Discovered on A Silent Night - January 6, 2015
A Trifling Matter
by Verlaine
With a sigh of relief, Doyle slammed the door of Bodie's flat behind him and set the locks. Safe, home, off-duty at bloody last. He understood Cowley's reasoning: it was only right that the agents with families got some free time during the Christmas period if possible, but it meant the rest of them put in ungodly hours between Christmas and New Year. No roast goose and pudding, no Christmas Eve curled up with Bodie listening to the Kings' College boys' choir, no helter-skelter of wrapping paper and last-minute shopping.
He was cold, hungry and worn to the bone-Bob Cratchit with no Christmas Eve ghosts to soften a Scottish heart.
The image of Cowley facing off against the Ghost of Christmas Present made Doyle chuckle. Off-duty, he reminded himself. Three days, and Cowley's word they wouldn't be disturbed for anything less than a nuclear bomb tucked away at Sandringham. Cowley's definition of important might not be quite the same as his and Bodie's, but his word was good.
Doyle took a deep breath of relief, and winced at the foul smell that hit him. His face twisting with disgust, he reflexively covered his nose and mouth with one hand.
Bodie's flat smelled as if something had crawled into the cupboards and died. Several days ago. Doyle's hand was under his jacket, pulling his gun before conscious thought kicked in. He'd unlocked the door himself, and there had been no trace of tampering at either the latch or the keyhole. The electronics had been undisturbed. The flat was chilly and silent, bar the occasional sounds of cars from down on the street, without any sense of a lingering presence. No one was there, and no one had been since Bodie had left three days before.
Doyle shook his head, impatient with his maundering. He'd seen Bodie not half an hour before, very much alive and kicking as he briefed Anson and Liz Spalding at HQ. Whatever was causing the stench, it wasn't Bodie's corpse mouldering in the bath, or whatever other gruesome ideas his vivid imagination could come up with.
Still-something was causing that smell, and it wasn't the drains.
Acting on the assumption that Bodie would have mentioned it if he'd disposed of an intruder, Doyle cautiously holstered his weapon. Nose still twitching, he took a fast look around. Bedroom, bathroom, lounge, all were clean, neat and free of any source of odour. Bodie's military training, no doubt: tidy up now, because if you get killed somebody else will have to do it later.
When he pushed the kitchen door open, the intensity of the smell increased markedly. Doyle stopped, and stared. There was no longer any doubt about the source. The counter was cluttered with bowls and utensils, one saucepan sat on the cooker and another in the sink, half-filled with water.
"Bloody hell, Bodie," Doyle muttered. "What were you playing at?"
On the kitchen table, the only free surface in the room, lay a piece of paper. Doyle picked it up. It was a very poor photocopy of a page from a magazine, the picture dark and blurred enough to make it impossible to see any details. Two columns of print below were smudged, but the heading was completely legible.
Best Rum Trifle.
Doyle felt his eyes prickle, and a tightening in his throat that had nothing to do with the miasma in the air.
They'd been stranded on a stakeout at the end of November, their relief abruptly called away by Cowley. Make do, they'd been told. We'll send someone out when we can.
The sandwiches Doyle had thrown together were long gone, as well as the fruit, biscuits, and crisps Bodie had contributed, and their stomachs first grumbled and then growled. There wasn't a shop, or a pub in miles, just acres of desolate industrial land.
Inevitably, they'd talked about food.
They'd compared their favourite fish and chip shops and curry places, breaking the list down by price, location, serving size and opening hours, before moving on to Italian and Greek. There was a spirited discussion about pub lunches, with Bodie favouring pork pies and Doyle a traditional ploughman's.
Gradually, the conversation had drifted to other times. Bodie told a story about barbequing a gazelle over a cut open oil drum somewhere in Namibia, while Doyle remembered Sid Parker's wife stuffing packets of sandwiches and home-made flapjacks into a haversack for the two of them, always with a little note for Sid that sometimes made his ears turn pink.
When the talk turned to home, Bodie's memories were of his gran's lamb hotpot, and scones-this thick, they were, and light, just melt in your mouth. Used to smack me round the ear when she caught me lifting them. She used real butter, none of that margarine crap. Said she'd had enough of that during the war, and she'd never go without butter again.
