Thanks to Kaye for the beta.

Written for the "Discovered on a Gangplank" challenge on the discoveredinalj livejournal community, to celebrate international Talk Like a Pirate Day



A sleepy eye opened when Doyle rolled over and found empty space instead of Bodie. He snuffled back into the pillow when he remembered. His partner wouldn't be back for a good few hours because the man had taken it into his head to go for an early morning dive. In Cornish waters. In late September.

---

"Murph's bust his leg up good and proper. He's in a cast from hip to toe and . . . What?"

"Well, I know he's annoying at times, but isn't this a bit cold, mate? Even for you? You do know you're grinning from ear to ear?"

By way of explanation, Bodie produced a set of keys with a flourish. "Da-naa."

Tired as he was, Doyle caught his partner's glee and found himself softening, though as yet he had no idea why.

"You," Bodie stepped in closer, aware that they were alone in the squad room, "and me, and four days off," Doyle's breath caught at that, "and a holiday cottage in Cornwall to grope around in." He lowered his voice. "How does that grab you, sunshine?"

Doyle took a steadying breath, exhaustion and Bodie's sudden nearness making their mark. "Oh, it grabs me, Bodie. Believe me, it grabs me."

"Right, c'mon then." All practical now, Bodie wrapped a take charge hand round his partner's shoulders and began steering him towards the door. "Our leave started ten minutes ago and I for one do not intend to spend a single unnecessary minute of it hanging about here." He turned at the door as he went through it first. "And Murph's friend's a diving nut, so..."

Bodie and diving. It was something Bodie had always been casual about. A skill the SAS had taught him, together with abseiling knots, ten ways to kill a man using your thumbs (Doyle still wasn't convinced about that one), bird whistles and bomb disposal. In other words, part and parcel of those still waters of his professional past.

And poor Murph. Due a week's leave, he had been given the keys and the go ahead to 'help himself' to any and all diving equipment in the cottage of a friend. With a faint cry of "not bloody likely" it all became redundant after he had managed to break his leg careering off a scaffolding in pursuit of a jittery informant. His girlfriend promptly informed him that she was not going all the way to Cornwall to push him around in a wheelchair, thank you very much, so a thoroughly pissed off Murph handed over the keys to Bodie, who had tried and failed not to gloat. With a "Break anything and I'll have you!" echoing down the halls of CI5, Bodie had practically skipped into the squad room.

So here Doyle was on day two. Snug and warm in bed while his partner plumbed the murky depths of the Cornish coastline in a wetsuit. Bloody idiot. He stretched with randy early morning laziness. Should be plumbing my depths. Not that he could complain really. Not since the entire first day had been spent in bed -- one pub dinner aside. And all his own fault really.

Doyle had borne the brunt of the op they'd come off, rarely getting more than a couple of hours sleep at a time for close to three days. Despite this, he had refused to doze in the car on the way down, unwilling to give up the anticipation of what lay ahead. And he had watched Bodie indulge him with that air of mock-suffering he did so well and which fooled no one, least of all Doyle. So he gave Bodie the cheery and amenable Ray Doyle as his reward, the one the rest of the world seldom saw. Bodie, in his turn, found a raucous late-night radio show and each had made the most of it.

They arrived just after midnight, whereupon Doyle's battery promptly sputtered and died. When no help was forthcoming with the bags, Bodie went looking and found a comatose lump passed out on the duvet upstairs, boots and all.

"Things I do for love, mate," muttered Bodie, unlacing a second boot and grunting with effort as he wrenched it clear.

There was a muffled pillow noise.

"Ray?" He looked up hopefully. Not even a wiggle. Lying there looking totally fuckable and out fucking cold. Feeling decidedly put upon, Bodie stripped him with reluctant efficiency and manoeuvred the duvet until he was covered. He paused a moment, absorbed by the rhythmic breathing and the smoothing out of tension.

He leant in close and let his fingers brush a curl. "Let you off for now, sunshine, but that's the last time I undress you just to tuck you in." Knowing Doyle wouldn't wake, he kissed a cool temple and went back to the car.

To no one's surprise, Doyle slept a solid twelve hours and woke up to Bodie, breakfasted, dressed and reading next to him on top of the duvet.

"Oh, hello there, nice of you to finally join us Mr Winkle. Was beginning to think you'd gone and died on me, mate."

"'Lo Bodie, what you reading?" Husky and indistinct, the timbre of it took Bodie to hard in an exhalation.

