Discovered in the Holly and the Ivy: Day 36, 5th January. Part II: A Little Snow in London - Prosfic
Okay, we're back to Christmas for the second time today, with another wee bit of fluff... I did think about putting these into a corner to wait for next Christmas, but that's a whole year away and you never know what might happen, so... back to Christmas. *g*
And a huge thank you to betas jessebee and heliophile_oxon, who both helped to make this an actual story! Anything odd that remains is all due to my fiddling!
I'm hoping for three posts today, but there must be Job 1 work between now and that other post, so we'll have to see how we go...
A Little Snow in London
by Slantedlight
Bodie must have left the radio on that morning, because when he let them into his flat, centrally-heated warm on the timer, and thank fuck for that, they were met with raucous bonhomie and wailing.
And there won’t be snow in Africa…
Doyle strode over to the hi-fi, turned it off with a snap. He took a deep breath in the silence - the perfect, beautiful silence, and then began unwinding his scarf, tugging his coat off.
“Who the hell would want snow in Africa?” Bodie asked cheerfully, already pulling out bottles of scotch and gin and tonic. “Snow for us though, according to what’s-it on the radio.”
Not likely, Doyle thought, staring morosely towards the big bay window, curtains still wide open, though the only late afternoon light was sodium orange. It didn’t snow in London - not properly, not for years. There might be great wet flakes that fell slowly, greyly, touching the dirty pavement and melting straight away, not really wanting to be there, but not proper snow. Like everything else, it was sullied in the city, spoiled.
“Look at that,” he said in disgust, wandering closer. “Don’t you ever wonder what you’re doing in this lousy city? Miserable people, miserable weather…”
“Good food, lots of culture, half-intelligent company, and all the sex you could want,” Bodie suggested, clinking glasses cheerfully. Doyle could hear the fizz as he tipped tonic into their Christmas G and Ts. Doubles probably, but he’d need a pint of gin before he felt anything like festive.
He glanced back into the room, snorted. “I’m beginning to wonder about the company,” he said. “And would you look at the bloody weather!” He leaned towards the window slightly, so that he could see past the golden indoors reflection to the clouded sky, dull and heavy as slate. Pressing down on everyone and everything, he thought, grinding them down… “How can anyone hope to rise above that?” He waved his hand at it all, and his knuckles knocked against the glass, echoed coldly. “No wonder that kid wanted out.”
“Yeah, you didn’t let him though, did you? Caught him before he could do it.” Bodie wandered over to stand beside him, a glass in either hand, was a brief warmth against Doyle’s arm as he nudged him to take his drink. “ Gift of life. Santa Doyle. He’ll get it out of his system inside, and then…”
“And then what? An’ then he’s right back where he started - no job, nowhere to go, no one who cares what the fuck happens to him. Nothing to do except find some more smack! Bloody London…”
“It’s no better anywhere else. Liverpool or Manchester or Birmingham - you’ve got to do it for yourself where ever you are, no one does it for you. That kid goes back, it’s his own business.”
Doyle glanced at him, shook his head slowly. “If ‘e goes back it’ll be because no one could be bothered to help him. All too busy looking out for me-me-me!” He thumped his own chest with a fist, hard against his ribcage.
That got Bodie frowning at him. “Raymond Doyle, one man crusade…”
Doyle scowled back, lifted his glass and took a mouthful, felt the slice of lemon bobbing against his lips, bubbles like soft rain against his nose. It was alright for him - for him and Bodie - they’d have their drink, go out and find a couple of birds, fuck the night away in someone else’s soft bed… He drank again, staring into the oncoming night, very aware of Bodie close beside him, the slight movements he made as he sipped, as he slid a hand into a trouser pocket and shifted his weight to one leg, watching the traffic below. That ache was there too, always there, under today’s new pains, something else he couldn’t sort out, couldn’t fix.
It was alright for Bodie, Bodie didn’t care. About any of it.
They watched together through the glass, other lives, other people, going about their oblivious business.
A taxi stopped at the flats across the road, and an old man in a long grey coat and a flat cap got out, moving slowly. He paused for a moment, catching his breath maybe, leaning against the cab, then he reached in and hauled out what looked like a massive suitcase, settling it on the slushy pavement.
Movement at the ground floor window caught Doyle’s eye, there was a pause, and then the front door opened, a little girl in a bright pink jumper dashing out and down the steps in two great bounds. Grandad then, visiting for Christmas. He was wrapped tight in pink arms, lifted the little girl off her feet to give her a hug.
An older boy appeared at the door, slouching morosely along, all the world too much for him. He stood to one side, watching, hands in pockets, aloof and alone. They weren’t posh flats on that side of the road, barely halfway there, unlike Doyle’s own pad. For all Doyle knew, that kid was another one on his way down, just like Jimmy. Jimmy, who’d just finished shooting up when CI5 burst in on him barely two hours ago, on Christmas eve, who’d grabbed for his mate’s fix and tried to jam that into his arm too. Who’d wanted to go out on a high.
