Discovered on Pancake Day - Prosfic: Shriven by Slantedlight
Squeaking in at 23:43 in Pago Pago... hope everyone had good pancakes yesterday today!
Shriven
by Slantedlight
Doyle slipped from building to building, a dark shadow in the early evening, lashed around by the wind and the rain. Now and then car headlights swept across him, so that he felt as if he’d been caught by searchlights, a lone figure on the London streets, thrown back in time maybe to the Blitz, the roar of bombers all around….
He’d bloody kill Bodie - no one else was mad enough to be out in this, the entire city was surely tucked up cosily in front of the six o’clock news, dinner on a tray in front of them, listening to Sue Lawley and hoping Nicholas Witchell would get the chance to sit on someone again.
The warehouse loomed in front of him at last, his final chance in this nightmare hunt. There was no life to be seen, not a skerrick of light around the doors or windows, but he had high hopes that Terry would be there, packing away the last of his merchandise.
It needed one more run across the open street, exposed to the torrential February storm that had come upon them unexpectedly - John Kettley caught out again. There wasn’t much point in pulling his coat collar higher, he was already sodden, cold drips working their way down his neck, his back, but he did it anyway, an automatic gesture. He waited for a delivery lorry to pass, its wheels spraying water horizontally to join the vertical deluge, and then took a breath - against drowning, he thought, felt hysterical laughter bubbling to the surface. Whether this worked or not, the game was well and truly up.
Bodie stared at the rain soaked creature that stood in front of him, the reverberations from the slamming of their front door still echoing around. Doyle’s hair was plastered to his head, curls turned to rat tails hanging lank around his face, and water dripped from every part of him. His eyes burned dangerously as he glared back at Bodie, and his lips were pursed. After a moment he rummaged in his pocket, pulled something out, and put it carefully and precisely on the counter between them.
“There - the last bloody lemon in London!”
It was, Bodie thought, possibly the most beautiful lemon he’d ever seen. It was purely yellow, perfectly formed, and a tiny piece of branch and a leaf were still attached to it.
“Where’d you find that?”
Doyle sniffed and tried to wipe away some of the rain still on his face - drops on his cheeks, Bodie noticed, fascinated, by his nose, a drop on one eyebrow… It didn’t work, his hands still just as wet as the rest of him.
“Four corner shops, Sainsbury’s up the road, two Tescos, and Iceland - none of them had bloody lemons left. And before you say it no, I wasn’t buying that Jif muck - dunno what’s in it, but it’s got nothing to do with fruit...”
“So where d’you get it, then?”
A fat raindrop, hanging on to the very end, finally gave up its efforts and fell from what used to be a springy curl, straight down to the edge of Doyle’s collarbone. It must have been cold, because a minute shiver ran through him as it landed, and he sniffed again.
“You remember Terry on the market?”
Bodie nodded, focussed absently on another drop about to join the first.
“He used to put a few things by if it was a special occasion…”
“So you went all the way down to Fulham in this weather?”
The drop fell, and Doyle shivered again. He shrugged. “Was in rain steeped so far that t’were as… whatever.”
“…that should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er…”
“Yeah, something like that. So where are these famous pancakes, then? I thought you said…”
“Batter’s in fridge,” Bodie said, soothingly, knowing he’d never return now. “Just waiting for you to get here. If I’d known you were out tramping the streets…”
Doyle’s eyes narrowed.
“…but why don’t we get you out of those wet clothes first?” he added hurriedly, reaching out and tugging at the collar of Doyle’s coat. “Can’t have you catching cold, can we…?”
Another drop fell, and Bodie leaned over the counter, balancing with one hand on Doyle’s shoulder, and licked it from his neck before he could say anything else.
Doyle had crossed half west London, because Bodie’d said he wanted pancakes. Flour, butter, eggs, he’d said to Doyle that morning, what else do we need?
Pancake day in their own flat, for the first time - a stupid domestic thing, he’d thought, but one that he’d wanted to do. Doyle liked cooking well enough, but Bodie was good at pancakes, and he’d thought…
He knew what he’d thought - and here was Doyle, thinking it too.
The table in the living room was set for two, plates and cutlery laid out, golden syrup, sugar in a bowl - and a couple of the half dozen lemons he’d laid in yesterday lunchtime, because it hadn’t occurred to him to take them out of the carrier bag until they were needed.
Doyle’s head had fallen back, susceptible as always to such caresses around his neck, and Bodie obligingly kissed a path along his throat, then held him more firmly and bit gently where neck met shoulder, so that tomorrow there would be a pink-bruised patch of skin just there, easily hidden under a collar, Bodie’s mark all the same.
He’d get rid of the other lemons later, before Doyle could even walk again, and they’d have pancakes, and be domestic and then go back to bed.
He’d never felt more like confessing in his life.
o0o
Title: Shriven
Author: Slantedlight
Slash or Gen: Always slash!
