe even someone who knew the area and would know who to contact to get Bodie the medical care he needed - and hastily lowering the travois on to the front step, he beat a tattoo on the door, first with his fist, and then when his eyes had adjusted to the shadows under the porch roof, with the door knocker, which was almost buried in a large and impressive Christmas wreath.
There was no reply, and Doyle, his worst fears confirmed, snarled in frustration and kicked at the door before looking around for a door key. This is the country - chances are the key’s under a flowerpot somewhere…
But if it was, Doyle couldn’t find it, and his fingers were far too cold and stiff for him to have any hope of picking the lock. Was he going to have to break a window, and lose some of the warmth within, the warmth that he and Bodie - especially Bodie - needed…?
Blowing on his fingers in the hope of thawing them sufficiently for his usual dexterity to return, Doyle remembered another country house, and a weekend spent at gunpoint in the hands of some dangerously unpredictable bank robbers… and Judy’s mother saying, “We don’t lock our doors in the country.” This was a damn sight more isolated than Judy’s family home...
The doorknob turned stiffly under Doyle’s optimistic hand and with a snort of disbelief he stepped into the warmth of central heating, and when he tried the light switch it too worked. Central heating must be oil-fired from a generator... maybe the lights are too. He’d take a look around as soon as he got Bodie sorted out and make sure the heating wasn’t about to switch off - in this weather they’d have to keep it running all night.
But at least Bodie had shelter and warmth… he’d be all right now. He had to be…
A couple of hours later Doyle had checked the generator, switched the water on to heat, tried the telephone (dead - not surprising given the strength of the wind howling outside), and with a mind to Bodie’s appetite when - not if - he woke up, examined the cupboards and the fridge. Clearly whoever lived here only intended to be gone for the day - all the Christmas decorations were up, the makings of Christmas dinner were residing in fridge, freezer and pantry, the Christmas tree had a pile of presents underneath it and most telling of all was an entry on the kitchen calendar for the 23rd which said simply ‘Exeter - lunch, 12 o’clock, Mum and Dad’.
The bedrooms were up a steep and narrow staircase and Doyle was afraid of doing Bodie further injury trying to get him upstairs. He was uneasy about the state of Bodie’s ribs - and he was still unconscious! Doyle could only hope that his partner’s deep, regular breathing and the trace of colour beginning to return to his cheeks were signs of recovery… if only he’d wake up!
Bodie was under a mound of blankets on the large, comfortable sofa in the big main room. There were two radiators in here, both belting out heat, and Doyle had lit the wood fire - for the comfort of its presence rather than for warmth. For the same reason he switched on the Christmas lights on the big tree standing in the bay window, managing a tired smile as the twinkling, multi-coloured strings flickered into life, turning the tree into something magical... Bodie would love it when he woke up. His partner took an almost childlike pleasure in the traditions of an English Christmas - he’d missed out on too many Christmases in Africa, he’d said once, so he really appreciated them now.
At last Doyle could take a breather. He turned away from the tree to make one last check on Bodie and suddenly felt himself sway with exhaustion... and, he realised with astonishment, he was absolutely starving. He’d better eat something before getting some rest. He was too tired even for that lovely hot bath he’d been anticipating, he realised glumly, and resigned himself to a bowl of soup in front of a TV that, although it seemed to have been invaded by the snowstorm, was at least getting a signal. I’ll stay downstairs tonight - sleep in the chair, it’s comfy enough. Bodie might wake up and he won’t know where he is…
Half an hour later Doyle, full of soup and some really excellent bread, was settled comfortably in an armchair by Bodie’s couch watching his partner sleep, a slight smile warming his uneven features as the glow of the sinking fire played over Bodie’s face. Doyle’s eyelids were getting heavier, but he couldn’t quite relax. Though he did not realise it, his eyes were fixed on Bodie’s face looking for any change - any sign, however slight, that his partner was beginning to regain consciousness.
Suddenly noticing what he was doing, Doyle blinked and looked away briefly, but found himself returning to examine Bodie’s face feature by feature with loving care, storing it away in the depths of his memory along with other treasured memories of the man who had become the most important person in Doyle’s world. Normally he would never dare to stare so long or so lovingly, for fear of Bodie sensing his gaze and demanding an explanation, one which Doyle dreaded having to give. If he told the truth - no. He didn’t dare. At least this way he had Bodie’s friendship and affection - it was greedy to want more…
Light-headed with fatigue as he was, Doyle was unaware that he was muttering to himself, talking to his unconscious partner as he had been doing almost since he’d dragged Bodie free of the wrecked Capri… Thoughts turning into drowsy, murmured words. Things said which could never be unsaid.
