Stroke of Midnight
A CI5 New year's Prezzie, by Brenda Antrim. Rated PG, m/m. No infringement to copyright holders intended.
Thank you, Dorinda and Lorelei, for the frame and the forum, respectively.
It hadn't been quite as crazy a Christmas as the little elves were used to, but staying up late every night to listen to the small silver bug after all the others had gone to sleep left them little time to rest. By the annual New Year's Eve / End of Season Blowout, both Chalk and Cheese were asleep on their poor tired feet. Taking care not to be seen as the party poopers they were being, they snuck off to a nice, relatively quiet corner of the workroom and crawled under a handy bench. Enjoying the dark and the coziness of their own brand of snuggling, neither were aware when the party drew to a close and the other elves, reindeer, and various denizens of the North Pole wandered tiredly off to bed. Father Christmas had returned to his workroom. With a lot like CI5 to look after, he had to start early on the next year's naughty/nice list ...
Deep in the darkness of the corner of the workroom, from the far reaches of Cheese's capacious pocket, a voice whispered up to tease at Chalk's ears. He tilted sideways, three quarters asleep, pulling his mate with him. They wriggled a bit, settled into one another, and drifted back to sleep, listening to the tiny voices coming from the still activated bug.
"Ten ... Nine ... Eight... "
For an attempt at unison, 'twasn't bad, he didn't s'pose. Although by the time they got to midnight they'd all be so snockered they'd not be able to count straight forward, much less backward.
Ray Doyle settled his weight as evenly as he could on two feet gone numb with fatigue and champagne, and squinted at the slowly ticking second hand on the big clock adorning the restroom wall.
Nearly midnight. Nearly the New Year (and why was that always said in capitals, anyway? Just another year after all). Another year of nearly getting his curls parted by many too many bullets, of getting the stuffing beaten out of himself by many too many thugs with more muscles than brains (that reminded him, they were going in for a refresher with Macklin in another week ... happy joy, that), another year of wondering which of your mates was going to make it through and which was going to end up with his tongue cut out and his ribs full of holes weighted down in the Thames.
It'd been a hell of a year.
"Seven ... Six ... Five ..."
And what had he to show for it all, anyway? Joints were stiffening, sideburns were turning gray sooner than they need be, heart gave funny jumps when it wasn't s'posed to, nerves were shot to hell (that last one had been too close ... but lately it seemed they all were getting too fucking close). And for what? The tarnished glory of being the best of the baddest, and making a living with a fist and a gun in an era when the bad guys were using computers and laser-sighted automatics and hollow nosed bullets.
He was feeling old.
"Four ... Three ... Two ..."
What was it worth? What was he worth? One time in his life, a very long time ago now it seemed, he'd looked forward to the new year. Time to start fresh, maybe keep a resolution, have better luck than the year before, find something to believe in, someone to hold on to, who'd hold on to him just as hard. As a student, he'd given up on resolutions. As a cop, he'd lost what he thought he'd believed in. And being in CI5 wouldn't let him keep hold of anyone he did manage to stumble on to ... well, no one except ...
"ONE!!"
Doyle looked around for the nearest unattached female to snog in good old fashioned tradition, and turned directly into the embrace of the one thing CI5 had managed to do right in his life. Unable, and unwilling, to hold back the grin, he gave into temptation and planted a wet, deep kiss right on the puckered lips of his blue-eyed Bodie.
Talk about whistles and stars! Maybe this would be a lucky year after all ...
Chalk snorted in his sleep, relieved that the defeated attitude he'd heard early in the monologue had ended on such an up note. As he burrowed his head further into his mate's neck, another little voice whispered up from the bug. This time, it was Cheese who tilted over to hear better, and smiled at the happiness he heard in the tiny voice.
"Ten ... Nine ... Eight ..."
Made it through another one! Not that he'd ever understood the idea of celebrating the beginning of a new year. Surviving the old one, yeah, but beginning the new one? What was the point? Bodie grimaced into his glass and swallowed the last of his champagne, wrinkling his nose at the few remaining bubbles and wishing soundly for something a little stronger. Like a bottle or two of some really good scotch, preferably smuggled out of the Cow's office. He looked sideways to share the thought with his partner, but Ray had that far-away look in his eyes as he stared at the clock, and Bodie left him to his brooding. At times like this he would have paid the entire contents of his Swiss bank account to know what Doyle was thinking about. On the other hand, he wished the cranky sod would just let it go and relax like a normal person for once in his life.
"Seven ... Six ... Five ..."
Then again, if Ray ever acted like a normal person, he'd know he was sick. And he wanted him healthy. Had to be, if they were going to take on Macklin (and Towser the Tank) in a fortnight. For once, he was almost looking forward to it (although he'd never let Ross know that -- wanted to keep his job, now, didn't he?). But he was feeling fit and healthy, and up for a challenge, and being tortured by Macklin was one of the few times when he knew Doyle needed him just as much as he needed Doyle.
