New Beginnings at Burdock
Written for the Halloween challenge for "Discovered in Fallen Leaves" on the discoveredinalj livejournal community to the prompt "Bodie and Doyle meet The Invisible Man."
The first time, after they'd finally rounded up McNeil and cronies down in Burdock, and were standing by the pier waiting for the excitement to die down, Doyle jumped a mile, glared at his partner - the only person standing anywhere near - and stepped away rubbing his derriere pointedly.
The second time, he jumped, his heart lurched, and then he rubbed his bum and glared. Bodie just stood watching, a smirk on his face, as Doyle ran his hands over his own arse.
By the third time, he'd taken to staring at Bodie's arse, wondering if he dared pinch him back, whether he could pretend he was doing it in revenge, or if his hand would linger a little too long afterwards, so that when Bodie slapped him hard on his rump, he was too frozen with the glorious agony of decision to do anything except reach behind himself again.
Not fair, not fair, not fair. How was a bloke supposed to reform when his partner kept tempting him from the straight and narrow? Maybe all those looks were supposed to be long and smouldering after all, maybe...
The fourth time, Bodie goosed him in the carpark, and he jumped and glared because it sent shivers up his spine, it exploded in his breath and his heart and his prick. And Bodie smirked again.
The fifth time? Oh, the fifth time...
They'd been watching the footie one lazy Sunday afternoon, rain lashing the windows outside, a whole weekend off behind them. They'd caught the last of the autumn sunshine the day before, out on their bikes by the coast, miles from home, from Cowley, from anything resembling care. By the time they got back, riding under star-spat skies, they were as relaxed as they ever were, content with their world. Bodie stayed over, they watched a late night movie and drank some beer, and reclined easily beside each other on the couch.
So when Doyle felt a hand on his backside as he set the table for tea, felt the fingers start to slide into a pinch, felt Bodie behind him reaching around to steal a chip from one of the plates, he didn't jump, and he didn't glare, and he didn't freeze.
He put down the tomato sauce he was holding, and captured Bodie's reaching hand, and he placed it firmly on his bum beside the other. Then he pressed back into those hands, and he sighed and closed his eyes in relief and heart-thudding desperation as Bodie reached his other arm around him and pulled him even closer, breathed him in. Doyle felt him smile, felt him whisper in his ear as much as heard him.
"Why Doyle, I didn't know you cared..."
He settled for moaning, as Bodie's hands left his arse, finally moved away, finally slid around to caress his suddenly very hard prick through jeans that were achingly tight, that had to be undone, that... And then they were, and Bodie's hand was on him, and he pushed backwards again, moved against Bodie's own cock, rhythmically backwards and forwards, wriggled as Bodie shoved him against the table, bent over him and thrust against hard denim, again and again...
"Wait..." he pushed them both upright again, looked desperately across the dinner plates.
"Doyle, no..." Bodie began, and then, "Oh..."
Doyle shoved his jeans lower, his boxers out of the way, so that he was naked to mid-thigh, then he took Bodie's hand, curled the fingers just so, and reached them into the tub of margarine that was sitting on the table.
"Since you can't seem to keep yer 'ands off me bum you might as well do the job properly..."
"What d'you mean keep me hands... oh Christ Doyle..."
Doyle pressed back again, so that the margarine-slick fingers were deep inside him, so that Bodie's cock was margarine-slick too, so that it slid easily where the fingers had been and...
Doyle felt rather than heard Bodie's whisper in his ear, felt it through the cock up his arse, through the heat across his back, through the arm banded around his chest, holding them upright. He felt the whisper with every thrust, with every moan, with everything that brought them closer and closer together, and he knew that this first-fifth time was just the start.
High above them, a grey-wisped shade stared hopefully at the gates to Limbo, glanced back once in their direction, and fled, his tally rising, his scales that much closer to balancing, the spirit of a man that much closer to being seen again.
-- THE END --