“ Bodie...You... mean everythin’ to me, you do... Stupid, isn’t it?... I wonder if you know? Sometimes I catch you looking at me with such a... but next second it’s gone, an’ I never know if I’m seein’ what I want t’ see... I wish I knew for certain, mate. I wish I was braver....”
His voice trailed away into silence as exhaustion finally got the better of him, and he slept.
On the sofa a pair of dazed blue eyes whose owner had been floating on the sound of that rough, warm voice - his favourite sound in the entire world - also drifted shut in the comforting silence, while outside the wind continued to shriek in the snow-filled night.
The pale light of a snowy morning was filtering through the curtains when Doyle woke, stiff and thirsty and desperate for the loo. After a quick check on Bodie, who was still sleeping - Doyle was beginning to wonder if his partner would ever wake up, though he was trying to stay hopeful. Of course Bodie would wake up. He had to - he went for his morning ablutions, failing utterly at getting any antiseptic cream onto his sore, abraded shoulders - he was too stiff to manage that, this morning. Got to have that hot bath, or I’ll seize up altogether. Maybe later, if - no, when Bodie’s woken up…
When Doyle was back downstairs he decided to check outside, just to see if there was anything moving. The front door opened easily enough, but all that could be seen of the garden and drive was a mound of snow, and only the very tops of the hedges were visible above it. Beyond the road the snow swept in an uninterrupted swathe up to the skyline, the field boundaries only visible because the trees were tall enough to remain uncovered. There was no other dwelling in sight… and it was still snowing, in a desultory sort of way, although at least the wind had dropped to a lovely ice-tipped breeze.
Shivering in the chill air, Doyle hastily closed the door and headed for the kitchen, the kettle, and tea. One look confirmed that they had no easy exit there - on this side of the house the snow was right up against both the door and the windows.
Optimistically he made two mugs of tea, setting one up just the way Bodie liked it, and bore them into the sitting room along with a plateful of toast and the radio, tuned to BBC South-West. Refusing to acknowledge his apprehension at Bodie’s continued slumber, Doyle switched the radio on and sat down to tea and toast, and the local news and weather.
The snow was blanketing the whole of Devon and Cornwall and even parts of Somerset, it seemed. The stretch of the A30 which ran along the edge of Dartmoor was closed completely and the snow ploughs were out, fighting to get to all the stranded motorists caught by surprise when the storm arrived so much earlier than expected… so it would be some time before the emergency services would be able to reach the more isolated settlements, the announcer continued. However they would be working round the clock to bring in help as soon as possible. Apparently storms like this one only occurred every ten or fifteen years… Doyle snorted, then turned the radio off with a quick, impatient turn of the dial. No help today then. But Bodie might need it - Christ, what if he doesn’t wake up by the evening?
Doyle looked helplessly over at the supine form on the couch. “Oi, mate,” he said pleadingly, “You must ‘ave had enough sleep by now! I’m getting bored - need some of that crap humour of yours! Come on, you pillock - bloody wake up, will you!”
There was no response, and with a sigh Doyle took the debris of breakfast into the kitchen and washed up.
On his return to the main room he noticed a guitar and music stand tucked away in a dark corner, and grateful for anything that might distract him he brought them over to the chair near Bodie’s couch.
There was a book of carols on the stand, open at a heavily-annotated page - the owner of the guitar was clearly trying to learn it, and Doyle blinked as he looked at the tune. Fuckin’ hell, it’s intricate. Weird tune for a Christmas carol… Must be some modern thing. Let’s see…
o0o
Bodie could hear a guitar. Stopping, stumbling, playing the same passage over and over - he knew that tune! Every now and then a familiar voice muttered curses, and another attempt was made to get the notes right…
Why was Doyle trying to play an old carol on a guitar?
And where the bloody hell were they?
Now he thought about it, Bodie had a feeling he knew that, if he could only remember… he knew Doyle had brought him here - wherever here was... and it had been snowing, and dark, and then Doyle had talked to him… Had he dreamed Doyle talking to him? And had he imagined the things Doyle had said?
Slowly, with an enormous effort, Bodie made himself open his eyes, wincing at the all-encompassing pain in his head and frowning up at the unfamiliar ceiling, but refusing to be distracted. He had followed that music, and that voice, out of the dark - he wasn’t going to go back.