Doyle reminisced about Sunday lunches. His mum still could put together a first-rate joint of beef. He could do without the sprouts-never had seen any sense in spending hours peeling, only to boil them to green mush-but her roast potatoes and parsnips were always the perfect combination of crisp and tender.
And he'd talked about trifle. Rich, luscious, full of custard and jam, soaked in brandy, with cherries and pineapple and chocolate curls decorating the cream piled on top. He'd never been much for sweets, not like Bodie, but those trifles were something special, treats only for Christmas and birthdays, and not always then if Doyle's father got caught short.
Looking at the wreck of Bodie's kitchen, Doyle felt his throat tighten again. A large blue bowl held a mess of tinned fruit, scummy with rot, with the odd piece of dried-out cake protruding above the surface. The saucepan in the sink had a bubbly blackened layer burned to the bottom, while the one on the cooker was half-full of congealed custard, ripe around the edges with mould. A bottle of lumpy yellowed cream sat open beside the bowl of spoiled fruit.
With a helpless little laugh, Doyle slung off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He dumped everything into the wastebin-wincing at the decaying lump of charred custard already there-and started filling the sink with hot water.
When the front door banged open, he was scrubbing at the blackened saucepan.
"Doyle? What's that godawful pong?" Bodie called out, his steps speeding up noticeably. He stopped dead just inside the kitchen. "Oh, shit."
"Shit indeed, mate." Doyle gave the pan a last determined swipe and set it on the drainboard. "You couldn't have bunged everything into the fridge before you went haring out of here?"
"The Cow said move, I moved." Bodie said sheepishly. "Could have been worse, I suppose."
"Yeah, you could have left the stove on, and caused a nice little custard-based fire. Never heard of usin' Bird's as an accelerant, but there's a first time for everything."
"Hell with the custard, I poured the last of my brandy onto that cake." Bodie opened the wastebin, and hastily slammed the lid down again. "So much for the preservative powers of alcohol."
"Can't believe you remembered me bleating on about trifle," Doyle muttered.
"You were hoping for barbequed gazelle?" Bodie raised one eyebrow. "C'mon, Ray. Thought we should get some kind of a reward for missing Father Christmas."
It was Doyle's turn to raise a skeptical brow.
"Yeah, yeah, should've known better," Bodie said mournfully. "What with being on call from Christmas Eve until Twelfth Night, we're lucky we haven't wasted away completely."
"We've got three days now," Doyle said. "Got any Bird's left?"
"Plenty of custard powder. No brandy or cream. Or milk for that matter," Bodie said, popping the fridge door open for a look.
"There's a wonderful new invention I've heard of. It's called a supermarket. They say you can get all kinds of food there, and all you have to do is give them money for it."
"And while I'm lashing out on cream and cake and brandy-and best tinned fruit, mind you-what will you be doing?"
"Can't very well bag a gazelle for you, can I? What would you say to a nice roast of beef, some Yorkshire pud and your choice of veg? Not doing you sprouts, but anything else is fair game."
"Cauliflower cheese," Bodie said promptly. "And I've always fancied sweet corn."
"You would."
Bodie dug into his jacket pocket, and examined the contents of his wallet. "Got enough for the trifle, and maybe a bottle of plonk, provided you're not expecting the best Bordeaux."
Doyle contemplated his finances. "I can cover the rest, and any old red will do. Got mustard and horseradish?"
"Yes, and no." Bodie held out Doyle's jacket. "Let's get a move on, my son. That beef will take ages, and I'm already starved."
Several hours later, a much different smell filled Bodie's flat. The aroma of roasting meat drifted from the oven, accompanied by the scent of garlic and hot mustard. Doyle paused in his grating of cheese to watch as Bodie, tea-towel wrapped around his waist, carefully spooned dollops of custard over a layer of brandy-drenched cake and fruit.
Bodie glanced up and caught his eye. "Lucky we've got nothing to prove, ducky," he said with an exaggerated flutter of his lashes.
Doyle looked around the little kitchen, taking in the table set for two, gently simmering pots, and a bowl of trifle made with more enthusiasm than skill. Much, he suspected, as his mother's must have been on her first try.
"I'd say we've proved it already." He lifted his glass of wine in salute, Bodie's blinding smile all the reward he needed.
Title: A Trifling Matter
Author: Verlaine
Slash or Gen: Slash (but so mild it could read as gen)
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes, please
Disclaimer: No mine, no claims, no money, etc.