The man below stood straight again, caught sight of the boy, and mimed surprise with his hands. Then he was reaching out and clapping the lad on the back, man to man, and they were both smiling. The little girl clutched at her grandad’s fingers with one hand, and the boy reached down to pick up the suitcase, and then they were all gone again, and the door was shut.
Maybe if Jimmy’d had a grandad he wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed now. Then again maybe he did have a grandad, a great bruiser of a bloke, like Doyle’s own dad had been, quicker with the back of his hand or his fist than anything else. That’d turn a boy to smack as fast as anything. Or perhaps grandad down there was Fagin himself, summoning smiles before sending the kids off to a life of crime - how could you tell? What could you do, even if you did know? Christ…
He felt Bodie glance at him, saw him turn away, not interested in the little family, in Jimmy in the Scrubs, in any of the kids still out there, on a cold December night. Doyle took a breath, tried to think. He supposed he could get himself to Hammersmith first thing tomorrow, see if they’d let him talk to Jimmy. They wouldn’t keep him in the hospital wing long, he’d be slopping out with the hard lads before he could catch his breath. If the beak would give him bail then maybe he could see if Jemima had space for another one at the Halfway, even if it was no more than the couch.
A sudden spatter of sleet hit the windowpane in front of him, startling him from his thoughts. It stuck for a moment and then dribbled sullenly downwards. Some snow - so much for the radio and all its promises.
Ah, what was the point? Even if Jemima could squeeze Jimmy in, even if she managed to keep him out of trouble until the trial, he’d only end up back inside again - no judge would leave him out free when he was working for the Ferrer mob to pay for his junk.
“Tell you what,” Bodie began, his voice pulling Doyle back to the room suddenly, away from happy families and away from tragic ones, back to his own comfortable flat, and when Doyle looked up, Bodie was watching him. “I’ll come with you on your crusade, Raymond, if you’ll come with me on mine.”
“Oh yeah, and what’s yours? Make the world a better place by fucking it into submission?”
Bodie raised an eyebrow, then he reached behind him and pulled the curtains, shutting the city out, shutting the pair of them in together, just them. “Need an army for a crusade, don’t you,” he said. “Soldiers.”
“An army?” What the hell was Bodie on about now? “What kind of an army’s going to help that kid?”
“Well…” Bodie was watching him with that look in his eye, half speculative, half smug, half… Half something that looked like Christmas with snow and everything else Doyle had ever wanted. He tucked that look away, because, just like everything else, it was only ever going to be wishful thinking.
“Well, it didn’t do me any harm,” Bodie said.
“That’s debatable.” He narrowed his eyes. Bodie was up to something…
“Alright - not a crusade,” Bodie said, still looking smug. “More like… Father Christmas in khakis.”
Doyle gazed at him, frowning in thought for a moment, until it clicked. “What, your old Lieutenant Colonel? Nickelby? What’s he got to do with anything?”
“Saint Nick,” Bodie agreed, the beginnings of a smile playing around his lips, distracting Doyle. “Big white beard an’ all. He’s started a special skills cadet unit - civilian, since he retired, of course, but the ones that work out he’ll use his contacts and…”
“What, Jimmy? A junkie like him?”
“Why not? It’s Christmas, Nick owes me a favour, and he knows most of the magistrates - he’ll go bail if I ask.”
“A civilian cadet unit,” he said, half disbelieving, but feeling suddenly lighter, as if the room was… bigger. Brighter. Bodie wasn’t uninterested, he wasn’t uninterested at all.
“Takes them out of town. Camping in the woods, surviving in the mountains, the whole works.” Bodie was grinning at him now, all teeth and crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “With Donna and Blitzen and all the other little Rudolphs.”
Bodie wasn’t uninterested, and he was a genius. Show the kid what else was out there, maybe he’d stand a chance after all.
“An’ you’d do that for Jimmy, wipe out a favour, just like that?” he asked, wanting to make sure. He’d met Nickleby, he was the sort of man whose favours came along rarely. If he owed you, you made sure your collection was worth it.
And Bodie was shaking his head, his smile was fading. “Not for Jimmy,” he said, and he held Doyle’s gaze.
And there was Bodie’s crusade, right there, blazing from his eyes. Straight from his heart.
Doyle took a step forward, before he even knew why, just knowing that he was in synch with Bodie in the same way they were every day. On the job and off it, and together they could fix everything.
“Fancy staying in tonight, soldier?” he asked, and let his gaze fall to Bodie’s mouth, to his lips.
Bodie smiled, and then even the bare inches between them were gone, and Doyle was kissing him.
Outside, the night grew colder and darker as Christmas came upon them, but inside the snow was falling properly at last, just as promised, pure and perfect and joyful.
January 2016
And a huge thank you to betas jessebee and heliophile_oxon, who both helped to make this an actual story! Anything odd that remains is all due to my fiddling!
I'm hoping for three posts today, but there must be Job 1 work between now and that other post, so we'll have to see how we go...
A Little Snow in London
by Slantedlight
Bodie must have left the radio on that morning, because when he let them into his flat, centrally-heated warm on the timer, and thank fuck for that, they were met with raucous bonhomie and wailing.
And there won’t be snow in Africa…
Doyle strode over to the hi-fi, turned it off with a snap. He took a deep breath in the silence - the perfect, beautiful silence, and then began unwinding his scarf, tugging his coat off.
“Who the hell would want snow in Africa?” Bodie asked cheerfully, already pulling out bottles of scotch and gin and tonic. “Snow for us though, according to what’s-it on the radio.”
Not likely, Doyle thought, staring morosely towards the big bay window, curtains still wide open, though the only late afternoon light was sodium orange. It didn’t snow in London - not properly, not for years. There might be great wet flakes that fell slowly, greyly, touching the dirty pavement and melting straight away, not really wanting to be there, but not proper snow. Like everything else, it was sullied in the city, spoiled.
“Look at that,” he said in disgust, wandering closer. “Don’t you ever wonder what you’re doing in this lousy city? Miserable people, miserable weather…”
“Good food, lots of culture, half-intelligent company, and all the sex you could want,” Bodie suggested, clinking glasses cheerfully. Doyle could hear the fizz as he tipped tonic into their Christmas G and Ts. Doubles probably, but he’d need a pint of gin before he felt anything like festive.
He glanced back into the room, snorted. “I’m beginning to wonder about the company,” he said. “And would you look at the bloody weather!” He leaned towards the window slightly, so that he could see past the golden indoors reflection to the clouded sky, dull and heavy as slate. Pressing down on everyone and everything, he thought, grinding them down… “How can anyone hope to rise above that?” He waved his hand at it all, and his knuckles knocked against the glass, echoed coldly. “No wonder that kid wanted out.”
“Yeah, you didn’t let him though, did you? Caught him before he could do it.” Bodie wandered over to stand beside him, a glass in either hand, was a brief warmth against Doyle’s arm as he nudged him to take his drink. “ Gift of life. Santa Doyle. He’ll get it out of his system inside, and then…”
“And then what? An’ then he’s right back where he started - no job, nowhere to go, no one who cares what the fuck happens to him. Nothing to do except find some more smack! Bloody London…”
“It’s no better anywhere else. Liverpool or Manchester or Birmingham - you’ve got to do it for yourself where ever you are, no one does it for you. That kid goes back, it’s his own business.”
Doyle glanced at him, shook his head slowly. “If ‘e goes back it’ll be because no one could be bothered to help him. All too busy looking out for me-me-me!” He thumped his own chest with a fist, hard against his ribcage.
That got Bodie frowning at him. “Raymond Doyle, one man crusade…”
Doyle scowled back, lifted his glass and took a mouthful, felt the slice of lemon bobbing against his lips, bubbles like soft rain against his nose. It was alright for him - for him and Bodie - they’d have their drink, go out and find a couple of birds, fuck the night away in someone else’s soft bed… He drank again, staring into the oncoming night, very aware of Bodie close beside him, the slight movements he made as he sipped, as he slid a hand into a trouser pocket and shifted his weight to one leg, watching the traffic below. That ache was there too, always there, under today’s new pains, something else he couldn’t sort out, couldn’t fix.
It was alright for Bodie, Bodie didn’t care. About any of it.
They watched together through the glass, other lives, other people, going about their oblivious business.
A taxi stopped at the flats across the road, and an old man in a long grey coat and a flat cap got out, moving slowly. He paused for a moment, catching his breath maybe, leaning against the cab, then he reached in and hauled out what looked like a massive suitcase, settling it on the slushy pavement.
Movement at the ground floor window caught Doyle’s eye, there was a pause, and then the front door opened, a little girl in a bright pink jumper dashing out and down the steps in two great bounds. Grandad then, visiting for Christmas. He was wrapped tight in pink arms, lifted the little girl off her feet to give her a hug.
An older boy appeared at the door, slouching morosely along, all the world too much for him. He stood to one side, watching, hands in pockets, aloof and alone. They weren’t posh flats on that side of the road, barely halfway there, unlike Doyle’s own pad. For all Doyle knew, that kid was another one on his way down, just like Jimmy. Jimmy, who’d just finished shooting up when CI5 burst in on him barely two hours ago, on Christmas eve, who’d grabbed for his mate’s fix and tried to jam that into his arm too. Who’d wanted to go out on a high.
The man below stood straight again, caught sight of the boy, and mimed surprise with his hands. Then he was reaching out and clapping the lad on the back, man to man, and they were both smiling. The little girl clutched at her grandad’s fingers with one hand, and the boy reached down to pick up the suitcase, and then they were all gone again, and the door was shut.
Maybe if Jimmy’d had a grandad he wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed now. Then again maybe he did have a grandad, a great bruiser of a bloke, like Doyle’s own dad had been, quicker with the back of his hand or his fist than anything else. That’d turn a boy to smack as fast as anything. Or perhaps grandad down there was Fagin himself, summoning smiles before sending the kids off to a life of crime - how could you tell? What could you do, even if you did know? Christ…
He felt Bodie glance at him, saw him turn away, not interested in the little family, in Jimmy in the Scrubs, in any of the kids still out there, on a cold December night. Doyle took a breath, tried to think. He supposed he could get himself to Hammersmith first thing tomorrow, see if they’d let him talk to Jimmy. They wouldn’t keep him in the hospital wing long, he’d be slopping out with the hard lads before he could catch his breath. If the beak would give him bail then maybe he could see if Jemima had space for another one at the Halfway, even if it was no more than the couch.
A sudden spatter of sleet hit the windowpane in front of him, startling him from his thoughts. It stuck for a moment and then dribbled sullenly downwards. Some snow - so much for the radio and all its promises.
Ah, what was the point? Even if Jemima could squeeze Jimmy in, even if she managed to keep him out of trouble until the trial, he’d only end up back inside again - no judge would leave him out free when he was working for the Ferrer mob to pay for his junk.
“Tell you what,” Bodie began, his voice pulling Doyle back to the room suddenly, away from happy families and away from tragic ones, back to his own comfortable flat, and when Doyle looked up, Bodie was watching him. “I’ll come with you on your crusade, Raymond, if you’ll come with me on mine.”
“Oh yeah, and what’s yours? Make the world a better place by fucking it into submission?”
Bodie raised an eyebrow, then he reached behind him and pulled the curtains, shutting the city out, shutting the pair of them in together, just them. “Need an army for a crusade, don’t you,” he said. “Soldiers.”
“An army?” What the hell was Bodie on about now? “What kind of an army’s going to help that kid?”
“Well…” Bodie was watching him with that look in his eye, half speculative, half smug, half… Half something that looked like Christmas with snow and everything else Doyle had ever wanted. He tucked that look away, because, just like everything else, it was only ever going to be wishful thinking.
“Well, it didn’t do me any harm,” Bodie said.
“That’s debatable.” He narrowed his eyes. Bodie was up to something…
“Alright - not a crusade,” Bodie said, still looking smug. “More like… Father Christmas in khakis.”
Doyle gazed at him, frowning in thought for a moment, until it clicked. “What, your old Lieutenant Colonel? Nickelby? What’s he got to do with anything?”
“Saint Nick,” Bodie agreed, the beginnings of a smile playing around his lips, distracting Doyle. “Big white beard an’ all. He’s started a special skills cadet unit - civilian, since he retired, of course, but the ones that work out he’ll use his contacts and…”
“What, Jimmy? A junkie like him?”
“Why not? It’s Christmas, Nick owes me a favour, and he knows most of the magistrates - he’ll go bail if I ask.”
“A civilian cadet unit,” he said, half disbelieving, but feeling suddenly lighter, as if the room was… bigger. Brighter. Bodie wasn’t uninterested, he wasn’t uninterested at all.
“Takes them out of town. Camping in the woods, surviving in the mountains, the whole works.” Bodie was grinning at him now, all teeth and crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “With Donna and Blitzen and all the other little Rudolphs.”
Bodie wasn’t uninterested, and he was a genius. Show the kid what else was out there, maybe he’d stand a chance after all.
“An’ you’d do that for Jimmy, wipe out a favour, just like that?” he asked, wanting to make sure. He’d met Nickleby, he was the sort of man whose favours came along rarely. If he owed you, you made sure your collection was worth it.
And Bodie was shaking his head, his smile was fading. “Not for Jimmy,” he said, and he held Doyle’s gaze.
And there was Bodie’s crusade, right there, blazing from his eyes. Straight from his heart.
Doyle took a step forward, before he even knew why, just knowing that he was in synch with Bodie in the same way they were every day. On the job and off it, and together they could fix everything.
“Fancy staying in tonight, soldier?” he asked, and let his gaze fall to Bodie’s mouth, to his lips.
Bodie smiled, and then even the bare inches between them were gone, and Doyle was kissing him.
Outside, the night grew colder and darker as Christmas came upon them, but inside the snow was falling properly at last, just as promised, pure and perfect and joyful.
January 2016