SO HERE IT
IS, MERRY CHRISTMAS
“Listen to
that,” Doyle greeted Bodie gloomily as he joined him in the VIP room. “I mean,
just listen.”
Bodie
caught the end of the song on the radio and understood immediately. Time for
Doyle’s standard speech on how Christmas was all about consumerism: the third
world starving while other people ate turkey and gave each other stupid
presents they didn’t want.
“’Orrible
song, that. They should shoot Gary Glitter.” Doyle was obviously, and
predictably, warming up to his topic. “It’s getting worse than the Sound of
Music. In fact it is worse. They play
this over and over and at least you only get the lonely bloody goatherd once. ”
“Slade,”
Bodie informed him, trying not to let ‘High on a hill with a castle moat’ creep
into his brain, where it was sure to crawl around insidiously for the rest of
the evening, or even all night if the standby turned into a callout. Well, he could always yodel the bad guys into
submission.
“Slayed
what could be a decent film if they didn’t keep burstin’ into song, you mean?”
“S. L. A.
D. E.” Bodie spelled it out, and sang a few bars despite wondering if it really
was worse than Julie Andrews and needles pulling thread or one little girl in a
pale pink coat (heard). “So here it is
Merry Christmas, everybody’s having fun. Except you, you miserable bugger.”
Doyle
glared. “Christmas is…”
“Christmas
is fluttering snowflakes, rosy-cheeked children, twinkling lights on trees
surrounded with presents…” Bodie said blithely.
“Right. Except that it’s…”
“Frenzied
shopping and eating, a slight to the poor and downtrodden and puts money into
the wrong pockets,” Bodie helped. “You know, I have heard this before.”
“Yeah,”
Doyle sighed, glancing at his watch. “Go on then. Looks like we’ve got all
night, at this rate. Tell me I’m a miserable… oh, you already did.”
“You
haven’t told me I’m an incurable romantic yet though. Think mistletoe. Think
hot toddy in front of a log fire…”
“Think the
world’s criminal population deciding to knock off for a few days. Or Cowley
rolling up and announcing drinks all round and a ruddy great salary increase –
and cancelling this bloody standby.”
“Can’t you
just forget the bad bits? Remember the good stuff?”
“Like being
stuck on some bloody stakeout with a thermos of tea and you singing Silent
Night and farting?”
“Farting? I
resent that.”
“So did I,
after that Christmas dinner I cooked for you. Well, the first one.”
“It was the
sprouts,” Bodie nodded. “And whose fault was that? Who decided to invite me round before we went on shift in the
first place?”
“You ate
them. And the rest. Mind, I always did wonder if it was only because there was
no lunch on offer elsewhere.”
“A bird
would probably have got stroppy about me digging into a home-made Christmas
dinner and then buggering off to save the world before I expressed my gratitude
in kind,” Bodie said wickedly. “You at least understood that sort of thing.”
“Charming.”
“I’m
talking about saving the world, not your own intentions. Which weren’t exactly
honourable, if I recall correctly.”
“And yours
were?” Doyle grinned.
“Not
particularly, to be honest. Though since we did
have to rush out and save the world…”
“Story of
our lives, eh?”
“New Year
was better,” Bodie reminded him.
“It was.
Tea, before you start getting mawkish?” Doyle asked, but with no edge to his
voice.
“Tea,”
Bodie nodded. They sipped it silently as the clock slowly ticked the night
away.
Doyle’s invitation to eat before starting their
Christmas shift was a bit of a surprise considering how his partner had been
grumbling about Christmas non-stop for days, if not weeks. All the same, it was
an extremely welcome surprise, even though he tried to accept it as casually as
it was offered.
Considering Doyle had done a good job with the
roast chicken and trimmings (although he’d boiled the damned spuds because of
the extra fat, the daft sod), he hadn’t eaten much of what he’d produced. In
fact he was uncharacteristically on edge.
Bodie was lavish with the praise, but once his
plate was clean – and even before, if truth be told – he found himself watching
Doyle, who also seemed slightly flushed. From the cooking, he’d presumed.
Surely.
How would he look when he’d just been fucked?
Not a good idea, thoughts like that. Thing was,
they were cropping up more and more regularly these days, Bodie admitted to
himself, scraping up the last of the brandy butter. Then he shifted, feeling
the tightness in his cords that had now reached his crotch as well as his
waistband.
Doyle was staring at him, as though he was
about to say something.
And then the phone rang.
The next few days were hell. Sharing a car with
Doyle had become uncomfortable, and not just because of the sprouts. The banter
wasn’t happening. In its place was a tension Bodie couldn’t completely put down
to the monotony and frustration of a job that – like many others – was all
about waiting.
A couple of times, he nearly convinced himself
it was all in his mind but then Doyle
would glance over at him and he’d start wondering all over again. .
Doyle wasn’t usually a toucher, but then there
was that casual slap on his shoulder after they wrapped it all up on New Year’s
Eve and headed home. His face had a slight flush to it again, as well, which
may or may not have been from Cowley’s whisky.
Now, he was most definitely wondering. Doyle
was sitting there, legs splayed, and watching him intently. Looking as sexy as
hell.
Bodie sneaked a casual look at the jeans, but
as usual they were tight. Either Doyle was good at self-control, or his pain
threshold was really high, Bodie decided. Just looking at that, however, was
doing plenty inside his own, more sensibly cut cords.
Was it Dutch courage - unlikely on Cowley’s
less than generous rations – or was he
incapable of putting it off any longer? Bodie didn’t know, but took a deep
breath.
He thanked Doyle for the meal again, and said
something trite about not really rounding it off properly.
Doyle hesitated a moment and Bodie’s heart
lurched, but then found himself the target of a look that brought even more
fire to his belly. The half-open lips, the tiny groan, were already nearly
enough, but Doyle suggesting they round it off at his place, straight away,
made him put his foot down.
The next touch – a brief but telling stroke up
his leg, nearly made Bodie lose control of the wheel, quite apart from his
senses. It was a miracle he didn’t just park the car and grab for Doyle there
and then.
Doyle left his hand where it was, and Bodie
reached across and touched Doyle’s face. Doyle moaned again, licking his lips
and squeezing gently.
The anticipation was as exquisite as it was
bloody uncomfortable.
For Doyle, it was clearly even worse. Seeing
slim fingers pull the zip open brought a soft curse from Bodie’s lips, and he
had to fight himself not to reach out, to touch, or he’d be wrapped around a
lamp post.
Doyle, voice husky, told him to hurry. He
floored the pedal.
Doyle pulled his shirt out over the open fly
and bolted from the car almost before it had stopped.
They left a trail of clothes across the floor
as they staggered to the bed, hands and lips clumsy, urgent, then suddenly
confident.
Doyle’s hands shook as he brought the tiny tube
out of his bedside drawer. Bodie felt himself shudder, heard himself bite off a
sob, as Doyle pulled him down.
The reality surpassed the anticipation.
If the first time was fast and urgent, the
second was lingering and exploratory. Highly exploratory, even. Doyle’s sexual
skills were as inventive as his cooking, Bodie informed him happily.
Doyle proceeded to add another course to the
menu. Bodie discovered that he had the appetite to match.
Later, much later, they were curled up
comfortably in bed, Bodie’s hand nestling equally comfortably between Doyle’s
legs.
Doyle was still a little flushed, and it had
nothing whatsoever to do with cooking.
“Penny?"
Doyle asked.
“Could murder a mince pie,” Bodie said, improvising rapidly, avoiding Doyle’s
face. The VIP room wasn’t really the best place for that kind of reminiscing,
or at least not until Cowley splashed out and installed showers. Cold showers,
Bodie reminded himself. Because hot showers and Doyle…
Doyle
snorted.
“Another of
the good things about Christmas, the food is. Turkey. Christmas pudding, brandy
butter…” Bodie babbled on, trying to rid his mind of soapy Doyle.
“Why aren’t
I surprised food comes into this?”
“And…”
Bodie struggled. “Carols. Getting an Action Man.”
“Action
man?” Doyle sniggered.
“Least it
wasn’t a Barbie,” Bodie chuckled, recovering slightly. “Although I do remember
stripping one to see ‘er boobs.”
“That
doesn’t surprise me either. Maybe I shouldn’t ask how you got your ‘ands on a
Barbie in the first place.”
“Kid down
the road,” Bodie said. “She never did want my Action Man to get up close and
personal with ‘er Barbie though, more’s the pity.”
“Shame,” Doyle said, with a total lack of insincerity. “You didn’t try it on
with Barbie’s owner, then?”
“I was eight. Mind, by the time I was twelve,
things improved. Had to teach her what was under Ken’s plastic Y-fronts, didn’t
I?”
“Naturally.
So, Christmas is all about plastic dolls and food. Typical.”
Doyle was
getting back into his anti-Christmas swing, so Bodie decided to fend that off
immediately.
“There was
permission to hit the booze cupboard as I got older as well. That helped
tolerate the Hills are Alive….”
“Another
snowball, dahling?” Doyle lifted his little finger.
“Don’t. Me
mum actually likes those. But
seriously – what would it take for you to enjoy Christmas? And I’m not talking
about world peace and an end to poverty.”
“Already
told you: pay rise and not spending the night here. But add to that Cowley
producing a Christmas roster without our names on it. Oh, and then sex and
sleeping… and then more sex.”
“All to
avoid the singing nun and tinsel?” Bodie grinned, trying not to let his
thoughts run riot all over again. “Well, the idea has certain merits, my lad.
Didn’t get you a present, so if it was in my power…”
“Of course
you didn’t. You never do, unless you count that five-year old bottle of Ouzo
you brought me once just to get rid of it. So ‘op off to Cowley and tell him
we’re due for a Christmas of lust and debauchery, there’s a good chap. I’d like
to see that.”
“’Course.
And I’ll tell our beloved Dr Kate that you’re under immense, Christmas-induced
emotional strain and see if she’ll send you off to a Muslim country to recover.
They don’t have Christmas, y’know.”
“Sensible
lot.”
“Dunno.
They can’t eat or drink or fuck during the day for a month, y’know.”
“Not a
religion for you then,” Doyle half chuckled.
“I’ll treat
that with the contempt it deserves. So, the perfect Christmas for Raymond Doyle
would be, basically, three days of unadulterated sex. Can’t argue with that,
come to think of it. Would sir like a little booze and decent grub thrown in?”
“Sir might.
And preferably no sprouts. And no bombers to find, like last Christmas.”
Bodie
disguised a shudder, not really wanting to remember that, or most of it. But
like the lonely goatherd, it crept into his mind anyway.
The brand new shopping centre – deserted at
five in the morning on Christmas day – looked tawdry rather than festive after
the action. Mud and traces of slush smeared once-pristine flooring, along with
blood from where they’d carted one of the bodies away. Blood the same colour as
the heavy ropes of tinsel and baubles.
Now they’d turned the lights on, a Christmas
tree was blinking, the parcels below it scattered somehow in the chase.
Polystyrene poked out of the gaudy wrapping of one of them, and Bodie
remembered a tiny pang of disappointment that the gold paper and red bow hadn’t
hidden a real present, big kid that he was.
Doyle was leaning against a counter. Of course,
Doyle was a leaner-against-everything, but this time it was probably sheer
exhaustion rather than the subconscious (or probably perfectly conscious)
posing the daft git tended to indulge in, but at least he was upright.
Something like thirty hours they’d been up,
trying to track the bastards down, getting shot at, driving through streets lit
up with reindeer and baubles, cluttered with last-minute shoppers.
Even before that they’d had days on end of long
hours. Hardly surprising that Doyle had come within inches of taking one of the
bullets fired by the fleeing bombers.
But he hadn’t. That was a Christmas present in
itself.
Then there was been a dull explosion outside,
immediately followed by a smattering of self-congratulatory applause by the
bomb disposal guys.
Bodie didn’t join in, all too aware of what
could have been: the damned thing going up amid Boxing Day shoppers. Or going
up in Doyle’s face, before it was clear there were hours, not minutes to go on
the timer.
That was another gift.
Finally getting out of the place was another
one.
Both of them fell asleep fully clothed, at
Doyle’s flat. Bodie was even too exhausted to remember that he should be
hungry. Doyle was so exhausted he didn’t comment on it.
He’d been hungry the following morning though,
he remembered fondly. And not for food.
He’d taken Doyle in the shower, fiercely. It
was often like that after a messy job: the whole life-affirming thing, he
supposed.
Yet another present in the virtual sack of
them, hearing Doyle yell, letting go himself.
And then he’d been starving.