:
by Verlaine
With a sigh of relief, Doyle slammed the door of Bodie's flat behind him and set the locks. Safe, home, off-duty at bloody last. He understood Cowley's reasoning: it was only right that the agents with families got some free time during the Christmas period if possible, but it meant the rest of them put in ungodly hours between Christmas and New Year. No roast goose and pudding, no Christmas Eve curled up with Bodie listening to the Kings' College boys' choir, no helter-skelter of wrapping paper and last-minute shopping.
He was cold, hungry and worn to the bone-Bob Cratchit with no Christmas Eve ghosts to soften a Scottish heart.
The image of Cowley facing off against the Ghost of Christmas Present made Doyle chuckle. Off-duty, he reminded himself. Three days, and Cowley's word they wouldn't be disturbed for anything less than a nuclear bomb tucked away at Sandringham. Cowley's definition of important might not be quite the same as his and Bodie's, but his word was good.
Doyle took a deep breath of relief, and winced at the foul smell that hit him. His face twisting with disgust, he reflexively covered his nose and mouth with one hand.
Bodie's flat smelled as if something had crawled into the cupboards and died. Several days ago. Doyle's hand was under his jacket, pulling his gun before conscious thought kicked in. He'd unlocked the door himself, and there had been no trace of tampering at either the latch or the keyhole. The electronics had been undisturbed. The flat was chilly and silent, bar the occasional sounds of cars from down on the street, without any sense of a lingering presence. No one was there, and no one had been since Bodie had left three days before.
Doyle shook his head, impatient with his maundering. He'd seen Bodie not half an hour before, very much alive and kicking as he briefed Anson and Liz Spalding at HQ. Whatever was causing the stench, it wasn't Bodie's corpse mouldering in the bath, or whatever other gruesome ideas his vivid imagination could come up with.
Still-something was causing that smell, and it wasn't the drains.
Acting on the assumption that Bodie would have mentioned it if he'd disposed of an intruder, Doyle cautiously holstered his weapon. Nose still twitching, he took a fast look around. Bedroom, bathroom, lounge, all were clean, neat and free of any source of odour. Bodie's military training, no doubt: tidy up now, because if you get killed somebody else will have to do it later.
When he pushed the kitchen door open, the intensity of the smell increased markedly. Doyle stopped, and stared. There was no longer any doubt about the source. The counter was cluttered with bowls and utensils, one saucepan sat on the cooker and another in the sink, half-filled with water.
"Bloody hell, Bodie," Doyle muttered. "What were you playing at?"
On the kitchen table, the only free surface in the room, lay a piece of paper. Doyle picked it up. It was a very poor photocopy of a page from a magazine, the picture dark and blurred enough to make it impossible to see any details. Two columns of print below were smudged, but the heading was completely legible.
Best Rum Trifle.
Doyle felt his eyes prickle, and a tightening in his throat that had nothing to do with the miasma in the air.
They'd been stranded on a stakeout at the end of November, their relief abruptly called away by Cowley. Make do, they'd been told. We'll send someone out when we can.
The sandwiches Doyle had thrown together were long gone, as well as the fruit, biscuits, and crisps Bodie had contributed, and their stomachs first grumbled and then growled. There wasn't a shop, or a pub in miles, just acres of desolate industrial land.
Inevitably, they'd talked about food.
They'd compared their favourite fish and chip shops and curry places, breaking the list down by price, location, serving size and opening hours, before moving on to Italian and Greek. There was a spirited discussion about pub lunches, with Bodie favouring pork pies and Doyle a traditional ploughman's.
Gradually, the conversation had drifted to other times. Bodie told a story about barbequing a gazelle over a cut open oil drum somewhere in Namibia, while Doyle remembered Sid Parker's wife stuffing packets of sandwiches and home-made flapjacks into a haversack for the two of them, always with a little note for Sid that sometimes made his ears turn pink.
When the talk turned to home, Bodie's memories were of his gran's lamb hotpot, and scones-this thick, they were, and light, just melt in your mouth. Used to smack me round the ear when she caught me lifting them. She used real butter, none of that margarine crap. Said she'd had enough of that during the war, and she'd never go without butter again.
Doyle reminisced about Sunday lunches. His mum still could put together a first-rate joint of beef. He could do without the sprouts-never had seen any sense in spending hours peeling, only to boil them to green mush-but her roast potatoes and parsnips were always the perfect combination of crisp and tender.
And he'd talked about trifle. Rich, luscious, full of custard and jam, soaked in brandy, with cherries and pineapple and chocolate curls decorating the cream piled on top. He'd never been much for sweets, not like Bodie, but those trifles were something special, treats only for Christmas and birthdays, and not always then if Doyle's father got caught short.
Looking at the wreck of Bodie's kitchen, Doyle felt his throat tighten again. A large blue bowl held a mess of tinned fruit, scummy with rot, with the odd piece of dried-out cake protruding above the surface. The saucepan in the sink had a bubbly blackened layer burned to the bottom, while the one on the cooker was half-full of congealed custard, ripe around the edges with mould. A bottle of lumpy yellowed cream sat open beside the bowl of spoiled fruit.
With a helpless little laugh, Doyle slung off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He dumped everything into the wastebin-wincing at the decaying lump of charred custard already there-and started filling the sink with hot water.
When the front door banged open, he was scrubbing at the blackened saucepan.
"Doyle? What's that godawful pong?" Bodie called out, his steps speeding up noticeably. He stopped dead just inside the kitchen. "Oh, shit."
"Shit indeed, mate." Doyle gave the pan a last determined swipe and set it on the drainboard. "You couldn't have bunged everything into the fridge before you went haring out of here?"
"The Cow said move, I moved." Bodie said sheepishly. "Could have been worse, I suppose."
"Yeah, you could have left the stove on, and caused a nice little custard-based fire. Never heard of usin' Bird's as an accelerant, but there's a first time for everything."
"Hell with the custard, I poured the last of my brandy onto that cake." Bodie opened the wastebin, and hastily slammed the lid down again. "So much for the preservative powers of alcohol."
"Can't believe you remembered me bleating on about trifle," Doyle muttered.
"You were hoping for barbequed gazelle?" Bodie raised one eyebrow. "C'mon, Ray. Thought we should get some kind of a reward for missing Father Christmas."
It was Doyle's turn to raise a skeptical brow.
"Yeah, yeah, should've known better," Bodie said mournfully. "What with being on call from Christmas Eve until Twelfth Night, we're lucky we haven't wasted away completely."
"We've got three days now," Doyle said. "Got any Bird's left?"
"Plenty of custard powder. No brandy or cream. Or milk for that matter," Bodie said, popping the fridge door open for a look.
"There's a wonderful new invention I've heard of. It's called a supermarket. They say you can get all kinds of food there, and all you have to do is give them money for it."
"And while I'm lashing out on cream and cake and brandy-and best tinned fruit, mind you-what will you be doing?"
"Can't very well bag a gazelle for you, can I? What would you say to a nice roast of beef, some Yorkshire pud and your choice of veg? Not doing you sprouts, but anything else is fair game."
"Cauliflower cheese," Bodie said promptly. "And I've always fancied sweet corn."
"You would."
Bodie dug into his jacket pocket, and examined the contents of his wallet. "Got enough for the trifle, and maybe a bottle of plonk, provided you're not expecting the best Bordeaux."
Doyle contemplated his finances. "I can cover the rest, and any old red will do. Got mustard and horseradish?"
"Yes, and no." Bodie held out Doyle's jacket. "Let's get a move on, my son. That beef will take ages, and I'm already starved."
Several hours later, a much different smell filled Bodie's flat. The aroma of roasting meat drifted from the oven, accompanied by the scent of garlic and hot mustard. Doyle paused in his grating of cheese to watch as Bodie, tea-towel wrapped around his waist, carefully spooned dollops of custard over a layer of brandy-drenched cake and fruit.
Bodie glanced up and caught his eye. "Lucky we've got nothing to prove, ducky," he said with an exaggerated flutter of his lashes.
Doyle looked around the little kitchen, taking in the table set for two, gently simmering pots, and a bowl of trifle made with more enthusiasm than skill. Much, he suspected, as his mother's must have been on her first try.
"I'd say we've proved it already." He lifted his glass of wine in salute, Bodie's blinding smile all the reward he needed.
Title: A Trifling Matter
Author: Verlaine
Slash or Gen: Slash (but so mild it could read as gen)
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Yes, please
Disclaimer: No mine, no claims, no money, etc.
: