Fic: The Professionals, "Now Accepting Requests"
Title: Now Accepting Requests
Fandom: The Professionals
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Rating: PG-13 (swears and non-explicit sexual content)
Word Count: 1195 (not counting traditional lyrics)
Summary: A brief, silly, fluffy fic for The Pros. A holiday, a drinking song, some bickering, and a touch of sex.
A/N: Written, really, to amuse myself. I'm just so frustrated that when I watch the show I see two adorable men who are badasses, but also rather sweet and lovely. So, I don't understand why there is soooo much fic where they're nothing but angsty and complete ass-holes to each other. Unbetaed, so probably lots of comma mistakes. But it's St Pat's day today and I'm off out of town, so I'm posting it in a bit of a rush.
"Give us a song, then."
"Eh?" Bodie put his cup down and looked over at his partner.
"You're half-Irish, it's St Patrick's Day. So, give us a drinking song. Something about a raven-haired girl and the tyranny of the English." Doyle's eyes were slitted in mischief and a small smile played on his lips, all signs that he was beginning to feel the effects of his last couple of beers.
Bodie wasn't too far behind. "Don't know any."
"Sure you do, your dad must've taught you some."
Bodie shook his head. "Me mum was the Irish one."
"Your mum then, or your uncles."
"What about you, Doyle? That's a very Irish name, you must have a drop of the mick in you."
"Come on." Doyle gave him a playful shove on the shoulder.
An echoing chorus of encouragement came from the rest of the pub, more than half of the patrons being others from the CI5 mob. Made Bodie wonder just who was out protecting the country from terrorists and other extremist nutjobs when Britain's finest were out getting pissed. "I only give private performances," he told them, winking cheekily at Doyle.
"Don't listen to him, a right exhibitionist this one!" Doyle laughed and winked back.
It fired the crowd up more and they started banging on the bar and tables in rhythm with the chant of "Song! Song! Song!"
"All right, all right!" Bodie conceded. "Just give me a minute to think of one." He gestured to the bartender for another. "I'm out of practice, so don't say I didn't warn you."
"Nonsense, voice like an angel."
He glared at Doyle then cleared his throat. "Let Bacchus' sons be not dismayed," Bodie started to cheers and whistles from the crowd.
"But join with me, each jovial blade
Come, drink and sing and lend your aid
To help me with the chorus:
Instead of spa, we'll drink brown ale
And pay the reckoning on the nail;
No man for debt shall go to jail
From Garryowen in glory.
We are the boys who take delight
In smashing Limerick lamps at night...."
And so he continued until the fourth chorus and Doyle stopped him."Wait, wait, this isn't one of them that goes on for hours is it?"
"You wanted a traditional Irish song, what did you expect?" But he was glad for the interruption, all the singing meant no drinking on his part.
"Yeah, might as well pack it in, Bodie. Give your pipes that're calling from glen to glen a rest," Murphy said, "you were right, you are out of practice." That caused some chuckles from the few who hadn't gone back already to their own conversations. Murphy was handed his drink and he walked away from the bar, leaving Doyle and Bodie alone.
Doyle snickered into his mug. "I can't believe you actually sang."
Bodie shrugged."You asked me."
"And you do everything I ask you to."
Bodie leaned his elbow on the bar, rested his head on his fist and quirked an eyebrow. "Depends on what you're asking for."
Doyle nearly choked on his drink. He quickly looked about to see if anyone heard, as if they didn't openly flirt in front of the others frequently anyway. Doyle leaned in closer to him and said quietly, "walk back to your place?"
"You asking?"
"I'm asking."
Bodie finished off the last swallow of beer left in his glass and followed Doyle out of the pub. The chilly March night air helped to sober him a little. He feigned greater unsteadiness though, to let Doyle take more of a lead, giving Bodie the opportunity to get an eyeful of Doyle's denim-clad arse. He reminded himself to one day thank Cowley for never instituting a dress-code for his agents.
He kept his hands to himself, even as they ascended the stairs, and Doyle's bottom was oh so temptingly there, but Bodie had an idea for how he wanted the night to go. Inside his flat, Bodie double-checked the security as Doyle slipped out of his jacket and threw it over the back of the sofa. He turned toward him and Doyle was standing in the middle of the living room, hands on his slim hips, in that unconsciously provocative pose that made Bodie question just exactly how he financed his higher education.
Doyle came at him then, pulling off Bodie's jacket, tugging at his shirt. Bodie, though, didn't move other than to accommodate Doyle's efforts. So Doyle stopped, putting his hands back in his own hips, he pressed his lips together then asked, "Well, what are you waiting for?"
"You."
"Here I am."
"You haven't asked me to do anything yet."
Realization alighted Doyle's face, his eyes narrowed and he smiled. "All right, then, kiss me."
Bodie waved a finger at him, "Nuh uh, that's not asking, that's telling."
Impatient, Doyle went back to his earlier task and worked Bodie's shirt over his head and off. "Actually, back in the pub I hadn't asked you to sing either, I just told you to. Still know how to take orders, soldier boy?"
Bodie bit his lip, but it was in vain, he started to giggle then buried his face in Doyle's hair as started out-right laughing. "I can't believe you just said that! Next you're going to be asking me if I know how to whistle."
Doyle's brow creased and he frowned. "I'm drunk, you can't hold me responsible for anything silly I say."
Bodie pulled back, and seeing Doyle about to enter into a sulk, took his face in both his hands and pulled him in finally for a sound kissing. His hands slid down over Doyle's shoulders and back, and pressed his slim partner closer against him. "Mmm...now what?"
"Bed," Doyle said.
"Please state your answer in the form of a question." Doyle smacked Bodie on his bare shoulder. "Ow, watch it, or I'll just pick you up and carry you in."
"I'll claw your eyes out first."
"Oooh, catty." Bodie leered.
Doyle growled. "Fuck it." He started roughly taking his own clothes. "I've had enough of you and your games. Bedroom. Now."
A tetchy Doyle was frustrating, even on the best of days, but a tetchy and horny Doyle sent a heated jolt to Bodie's groin that then spread out to the rest of him. He decided that the bedroom was to far and shoved Doyle over the back of the sofa so that he landed on the cushions with an annoyed "Hey!" But any protest of his treatment was immediately quelled when Bodie joined him.
There had been too much alcohol and too much teasing, and things ended a bit swiftly, although satisfyingly sticky. At least, Bodie reflected, with another bloke it was less embarrassing since both can be quick off the mark. No apologies needed.
"Get off me, you big oaf."
"No."
"You're heavy."
Bodie, with his eyes still closed, smiled and wrapped his arms tighter around his partner and snuggled into him closer.
"I'm uncomfortable!" Doyle complained, kicking Bodie in the shins.
Bodie sighed. "You just get what you want then it's bitch, whine, moan..."
He loosened his hold and Doyle squirmed his way out from underneath him, landing on the floor. He sat there, heels of his hands pressed into his eyes. "Going to feel like Hell tomorrow, and we have to report in bright and early. What was Cowley thinking? Right after St Patrick's Day!"
Bodie patted Doyle's curly head and sighed in commiseration. "Scottish, isn't he? No respect for the traditions of us Irish."
Happy drinking everyone! I know I will be!
Fandom: The Professionals
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Rating: PG-13 (swears and non-explicit sexual content)
Word Count: 1195 (not counting traditional lyrics)
Summary: A brief, silly, fluffy fic for The Pros. A holiday, a drinking song, some bickering, and a touch of sex.
A/N: Written, really, to amuse myself. I'm just so frustrated that when I watch the show I see two adorable men who are badasses, but also rather sweet and lovely. So, I don't understand why there is soooo much fic where they're nothing but angsty and complete ass-holes to each other. Unbetaed, so probably lots of comma mistakes. But it's St Pat's day today and I'm off out of town, so I'm posting it in a bit of a rush.
"Give us a song, then."
"Eh?" Bodie put his cup down and looked over at his partner.
"You're half-Irish, it's St Patrick's Day. So, give us a drinking song. Something about a raven-haired girl and the tyranny of the English." Doyle's eyes were slitted in mischief and a small smile played on his lips, all signs that he was beginning to feel the effects of his last couple of beers.
Bodie wasn't too far behind. "Don't know any."
"Sure you do, your dad must've taught you some."
Bodie shook his head. "Me mum was the Irish one."
"Your mum then, or your uncles."
"What about you, Doyle? That's a very Irish name, you must have a drop of the mick in you."
"Come on." Doyle gave him a playful shove on the shoulder.
An echoing chorus of encouragement came from the rest of the pub, more than half of the patrons being others from the CI5 mob. Made Bodie wonder just who was out protecting the country from terrorists and other extremist nutjobs when Britain's finest were out getting pissed. "I only give private performances," he told them, winking cheekily at Doyle.
"Don't listen to him, a right exhibitionist this one!" Doyle laughed and winked back.
It fired the crowd up more and they started banging on the bar and tables in rhythm with the chant of "Song! Song! Song!"
"All right, all right!" Bodie conceded. "Just give me a minute to think of one." He gestured to the bartender for another. "I'm out of practice, so don't say I didn't warn you."
"Nonsense, voice like an angel."
He glared at Doyle then cleared his throat. "Let Bacchus' sons be not dismayed," Bodie started to cheers and whistles from the crowd.
"But join with me, each jovial blade
Come, drink and sing and lend your aid
To help me with the chorus:
Instead of spa, we'll drink brown ale
And pay the reckoning on the nail;
No man for debt shall go to jail
From Garryowen in glory.
We are the boys who take delight
In smashing Limerick lamps at night...."
And so he continued until the fourth chorus and Doyle stopped him."Wait, wait, this isn't one of them that goes on for hours is it?"
"You wanted a traditional Irish song, what did you expect?" But he was glad for the interruption, all the singing meant no drinking on his part.
"Yeah, might as well pack it in, Bodie. Give your pipes that're calling from glen to glen a rest," Murphy said, "you were right, you are out of practice." That caused some chuckles from the few who hadn't gone back already to their own conversations. Murphy was handed his drink and he walked away from the bar, leaving Doyle and Bodie alone.
Doyle snickered into his mug. "I can't believe you actually sang."
Bodie shrugged."You asked me."
"And you do everything I ask you to."
Bodie leaned his elbow on the bar, rested his head on his fist and quirked an eyebrow. "Depends on what you're asking for."
Doyle nearly choked on his drink. He quickly looked about to see if anyone heard, as if they didn't openly flirt in front of the others frequently anyway. Doyle leaned in closer to him and said quietly, "walk back to your place?"
"You asking?"
"I'm asking."
Bodie finished off the last swallow of beer left in his glass and followed Doyle out of the pub. The chilly March night air helped to sober him a little. He feigned greater unsteadiness though, to let Doyle take more of a lead, giving Bodie the opportunity to get an eyeful of Doyle's denim-clad arse. He reminded himself to one day thank Cowley for never instituting a dress-code for his agents.
He kept his hands to himself, even as they ascended the stairs, and Doyle's bottom was oh so temptingly there, but Bodie had an idea for how he wanted the night to go. Inside his flat, Bodie double-checked the security as Doyle slipped out of his jacket and threw it over the back of the sofa. He turned toward him and Doyle was standing in the middle of the living room, hands on his slim hips, in that unconsciously provocative pose that made Bodie question just exactly how he financed his higher education.
Doyle came at him then, pulling off Bodie's jacket, tugging at his shirt. Bodie, though, didn't move other than to accommodate Doyle's efforts. So Doyle stopped, putting his hands back in his own hips, he pressed his lips together then asked, "Well, what are you waiting for?"
"You."
"Here I am."
"You haven't asked me to do anything yet."
Realization alighted Doyle's face, his eyes narrowed and he smiled. "All right, then, kiss me."
Bodie waved a finger at him, "Nuh uh, that's not asking, that's telling."
Impatient, Doyle went back to his earlier task and worked Bodie's shirt over his head and off. "Actually, back in the pub I hadn't asked you to sing either, I just told you to. Still know how to take orders, soldier boy?"
Bodie bit his lip, but it was in vain, he started to giggle then buried his face in Doyle's hair as started out-right laughing. "I can't believe you just said that! Next you're going to be asking me if I know how to whistle."
Doyle's brow creased and he frowned. "I'm drunk, you can't hold me responsible for anything silly I say."
Bodie pulled back, and seeing Doyle about to enter into a sulk, took his face in both his hands and pulled him in finally for a sound kissing. His hands slid down over Doyle's shoulders and back, and pressed his slim partner closer against him. "Mmm...now what?"
"Bed," Doyle said.
"Please state your answer in the form of a question." Doyle smacked Bodie on his bare shoulder. "Ow, watch it, or I'll just pick you up and carry you in."
"I'll claw your eyes out first."
"Oooh, catty." Bodie leered.
Doyle growled. "Fuck it." He started roughly taking his own clothes. "I've had enough of you and your games. Bedroom. Now."
A tetchy Doyle was frustrating, even on the best of days, but a tetchy and horny Doyle sent a heated jolt to Bodie's groin that then spread out to the rest of him. He decided that the bedroom was to far and shoved Doyle over the back of the sofa so that he landed on the cushions with an annoyed "Hey!" But any protest of his treatment was immediately quelled when Bodie joined him.
There had been too much alcohol and too much teasing, and things ended a bit swiftly, although satisfyingly sticky. At least, Bodie reflected, with another bloke it was less embarrassing since both can be quick off the mark. No apologies needed.
"Get off me, you big oaf."
"No."
"You're heavy."
Bodie, with his eyes still closed, smiled and wrapped his arms tighter around his partner and snuggled into him closer.
"I'm uncomfortable!" Doyle complained, kicking Bodie in the shins.
Bodie sighed. "You just get what you want then it's bitch, whine, moan..."
He loosened his hold and Doyle squirmed his way out from underneath him, landing on the floor. He sat there, heels of his hands pressed into his eyes. "Going to feel like Hell tomorrow, and we have to report in bright and early. What was Cowley thinking? Right after St Patrick's Day!"
Bodie patted Doyle's curly head and sighed in commiseration. "Scottish, isn't he? No respect for the traditions of us Irish."
Happy drinking everyone! I know I will be!