All that came out when he opened his mouth was a hoarse croak - he was too dry to manage anything more. Suddenly Doyle’s face appeared above him, hollow-eyed and limp-curled, and Bodie thought he was quite possibly the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life. It was something that had struck him many times before, but this time Bodie’s usual alarm bells did not go off. He found himself returning the beaming smile shining down on him with no attempt to put up the defensive walls he had been maintaining around Ray for so long... his head hurt, he felt rather sick and very thirsty, but for some reason he didn’t care. Not when he saw that smile.
There were no two ways about it, though - he was bloody thirsty…
He tried another pathetic croak, and this time Doyle figured it out. “Thirsty?” he enquired, and at Bodie’s emphatic nod his grin, impossibly, widened. “Ok, then, here you are.” He produced a glass of water, placed a straw in it and held it to Bodie’s lips until the patient had drunk his fill without having to lift his head off its cushion.
“Thanks… Ray,” was the response, and then, just as Doyle was about to shrug it off, Bodie’s free hand shot out and clasped his wrist. “Mean it,” he said, his deep blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on his partner’s face. “I don’t remember much, but I’m sure I remember you dragging me through a snowstorm. You prat. Why didn’t you call in or go for help or something?”
“The radio was fucked,” Doyle retorted, “And if you think I was going to leave you in the middle of nowhere with a snowstorm threatening you’re even stupider than I thought, if that’s possible. Besides, what if Nicholls ‘ad come back?”
“Nicholls? You mean that little slime of a blackmailer? What about him?”
Bodie looked thoroughly confused, and his other hand fought free of the blankets to rub fretfully at his head. Doyle captured it before any damage was done to his inexpert bandaging, making a mental note that the dressing would have to be changed soon.
“You leave that alone,” he said severely, keeping hold of Bodie’s hand when his partner made no attempt to pull away. “I want to show that to the old bat who ran our last first aid course - remember her?”
“The one who fell for my irresistible good looks and said that she couldn’t understand how you’d ever passed your first aid course in the Met? Of course I do. Why?”
“Well, this should prove ‘er wrong!” Doyle eyed the dressing proudly. “Done a good job of this, I ‘ave. If I -”
“- Ray.”
Bodie’s voice was quiet, but Doyle could hear the strain in it. He glanced down at the pale face and raised a questioning eyebrow. He might have known that his attempt to distract Bodie would fail...
“I can’t remember anything that happened before the crash yesterday. Nothing! What did we do?”
Doyle hesitated, but knew that if Bodie had a severe concussion - and judging by the time he’d been unconscious, it had to be pretty severe - he might never gain full recall. Bodie was an agent in the middle of a case - stuff the doctors and their ‘see what he can remember on his own’! Bodie needed to know...
Settling back in his seat Doyle said, “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Booking out of the hotel after delivering the blueprints and deciding to get back to London as soon as possible.” Bodie sent a sly glance Doyle’s way and added softly, “Didn’t want to miss out on our Christmas together, did I?”
Doyle stiffened, holding Bodie’s gaze with his own. Bodie waited, deliberately keeping his face open and unguarded, his heart thudding so loudly he was sure that Doyle could hear it... He was sure now that he hadn’t imagined Ray speaking to him in the dark, not after seeing Ray’s expression earlier, when he’d woken up. He couldn’t have imagined all that - could he?
Time seemed to stretch while Bodie waited. He was just beginning to think he’d made a terrible mistake when Doyle leaned forward, captured Bodie’s head between his hands - carefully avoiding the bandage - and took his mouth in a long, gentle kiss.
Bodie’s mouth opened willingly beneath Doyle’s, but Ray seemed content just to kiss, gentle but sure, and when Bodie wrestled his arms free and tried to pull his partner down on top of him he found out why.
“Ow!”
Arms snapping back to his sides Bodie hastily lay back, breathing very slowly and carefully, and glared at his unsympathetic partner who had burst out laughing at his yelp of pain.
“You’ve buggered your ribs, mate,” Doyle finally explained. “No nookie on the sofa for at least a week, I reckon. It’s bloody bad timing,” he added when he saw Bodie’s face darken, guessing that Bodie was afraid he was having second thoughts. No way, sunshine. You wait until you’re healthy, and then... A shiver of pure lust went through him at the thought but he blinked it away.
