Written for Discovered in the Mistletoe, on the discoveredinalj livejournal community.

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I fucked Bodie.

It’s the only logical conclusion I can reach. Not that it makes any sense. I’ve lain here thinking through all the evidence for a solid hour, but everything points in one direction. Consider it like this:

I’m naked.

I’m in Bodie’s flat. I’m in Bodie’s bed, for Chrissake.

With Bodie.

Who is also naked.

Plus, he’s got fresh bite marks I’m looking at on the back of his neck, and they didn’t come from that petite blonde he’s been walkin’ out with for the past six weeks. “Fly Carol” is currently somewhere over the Pacific and has been since Boxing Day. Five days ago. Six.

My hand is covered in, I dunno, it’s got to be a combination of lube and come, but it’s dry now and caked on and flaking off and it’s what fucking woke me up, me hand itching.

And that’s just the tip of the, uhm, iceberg, if you take my meaning. Let’s just say that other parts of my anatomy likewise need cleaning and judging from Bodie’s backside (currently on display in front of me, like said bite marks) there are bits he’ll need washing up in the morning, too.

Two naked men, lube, come, bite marks, and why the hell can’t I remember what happened last night? New Year’s Eve and we obviously got a lot happier than ever before.

Report, man. What happened?

Bloody hell. Most blokes get a hangover, and I get George ruddy Cowley trying to horn in. Ross’ll have a field day with this, next assessment.

Enough dithering, Doyle. Start at the beginning. Lives are at stake.

Not the way you usually mean, sir, but you could be more right than you know. If I don’t remember, I may have to kill myself before dawn.

Ach, Doyle, you’re wasting time. Facts, man, facts!

Facts. Well, the first fact would be...

I love Bodie. Have done for years. Never told the silly sod. No point, really. So blatantly a skirtchaser that I’d only get a knuckle sandwich for me trouble. So. Means that I could’ve done it. I’ve wanted it long enough. But that’s the part that doesn’t add up--Bodie’s not queer.

Not background, 4.5. What happened at the party? Details.

Yessir, sorry sir. We were planning to go to the party at Jax’s house, me and Pamela Win--

I know the name of your current girlfriend, 4.5. Stick to essentials.

Your information’s out of date. Ex-girlfriend, as of the Dunnagan op six days ago. When that blew up and I had to miss the holidays with her family, she told me to stuff it and--

I should write you up for insubordination, Doyle. The party?

I’m coming to that, sir. So I went over to Jax’s house by myself, alone and pretty pathetic if you must know, everybody else there was with someone, even that smokestack Anson. So I suppose I was propping up the bar towards the end of the evening, which was only fair since I brought over a couple of bottles of--

When did Bodie arrive?

Just before eleven. By that time, I was beyond the limit, to be honest, a few more and no way could I drive home. And in walks Mister Cool, 3.7 himself, who I certainly didn’t expect; when you gave us our time off after Boxing Day, he said he’d see me at HQ on Tuesday. I mean, tomorrow, sir. So the last place I expected to see Bodie was Sunday night at Jax’s.

Did he explain why he’d turned up?

No, but nobody asked him to. I pressed a drink in his hand and he got dragged into a darts game and the next thing I know, the room’s got a bit of spin to it and then there’s this arm around my shoulders and Bodie saying, “Time to go, mate.” So we did.

Did what?

Not exactly sure, sir.

He drove you both home?

No, sir. Left our cars at Jax’s and legged it back to Bodie’s flat, a few streets away. Closer.

Do you have any memory of what happened after you entered 3.7’s flat?

No. But the top of those bite marks has a gap where my front tooth is chipped, so the circumstantial--

We’ll come to that in a moment. So you have no memory of what happened once you arrived there?

None. And as long as I’m being honest with a Cowley-who’s-not-here-except-in-my-head, I might as well come clean and admit I regret that. If I had it off with Bodie last night, I wish I could remember. I damn well want to remember.

You are uninjured, 4.5?

Yes, sir. I mean, no sir, I’m not hurt.

No broken ribs, swollen eyes or bruised knuckles, Doyle?

Nothing of the sort. Certain bits are a little tender, but...nothing that bothers me. Sir.

You’re blind, 4.5. The evidence is there in front of you.

I don’t...quite....I’m not sure what you mean.

Do you recall the first time 3.7 hit you? In training?

Felt like I’d been flattened with an anvil. He packs a wallop, our Bodie does.

And yet, here you are, remarkably unflattened.

Oh. Oh.

Now isn’t that interesting?

Evidence isn’t only the physical kind. As Cowley loves to preach, it’s also behavioural. If Bodie was unwilling last night, I’d be sporting raccoon eyes and a sore gut this morning, and I most certainly wouldn’t be curled up in bed behind him. He’d’ve tossed my drunken self out on the doorstep and left me there to rot, best mate or no.

But he didn’t, and that means....

Action precedes thought, and my hand is already stroking Bodie’s bicep, the firm muscle up to his shoulder and then back down again that’s the nearest thing I can reach. I’ve shuffled closer, slotting myself behind him like curved spoons resting in the drawer, my cock filling and rising as it feels Bodie’s soft bum caressing its length. Thickening, pulsing hardness firms, grows fuller, brushing against the cleft of his behind and if I can’t remember anything of last night, then I’m going to make damned sure I remember this morning.

New Year’s Day.

Only I’ve got to act fast because the sun is starting to peek around the edge of the curtains, and I want this day to last as long as possible. Only 24 more hours of leave, and I’ve got to make the most of it. When Bodie does wake up, he needs to realize that drunk or sober, I want him. To do that, I intend to give him what the Geraldine Mathers of this world call ‘incontrovertible proof.’

Hard evidence. Emphasis on the hard.

Dark hair turns on the pillow, slowly rolling, then the most beautiful blue eyes in the world are looking back over a shoulder at me, hazy with sleep and something else I’ll never forget: desire.

Fingers interlock and then who needs words anyway? We’re in perfect synch, just like always: Bodie covers me, I cover Bodie.

And if you think I mean firearms, think again.

-- THE END --

December 2006