Christmas breakfast-cum-lunch was scrambled egg
(on wholewheat toast, of course), when they were clean and sated. Bodie hoped
Boxing Day wouldn’t be marked by salmonella, but that was the sum total of what
was to be found in Doyle’s fridge.
They went into HQ. Wrote reports. Accepted a
generous shot of malt with the old man – the measures seemed to be increasing
as the years went by – and finally went home.
Later, images of Doyle’s hands around the bomb
casing flickered in his mind even as the slender fingers grasped his cock. And
then, they faded and slid away.
Doyle’s face was relaxed, contented, in the
pale light of the television…it could even have been Julie and Christopher
warbling away, but Bodie didn’t really care because a skilful tongue was
tantalising him and two expert fingers were deep inside him.
This was
better than any gift-wrapped parcel, although it gave him an idea. He pulled
the ribbon off the parcel from his mum, still unopened and no doubt containing
some horror like a mustard-coloured cardigan for Doyle to bitch about, and
pushed Doyle onto his back.
“… roster,”
Doyle said.
“Roster?”
Bodie blinked, mind still on ribbon, Doyle’s anatomy adorned with it, and
fast-forwarding to Doyle thrashing on the bed with his wrists encased in it,
pleading and moaning.
“The
Christmas roster for next week,” Doyle told him. “Murph just brought it in.
Wake up, Sleepin’ Beauty. Oh, and we can go ‘ome.”
“We’re on
it?” Reality hit Bodie properly.
"We’re on it. Christmas Eve at two until Boxing Day at two. Not exactly a
surprise, is it? But, if you were listening, the job’s off. We can go.”
“Excellent.
Perfect. You could cook us an early lunch on the 24th, then. Just…
no sprouts and preferably something better than scrambled eggs,” Bodie
suggested, recovering rapidly and grabbing for his coat.
“Inviting
yourself, are you?”
“Better
than me cooking stuff you turn your nose up at, innit? And on Boxing Day
evening…”
“We could
do something exciting like watch telly?” Doyle raised an eyebrow. “Lonely
goatherds, maybe. Or you got something more interesting in mind?”
“Might
have.”
“And it has
to wait until Boxing Day?”
“If you stop grumbling, maybe not. I mean,
what wouldn’t I do to keep you happy?”
“So kind,”
Doyle murmured. “So selfless.”
“Glad you
noticed. Careful, though. You’re looking almost cheerful.”
"Suppose I
don’t hate Christmas that much, really,” Doyle said thoughtfully. ”Not
nowadays. Not all of it. And that’s a compliment. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
“I am, I
am.”
“So what
were you thinking about just before? Sitting there grinning like a Cheshire
cat?”
“Guess.”
“I did.
Last Christmas. Randy sod.”
“And you’re
not a randy sod, of course. You got any tinsel?”
“Me?
Tinsel?”
“Silly
question, I suppose. But you can do creative things with tinsel. Like with ribbon.”
Doyle
flushed. Bodie chuckled.
“Better
stop off and get some ribbon then,” Doyle said casually. “Less prickly than
tinsel, I’d say. As you’ll be the one tied up with it this time around.”
“You wicked
lad you. Maybe the takeaway’s still open as well?”
Doyle
rolled his eyes.
“For
afterwards. Or between, as the case may be. And better get something fart-safe
as we’re back on tomorrow.”
“Oh the
romance,” Doyle sighed.
“You want
romance? You can have romance. I can do
romance. Remember me bringing you tea in bed last week?”
“Oh right.
Definitely on the list of amazing romantic situations, that. Almost as good as
cooking me a packet Chow Mein and trying to convince me it was healthy.”
“You’re
grumbling again. Now I’m hurt.”
“My heart
bleeds for you. Too hurt to play games with ribbon?”
“Maybe
not,” Bodie admitted. “In fact almost definitely not. Lead on, Raymond.”
Doyle gave
him a full-blown grin and started humming: “So here it is Merry Christmas
everybody’s having fun…”
“Look to
the future now, it’s only just begun,” Bodie helped. “And that’s romantic as well, if you think of
it.”
“Still a
bloody ‘orrible song. Just can’t get it out of me ‘ead. I hate it when that
‘appens.”
“High on a
hill…” Bodie started, and then ran for his life.
*
Christmas 2006
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