Written for the "Discovered in a Sketchbook" challenge on the discoveredinalj livejournal community


It had been a long and trying day - week - and there was not a breath of air in the ugly bedsit. Doyle sat uncomfortably on the tatty sofa, cup of tea going cold in one hand, waiting for Bodie to get back from the bathroom down the hall so that he could take his turn. Because of course the lock on the door was flimsy, the neighbours suspect, and if any of Cowley's surveillance equipment went missing there'd be hell to pay.

The one bright spot was that their relief was due tomorrow, and that the Cow had promised them nearly a proper weekend off. Friday and Saturday wasn't quite as good as Saturday and Sunday, there was still that niggle of being out of synch with the rest of the world, but it was close.

One more night to get through, sleeping in the same bed as Bodie - each carefully sticking to their own sides, muttered apologies when errant limbs intruded in the night - and then he could go home.

He could go home, and he could have a wank, free at last to think about Bodie like that, as he didn't dare to while they were on the job, while they were captive in this tiny room, with nowhere to escape but the single bathroom down the hall, with its window to the noisy high street, and what seemed like a constant queue of other residents waiting for their turn. Yeah, tomorrow, tomorrow he'd be able to go home and relax properly. To lie back and...

The door slammed, rattling loosely on its hinges, and suddenly Bodie was before him, a contained whirlwind of black and white, hands on hips, hair dripping. He'd not put his shirt back on to walk the length of the corridor, and his skin was pale and smooth in the light of the dim bulb that hung above them.

"Have you seen what's going on down there?"

Doyle looked at him, at flashing eyes, at lips set straight, at the tension in his shoulders. It wasn't the op though - Bodie wasn't reaching for his R/T, or the camera - so he stayed where he was, bone-tired with sitting still all week, without even the energy to be curious.

"They've set fire to some poor bastard's car. Decided it's a good night for a party."

"In the high street?" Doyle closed his eyes for a moment, opened them in resignation, and started to heave himself out of the low-slung cushions. "That won't last very long then..." He stepped over to the window, peered through the dirty nets. It was just light enough that the sky was still a mucky blue over the houses opposite, that the streetlights were dim orange blurs against the buildings, and that the glow of the fire, down the road to the right, seemed nothing very dramatic. There were figures wandering around it, shouting into it, raising cans of beer to it.

"There's no one in there, is there?" he asked, suddenly alarmed.

"Nah, they dragged him out from the pub, made him watch. That's what happens 'round here if you don't get your round in."

"You watched?"

"Easier to see from down the hall." Bodie'd come up behind him, was pushing aside the curtain with one arm to see better. "It's not as if we can go down and do anything about it, