Fic: Remember, Remember (New Avengers Crossover)
Title: Remember, Remember
Author: Sarah K
Format: A short fic in three parts
Circuit Archive: yes
Pros-Lib: yes
Slash/Gen: Slash, Kilner/Doomer and Bodie/Doyle
Warnings: none
Summary: Maybe the reason that the lads are so quiet about their pasts is that the pasts aren't really theirs at all. (Crossover with New Avengers.)
Disclaimer: I do not own The Professionals, The New Avengers, or any aspects thereof.
Notes: Written for the Not Pros ProsWatch mini-challenge, although it is now rather late. Thanks to squeeful for the run-through.
I.
After Doomer, he got out of it. Out of the handcuffs, out of the truck, and out of the mercenary business altogether. Of course, the mad fellow in the road was likely to notice his disappearing act, and Kilner knew he couldn't count on Morgan to back him up for half a minute--he had to go to ground before anyone could catch up with him.
So he went to CI5, and asked for a job.
He should have ended up in handcuffs again, but instead he got a few weeks of brutal training from a sadist called Macklin, a handgun license, and a completely reworked identity. Remembering to answer to Bodie wasn't terribly difficult--he'd used the name before, although Cowley's attaching three first names to it seemed unreasonably cruel. It was remembering not to act like Kilner, though, that proved a bit more troublesome. Apparently CI5 frowned on shooting troublemakers as a matter of course, and he was always forgetting that bit.
The first morning he found himself listed on active duty, Cowley summoned him to his office. "I'd like you to meet your new partner," he said without preamble. "Raymond Doyle."
Behind Bodie, the door opened. He turned around, caught sight of the man, and froze. It couldn't be. He'd seen the body, had knelt to check for a heartbeat and found none. And even if he had been alive--which he hadn't--he couldn't have recovered from that kind of injury so quickly. But if he hadn't known that, he'd swear that it was Larry Doomer standing in front of him.
Cowley had to be testing him somehow. Maybe he expected Bodie to revert back to Kilner, to jet off to Africa or plot some new havoc with this man who looked so much like Doomer. The hair was different, a nest of tight curls, but he had the same eyes, the same narrow hips, even the same broken cheekbone. The jacket, too, was the same battered brown leather. If he hadn't known...
But then, CI5 would never have suited Doomer. And this bloke didn't look as though he'd ever even lit a firecracker on Bonfire Night, let alone concocted a Gunpowder Plot of his own.
He did seem the type to get a bit stupid over a girl, though--that much was the same.
So Bodie kept his face impassive as Cowley introduced them, even while he scrutinized his new partner for any sign of recognition. But there was nothing there, only attentive interest in what the controller was saying. Cowley dismissed them and sent them out on observation--an easy first job for them as partners.
Bodie was too off-balance to venture much in the way of conversation, answering Doyle's incessant questions in a vague, noncommittal way. The lies were already easy on his lips--they always were, after a few days' practice. It wasn't the first time, and he doubted it would be the last.
"So you were SAS?" Doyle asked, manoeuvring the Capri around a lumbering lorry at just under suicidal speed. Doomer had driven like that, too--he'd always wondered what fool had let that man have control of a bloody fighter jet.
"Yeah, for a while," he said, carefully indifferent. "What about you? Never thought about it yourself? The RAF, maybe?"
Doyle shrugged. "Nah. No head for heights, me."
Bodie let the conversation drop, turning a blank gaze to the passing scenery. Eventually Doyle picked up on his reticence and stopped trying to fill the silence. He glanced over at Bodie. "You all right, mate?"
Doomer never would have asked him that. It wouldn't even have occurred to him--after all, nothing had really mattered to him but his plans for revenge. Why should he care what anyone else felt?
He realized that Doyle was waiting for him to answer. "Yeah," he said at last. "I'm fine. It's just--you remind me of someone I knew." He closed his eyes briefly, cursing himself. What was he doing, letting something like that slip?
Doyle chuckled. "Someone you disliked?" he asked wryly.
Bodie thought of rough hands, a warm mouth, the slide of skin against skin in the darkness. He turned to look out the window once more. "No," he said quietly. "I wouldn't say that."
II.
He wasn't quite sure why he'd bothered to wear the flak vest under his clothes. He hadn't been expecting trouble, and even if he'd known that Purdey would come after him, he knew she'd never have shot him. But apparently her new friend had no such qualms.
Doomer lay very still on the ground while his plans exploded around him. And after, he'd kept lying there. Couldn't much see the point in getting up, starting over--carrying on. When Kilner came back, he thought he'd be caught out, but Kilner just laid a hand on his chest, and felt nothing through the heavy flak vest. Stupid bloody bastard, he'd muttered, and the rough sound of his voice had almost been enough to shake Doomer from his stupor. But Kilner had walked away, leaving him alone in the dew-covered twilight, with nothing but the past for company.
Twice now he'd failed. Maybe that was enough. So just before dawn he got up, walked back to town, and turned himself in. He spent the better part of a week in a dingy cell while the local coppers tried to figure out just what to do with him.
It was the General, of all people, who brought in George Cowley. Cowley had offered him a way out of this mess, citing his apparent undercover skills and creative interrogation techniques, which apparently made up for a slight tendency towards treason.
And so Larry Doomer had become Ray Doyle. The outward transformation was easy enough. Nothing could be done about the cheekbone, of course, but it was amazing how easily a haircut could render a person unrecognizable. Not Purdey, of course--he'd have known her anywhere. But if you were on the lookout for a bloke with straight hair, and you saw a man whose hair was curly, you'd dismiss him from your mind without a thought. It was a helpful bit of camouflage.
And then Cowley had gone and partnered him with the one man who wouldn't be fooled by the disguise. Bloody Kilner, standing there in the controller's office, watching his dead mate walk in through the door.
Cowley must have known, must have done it on purpose, but his expression was utterly blank and unconcerned. So Doyle turned his attention to his partner, who seemed to be going by Bodie these days.
Aside from the well-concealed shock in his eyes, he looked good. He always had, of course, in or out of his clothes. Not that Doyle had ever let on that he'd noticed. When they'd fucked--and it had never been anything more with them--it was rough and impersonal, no more than a way to relieve some of the tension of waiting for things to play out.
The job Cowley gave them was a glorified milk run. On the surface, it seemed like a nice easy job to let the partners get used to each other, but Doyle knew Cowley was waiting to see if they'd revert to their old ways. The bloody car was probably bugged, just in case.
Doomer hadn't spoken much, so he decided that Doyle, being free of nagging obsessions with vengeance, could afford to be more friendly. He attempted a bit of conversation with Bodie, trying to suss out the new back-story he'd been given and establish a bit of his own in the process. But his questions were answered in monosyllables, and Bodie never countered with a question of his own until Doyle mentioned the SAS. He'd asked if Doyle flew--and the answer was no. By Cowley's order, Doyle was to have head for heights, never mind that Doomer had flown a fighter jet for the RAF. He'd never get to do that again, and the thought was accompanied by a brief, sharp pang.
You remind me of someone I knew, Bodie said softly. For a moment, Doyle considered pulling off the road and confessing everything, regardless of whether the car was bugged. They could ditch the damn thing and head off to Africa, like he'd planned to do after the missile hit, and now they could do it together. But he wasn't the person that Bodie remembered, not anymore, and so he let the opportunity pass.
Then he saw Kilner's--Bodie's--eyes following the curl of his hand on the gearstick, and when they finally got out of the car Doyle caught him casting a sidelong glance at his arse. He grinned to himself.
Some things, apparently, never changed at all.
III.
They never spoke about it, because it was understood. When they undressed each other for the first time, in the darkness of Bodie's flat, the scars were all familiar. Bodie slid his hands over Doyle's chest, seeking a wound he wouldn't find and would never ask about.
It was early November, and cold, but they flung back the throw on Bodie's bed so they could see each other properly. It was different, this time--they were different. Partners by design and not by accident, who watched each other's backs instead of backing away. They took their time as they never had before, Bodie's hands buried in the curls of Doyle's hair as they kissed, a slow, warm curl of tongues.
But they remembered, too. Doyle knew how much Bodie liked having his cock sucked, and how a twist of one slick finger could send him shuddering over the edge. And then Bodie returned the favour, a familiar broad hand stroking along Doyle's length, mouth rough against the rapid pulse at his throat.
Afterward, Doyle stayed, and that too was different. When he stirred, Bodie reached out and caught his arm. The grip was gentle, a request rather than a demand, and Doyle accepted it, folding back onto the bed with a hand on Bodie's hip and one leg tangled between Bodie's own.
In a neighbouring flat, a clock began to toll twelve, marking the morning of the fifth. "Remember, remember," Bodie murmured.
Already asleep, Doyle shivered, and Bodie held him closer.
Author: Sarah K
Format: A short fic in three parts
Circuit Archive: yes
Pros-Lib: yes
Slash/Gen: Slash, Kilner/Doomer and Bodie/Doyle
Warnings: none
Summary: Maybe the reason that the lads are so quiet about their pasts is that the pasts aren't really theirs at all. (Crossover with New Avengers.)
Disclaimer: I do not own The Professionals, The New Avengers, or any aspects thereof.
Notes: Written for the Not Pros ProsWatch mini-challenge, although it is now rather late. Thanks to squeeful for the run-through.
I.
After Doomer, he got out of it. Out of the handcuffs, out of the truck, and out of the mercenary business altogether. Of course, the mad fellow in the road was likely to notice his disappearing act, and Kilner knew he couldn't count on Morgan to back him up for half a minute--he had to go to ground before anyone could catch up with him.
So he went to CI5, and asked for a job.
He should have ended up in handcuffs again, but instead he got a few weeks of brutal training from a sadist called Macklin, a handgun license, and a completely reworked identity. Remembering to answer to Bodie wasn't terribly difficult--he'd used the name before, although Cowley's attaching three first names to it seemed unreasonably cruel. It was remembering not to act like Kilner, though, that proved a bit more troublesome. Apparently CI5 frowned on shooting troublemakers as a matter of course, and he was always forgetting that bit.
The first morning he found himself listed on active duty, Cowley summoned him to his office. "I'd like you to meet your new partner," he said without preamble. "Raymond Doyle."
Behind Bodie, the door opened. He turned around, caught sight of the man, and froze. It couldn't be. He'd seen the body, had knelt to check for a heartbeat and found none. And even if he had been alive--which he hadn't--he couldn't have recovered from that kind of injury so quickly. But if he hadn't known that, he'd swear that it was Larry Doomer standing in front of him.
Cowley had to be testing him somehow. Maybe he expected Bodie to revert back to Kilner, to jet off to Africa or plot some new havoc with this man who looked so much like Doomer. The hair was different, a nest of tight curls, but he had the same eyes, the same narrow hips, even the same broken cheekbone. The jacket, too, was the same battered brown leather. If he hadn't known...
But then, CI5 would never have suited Doomer. And this bloke didn't look as though he'd ever even lit a firecracker on Bonfire Night, let alone concocted a Gunpowder Plot of his own.
He did seem the type to get a bit stupid over a girl, though--that much was the same.
So Bodie kept his face impassive as Cowley introduced them, even while he scrutinized his new partner for any sign of recognition. But there was nothing there, only attentive interest in what the controller was saying. Cowley dismissed them and sent them out on observation--an easy first job for them as partners.
Bodie was too off-balance to venture much in the way of conversation, answering Doyle's incessant questions in a vague, noncommittal way. The lies were already easy on his lips--they always were, after a few days' practice. It wasn't the first time, and he doubted it would be the last.
"So you were SAS?" Doyle asked, manoeuvring the Capri around a lumbering lorry at just under suicidal speed. Doomer had driven like that, too--he'd always wondered what fool had let that man have control of a bloody fighter jet.
"Yeah, for a while," he said, carefully indifferent. "What about you? Never thought about it yourself? The RAF, maybe?"
Doyle shrugged. "Nah. No head for heights, me."
Bodie let the conversation drop, turning a blank gaze to the passing scenery. Eventually Doyle picked up on his reticence and stopped trying to fill the silence. He glanced over at Bodie. "You all right, mate?"
Doomer never would have asked him that. It wouldn't even have occurred to him--after all, nothing had really mattered to him but his plans for revenge. Why should he care what anyone else felt?
He realized that Doyle was waiting for him to answer. "Yeah," he said at last. "I'm fine. It's just--you remind me of someone I knew." He closed his eyes briefly, cursing himself. What was he doing, letting something like that slip?
Doyle chuckled. "Someone you disliked?" he asked wryly.
Bodie thought of rough hands, a warm mouth, the slide of skin against skin in the darkness. He turned to look out the window once more. "No," he said quietly. "I wouldn't say that."
II.
He wasn't quite sure why he'd bothered to wear the flak vest under his clothes. He hadn't been expecting trouble, and even if he'd known that Purdey would come after him, he knew she'd never have shot him. But apparently her new friend had no such qualms.
Doomer lay very still on the ground while his plans exploded around him. And after, he'd kept lying there. Couldn't much see the point in getting up, starting over--carrying on. When Kilner came back, he thought he'd be caught out, but Kilner just laid a hand on his chest, and felt nothing through the heavy flak vest. Stupid bloody bastard, he'd muttered, and the rough sound of his voice had almost been enough to shake Doomer from his stupor. But Kilner had walked away, leaving him alone in the dew-covered twilight, with nothing but the past for company.
Twice now he'd failed. Maybe that was enough. So just before dawn he got up, walked back to town, and turned himself in. He spent the better part of a week in a dingy cell while the local coppers tried to figure out just what to do with him.
It was the General, of all people, who brought in George Cowley. Cowley had offered him a way out of this mess, citing his apparent undercover skills and creative interrogation techniques, which apparently made up for a slight tendency towards treason.
And so Larry Doomer had become Ray Doyle. The outward transformation was easy enough. Nothing could be done about the cheekbone, of course, but it was amazing how easily a haircut could render a person unrecognizable. Not Purdey, of course--he'd have known her anywhere. But if you were on the lookout for a bloke with straight hair, and you saw a man whose hair was curly, you'd dismiss him from your mind without a thought. It was a helpful bit of camouflage.
And then Cowley had gone and partnered him with the one man who wouldn't be fooled by the disguise. Bloody Kilner, standing there in the controller's office, watching his dead mate walk in through the door.
Cowley must have known, must have done it on purpose, but his expression was utterly blank and unconcerned. So Doyle turned his attention to his partner, who seemed to be going by Bodie these days.
Aside from the well-concealed shock in his eyes, he looked good. He always had, of course, in or out of his clothes. Not that Doyle had ever let on that he'd noticed. When they'd fucked--and it had never been anything more with them--it was rough and impersonal, no more than a way to relieve some of the tension of waiting for things to play out.
The job Cowley gave them was a glorified milk run. On the surface, it seemed like a nice easy job to let the partners get used to each other, but Doyle knew Cowley was waiting to see if they'd revert to their old ways. The bloody car was probably bugged, just in case.
Doomer hadn't spoken much, so he decided that Doyle, being free of nagging obsessions with vengeance, could afford to be more friendly. He attempted a bit of conversation with Bodie, trying to suss out the new back-story he'd been given and establish a bit of his own in the process. But his questions were answered in monosyllables, and Bodie never countered with a question of his own until Doyle mentioned the SAS. He'd asked if Doyle flew--and the answer was no. By Cowley's order, Doyle was to have head for heights, never mind that Doomer had flown a fighter jet for the RAF. He'd never get to do that again, and the thought was accompanied by a brief, sharp pang.
You remind me of someone I knew, Bodie said softly. For a moment, Doyle considered pulling off the road and confessing everything, regardless of whether the car was bugged. They could ditch the damn thing and head off to Africa, like he'd planned to do after the missile hit, and now they could do it together. But he wasn't the person that Bodie remembered, not anymore, and so he let the opportunity pass.
Then he saw Kilner's--Bodie's--eyes following the curl of his hand on the gearstick, and when they finally got out of the car Doyle caught him casting a sidelong glance at his arse. He grinned to himself.
Some things, apparently, never changed at all.
III.
They never spoke about it, because it was understood. When they undressed each other for the first time, in the darkness of Bodie's flat, the scars were all familiar. Bodie slid his hands over Doyle's chest, seeking a wound he wouldn't find and would never ask about.
It was early November, and cold, but they flung back the throw on Bodie's bed so they could see each other properly. It was different, this time--they were different. Partners by design and not by accident, who watched each other's backs instead of backing away. They took their time as they never had before, Bodie's hands buried in the curls of Doyle's hair as they kissed, a slow, warm curl of tongues.
But they remembered, too. Doyle knew how much Bodie liked having his cock sucked, and how a twist of one slick finger could send him shuddering over the edge. And then Bodie returned the favour, a familiar broad hand stroking along Doyle's length, mouth rough against the rapid pulse at his throat.
Afterward, Doyle stayed, and that too was different. When he stirred, Bodie reached out and caught his arm. The grip was gentle, a request rather than a demand, and Doyle accepted it, folding back onto the bed with a hand on Bodie's hip and one leg tangled between Bodie's own.
In a neighbouring flat, a clock began to toll twelve, marking the morning of the fifth. "Remember, remember," Bodie murmured.
Already asleep, Doyle shivered, and Bodie held him closer.