Which was about as much as breathing.
"Four ... Three ... Two ..."
There was a sudden intake of breath at his side and, attuned as always to any change of posture in his partner, he slanted a sideways glance at him. Bodie had accepted long ago that he would always be alone, known it from the time he stood alone on a hot marshy plain in Africa, when he was a frightened, determined stowaway on the deck of a westbound freighter, even as a lad hiding in the underpinnings of the Liverpool docks. Then something strange, and scary, and totally unexpected had knocked him off his pins. Something with green eyes and a ratty temper and an arse to die for. And suddenly, he wasn't alone anymore. And he never was going to be, not ever again.
"ONE!!"
Turning to see which bird Ray had snatched up to snog at the zero hour, he was somehow not surprised to find himself with an armful of lean muscles with a mop of curls on top. Before Doyle had a chance to change his mind, Bodie snagged that full mouth with his own and did his best to map his partner's tonsils with his tongue.
Somewhere underneath all the fireworks going off in his brain and behind the relief at not getting knocked on his arse and next to the slight hysteria that he was finally making a move in the middle of a CI5 party and pushing aside the knowledge that he was out of his mind, Bodie decided that the new year was something worth celebrating after all ...
In the recesses of his private office, Father Christmas furrowed his brow and concentrated hard. He could hear, ever so faintly, an echo, but he couldn't -- quite -- tell from whence it came. Tracking it first visually, then closing his eyes and concentrating on the sound, he was distracted by a small voice coming through his thought-tracking Device.
Was that ... could it be ... why, it had been many, many years since he had heard that particular voice! Putting the irritating echo out of his mind for the moment, he settled back into his chair and listened awhile.
"Ten ... Nine ... Eight ..."
Ah, it had been a good year. Seldom did they mark a year in which so few agents had been lost, and so many hard cases had been put behind bars where they could do no further harm. It was at times like this, when the pressure was off for a moment and he could indulge in the pride he often felt but seldom expressed for his lads (and lasses), that George Cowley could truly believe that CI5 was winning the war. Of course, the warm glow only lasted until the next morning, when he settled down to the piles of opened files and the reports coming in constantly of this operation or that operation that was exploding right then, when the glow was thoroughly displaced by the cold bite of anger at the villains he constantly fought.
But for tonight, surrounded by his young, the Cow was content.
"Seven ... Six ... Five ..."
Of course, the champagne was going to give him indigestion. Should have stuck to scotch, but had he brought it out, he knew that Bodie (no doubt with Doyle's able assistance) would have found a way to make it public property. Not that he minded sharing his private stock -- well, alright, then, not that he would cavil too loudly once a year during a major celebration after a highly successful year, at sharing his private stock -- oh, alright, he'd admit it to himself at least. He would take the indigestion.
And the sore leg. Too much standing in one place. But it was almost over, and he certainly didn't mind the opportunity to share some time with his agents when they weren't running at full speed to avert yet another disaster for Queen and Country.
They were good lads. And good lasses. And they gave all they had, usually without his having to remind them that he owned them body and soul. Well, except for Doyle. And Bodie.
"Four ... Three ... Two ..."
Speaking of his top team (and most dedicated troublemakers), he'd expect to see them surrounded by every typist in the pool by this time. Where were they? There was Murphy, each arm around a different pretty girl (and was that one beside him actually -- yes, she was, and the lad didn't seem to mind in the least -- he was going to have to have a talk with the typists about propriety, and the lack thereof in blatantly groping a man's hindquarters in full view of the boss). There was Jax, leaning against Susan (and they were surprisingly affectionate ... perhaps it was time to have a reminder chat with his agents about Public Displays of Affection between non-paired A squad agents who were currently dating ... and he did need to get to work on rewriting the fraternization rules, since Pettifer and Witfield were married). Ah! There they were. Bodie and Doyle, excellent agents, the best he had, like chalk and cheese, but the best of partners, closer than brothers --
"ONE!!"
Kissing one another.
He coughed, glared at his inoffensive (if not the highest quality) champagne, and looked again.
Eating one another alive.
And no one even seemed to notice.
Cowley sighed, looked longingly at his now empty champagne glass and made one final, forlorn wish that it was a VERY large tumbler of scotch, then looked a third time.
Still kissing.
Well, he supposed he'd best get to writing on those regulations. The new year was certainly going to be an ... interesting one.
Father Christmas nodded sagely, and reached for his scroll to make a note. There would surely be a great deal of both naughty niceness and nice naughtiness to come in this year.
Three doors down, in the darkened recesses of the workroom, two little heads turned in their sleep. Two sets of lips softly met.
It was a very good year to come for all concerned.
-- THE END --
Happy New Year, everyone, and may it truly be a Great '98!
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