"What am I... Never you mind what I'm bloody well reading." The book hurtled through the air as he turned and pounced, pinning Doyle where he lay.

"Bodie!"

"What?" Bodie paused with difficulty, a whisper away from the mouth under his. Somehow Doyle got his left hand between the gap and splayed it over his partner's mouth.

"Haven't brushed me teeth yet, mate. And I'm starvi-" Coherent speech suddenly dissolved into something groan-like as Bodie tongued his palm. Eyes now alight, Doyle's hand slid away.

"Don't care," came the growl, and Bodie ground his lips into his partner's. He pulled back and smiled. "Taste fine to me." He leaned in again, charmed to see Doyle's mouth already parting, his head rising off the pillow a fraction towards him. It was a reflex that, from the first, had always gone straight to his groin. "And I'll feed you later." Whispered into the mouth under him, it was the last thing either said for quite a while.

---

Doyle blinked at the memory and debated breakfast. Should really make the most of being awake and Bodie-less this early and do a little sketching. The views from the small garden were spectacular and he knew he would feel himself truly on holiday to try. About time he actually moved his arse out of their pit of a bed anyway. He eyed his morning erection with a rueful smile. If he recalled correctly, the 'while' of yesterday had ended up being four lust fuelled hours of slipping, sliding and napping between the sheets until the unthinkable happened. He had called a halt because of hunger and Bodie -- Bodie-- had told him there was more to life than food.

One home-cooked roast dinner later in a tiny pub, with all the country trimmings, and Doyle was not convinced. The only others in the pub at the time were the local diving enthusiasts, a small group of about six. They were planning a dive for the following morning --"Middle of the bleedin' night, more like," was Doyle's badly received contribution -- and Mr Bodie was welcome to join, if he had his own equipment.

Apparently Mr Bodie did. One look in the garage on the way home and the gleam in his partner's eye told Doyle he'd be breakfasting alone. Which was fine, but he just didn't get the attraction.

"I dunno, it all weighs a ton and seems like a billion pieces of equipment. And for what, eh?" He walked around, watching Bodie pick his way through various bits and pieces, testing and discarding.

"I mean, aside from anything else, this is hardly the Bahamas, is it?" He bent his head down to where Bodie was fiddling with a tank. "It's Cornwall, Bodie." He said it loud, fully aware that his partner was ignoring him. "The most exotic thing you're likely to come back with, mate, is a head cold."

"Are you quite finished?"

Doyle grinned and appeared to consider it. "Think so."

Bodie stretched up and waggled something dial-like under Doyle's nose. "Don't knock it, sunshine. Lots of shipwrecks in this part of the world, y'know. Might find some buried treasure, and then where would we be?"

"About ten quid better off, probably, after taxes."

"That does it, then. 'M keeping it to meself. Not sharing it with the government," Bodie pointed a finger, "or you. Misery-guts."

"Oh, be still my broken heart." But the smile and the palm that reached round to rest itself on Bodie's backside took the sting right out. And put something else in. He pulled Bodie towards him, loving the way he could refocus this tough ex-merc with something so fleeting. A muscle jump in the jaw, a softening of the eyes, and he was home. Christ, it worked everytime.

"Better get to bed nice'n'early then, if you're going to be up and at it with the jellyfish."

Bodie found himself being pulled forward, out of the garage and into the warmth of the cottage.

---

An hour later Doyle had to admit defeat. Up, dressed, breakfasted and sketching, the latter was not going to plan. Hoping to catch a nice multicoloured dawn, nature had not co-operated and he'd been given a grey, watery-grey, and splash of white dawn instead. Determined to have a go, he started with a few lines on the sketch pad he had thrown in the boot last minute. But his heart wasn't really in it, and more worrying than that, he was yawning again. Gotta be the country air. He looked at his watch. Strewth, an hour. Not even.

He chewed his pencil a moment. Oh, sod it. He was on holiday. You were supposed to nap a lot on holiday.

Which was how he came to be sprawled on his side, fully dressed and on top of the duvet with a vaguely salty-scented Bodie pressed against his back some forty minutes later.

He refused to open his eyes, but his chuckle sounded all the way up his spine.

"Thought you were hunting for buried treasure, mate."

The answer, hot in his ear, was as predictable as the hand expertly unzipping his jeans.

"Oh, I am, sunshine, so why don't you hold nice and still and let me find it?"

-- THE END --

September 2006