“Ah, come on Ray. Couldn’t we at least -?” Bodie began hopefully, then fell silent at Doyle’s silent but definite negative. Now that his initial uninhibited reaction to Ray’s kiss was fading he realised that he was feeling decidedly under the weather, but he wasn’t about to admit it… and then Doyle said firmly,
“We’ll wait until you’re back on your feet.” he grinned suddenly, “Er… so to speak.” Suddenly he was serious, Bodie saw the heat in the green eyes meeting his and swallowed as Doyle said, “Mind you, when you are ‘back on your feet’, you won’t be there long if I’ve got anythin’ to do with it!”
Bodie blinked, the fierce emotion in Doyle’s voice catching him by surprise - until he realised that he felt exactly the same way. “No more will you,” he shot back. “You wait until I’m back up to speed - and it’ll be a lot less than a week, sunshine, believe me! And, one last thing,” he added, “This -” he grabbed Doyle’s hand, watching his face, “What we’ve got... it’s exclusive. Just you and me. In case you were wondering...”
Bodie saw his partner’s body relax and knew he’d said the right thing. Of course it was - Ray was a possessive little sod, and so, it seemed, was he - when it was someone who mattered to him as much as Ray did. The only way they’d make this work was to keep it exclusive. Bodie sighed, realising that Doyle was right - until he had recovered, trying to do any of the things he wanted to do to Ray - or experiencing any of the things he wanted Ray to do to him, for that matter - would be far too painful. And he’d never been into pain.
“For God’s sake let’s change the subject, shall we?” he said eventually. ”Talking about it and not doing it - I mean, come on, Ray! It can’t get much worse than that!”
“Fair enough,” acquiesced Doyle, “What shall we talk about instead?”
“What happened after we left the hotel, where Nicholls saw us, and how I ended up with a sore head and bust ribs,” decided Bodie.
Doyle accepted the change of subject, aware that Bodie did like to keep his life in separate compartments. Work in one, play in another, love...yeah, well, that was something to think about, wasn’t it? ,Take it slow, he reminded himself. Bodie seemed to feel the same way he did, and that was enough for now - enough? It’s fucking marvellous, best Christmas present ever! Briskly he began an account of their movements the previous day. When he got to Okehampton and Bodie’s foray to the bakery, with its unexpected consequences, Bodie’s jaw dropped.
“You mean Nicholls was just there? And he saw me? And - oh, that’s priceless!”
“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”
A fresh gust of laughter shook Bodie at Ray’s bewildered tones, but he got himself back under control - helped by the fact that it did hurt to laugh - and said,
“If I hadn’t gone to the bakery, Nicholls wouldn’t have spotted us, yeah? And so he ran, and we chased him -”
“And we crashed. So what?”
“Yeah, but... that tune you were trying to play. Did you notice the title of the carol?”
Doyle, bemused now, simply shook his head and Bodie repressed his laughter yet again. “There was this mate of mine, in the Paras,” he said, apparently irrelevantly. “He was a bit of a folkie - you know, collected folk songs, went to concerts and clubs - did the whole scene. And that -” he nodded at the music stand, “Was one of his favourites. He sang it every bloody time he got pissed - no wonder I recognised it! And it was called...” Bodie smiled triumphantly at Doyle, “The Hunting of the Wren!”
Doyle stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
Insufferably smug now, Bodie just shook his head, and Doyle too began to chuckle. “We’ve got a carol named after one of our ops! That’s brilliant.”
“Yeah. You know, I’ve wondered what Nicholls’ parents were thinking, giving him initials like that.”
“Maybe they didn’t notice.”
“Of course they did. You don’t go around naming your son William Ronald Edward Nicholls without knowing that all his life, right from school onwards, he’ll be saddled with just one nickname.”
“Yeah. It must make it really difficult for ‘im when ‘e’s trying to do business. Would you be scared of a bloke whose nickname was The Wren?”
“Not me, sunshine. But then, I don’t scare easily - and neither do you... ah, fuck it.” Bodie shifted himself carefully into an easier position, “Forget about him, Ray. There’s more important things to consider. Like - if we take it carefully, I reckon we can still have some fun even before I’m back up to speed.” He smiled sunnily up at Doyle. “Stuff the Hunting of the bloody Wren... and c’mere.”
Doyle came.
The End
Title: The Hunting of the Wren
Author: SAC
Slash or Gen: Slash
Disclaimer: I really, really wish they belonged to me, but they don’t. I just like to play with them every now and then.