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: If it's wanted
Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle, and the CI5 universe don't belong to me, and it's not about the money...
Shriven
by Slantedlight
Doyle slipped from building to building, a dark shadow in the early evening, lashed around by the wind and the rain. Now and then car headlights swept across him, so that he felt as if he’d been caught by searchlights, a lone figure on the London streets, thrown back in time maybe to the Blitz, the roar of bombers all around….
He’d bloody kill Bodie - no one else was mad enough to be out in this, the entire city was surely tucked up cosily in front of the six o’clock news, dinner on a tray in front of them, listening to Sue Lawley and hoping Nicholas Witchell would get the chance to sit on someone again.
The warehouse loomed in front of him at last, his final chance in this nightmare hunt. There was no life to be seen, not a skerrick of light around the doors or windows, but he had high hopes that Terry would be there, packing away the last of his merchandise.
It needed one more run across the open street, exposed to the torrential February storm that had come upon them unexpectedly - John Kettley caught out again. There wasn’t much point in pulling his coat collar higher, he was already sodden, cold drips working their way down his neck, his back, but he did it anyway, an automatic gesture. He waited for a delivery lorry to pass, its wheels spraying water horizontally to join the vertical deluge, and then took a breath - against drowning, he thought, felt hysterical laughter bubbling to the surface. Whether this worked or not, the game was well and truly up.
Bodie stared at the rain soaked creature that stood in front of him, the reverberations from the slamming of their front door still echoing around. Doyle’s hair was plastered to his head, curls turned to rat tails hanging lank around his face, and water dripped from every part of him. His eyes burned dangerously as he glared back at Bodie, and his lips were pursed. After a moment he rummaged in his pocket, pulled something out, and put it carefully and precisely on the counter between them.
“There - the last bloody lemon in London!”
It was, Bodie thought, possibly the most beautiful lemon he’d ever seen. It was purely yellow, perfectly formed, and a tiny piece of branch and a leaf were still attached to it.
“Where’d you find that?”
Doyle sniffed and tried to wipe away some of the rain still on his face - drops on his cheeks, Bodie noticed, fascinated, by his nose, a drop on one eyebrow… It didn’t work, his hands still just as wet as the rest of him.
“Four corner shops, Sainsbury’s up the road, two Tescos, and Iceland - none of them had bloody lemons left. And before you say it no, I wasn’t buying that Jif muck - dunno what’s in it, but it’s got nothing to do with fruit...”
“So where d’you get it, then?”
A fat raindrop, hanging on to the very end, finally gave up its efforts and fell from what used to be a springy curl, straight down to the edge of Doyle’s collarbone. It must have been cold, because a minute shiver ran through him as it landed, and he sniffed again.
“You remember Terry on the market?”
Bodie nodded, focussed absently on another drop about to join the first.
“He used to put a few things by if it was a special occasion…”
“So you went all the way down to Fulham in this weather?”
The drop fell, and Doyle shivered again. He shrugged. “Was in rain steeped so far that t’were as… whatever.”
“…that should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er…”
“Yeah, something like that. So where are these famous pancakes, then? I thought you said…”
“Batter’s in fridge,” Bodie said, soothingly, knowing he’d never return now. “Just waiting for you to get here. If I’d known you were out tramping the streets…”
Doyle’s eyes narrowed.
“…but why don’t we get you out of those wet clothes first?” he added hurriedly, reaching out and tugging at the collar of Doyle’s coat. “Can’t have you catching cold, can we…?”
Another drop fell, and Bodie leaned over the counter, balancing with one hand on Doyle’s shoulder, and licked it from his neck before he could say anything else.
Doyle had crossed half west London, because Bodie’d said he wanted pancakes. Flour, butter, eggs, he’d said to Doyle that morning, what else do we need?
Pancake day in their own flat, for the first time - a stupid domestic thing, he’d thought, but one that he’d wanted to do. Doyle liked cooking well enough, but Bodie was good at pancakes, and he’d thought…
He knew what he’d thought - and here was Doyle, thinking it too.
The table in the living room was set for two, plates and cutlery laid out, golden syrup, sugar in a bowl - and a couple of the half dozen lemons he’d laid in yesterday lunchtime, because it hadn’t occurred to him to take them out of the carrier bag until they were needed.
Doyle’s head had fallen back, susceptible as always to such caresses around his neck, and Bodie obligingly kissed a path along his throat, then held him more firmly and bit gently where neck met shoulder, so that tomorrow there would be a pink-bruised patch of skin just there, easily hidden under a collar, Bodie’s mark all the same.
He’d get rid of the other lemons later, before Doyle could even walk again, and they’d have pancakes, and be domestic and then go back to bed.
He’d never felt more like confessing in his life.
o0o
Title: Shriven
Author: Slantedlight
Slash or Gen: Always slash!
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: If it's wanted
Disclaimer: Bodie, Doyle, and the CI5 universe don't belong to me, and it's not about the money...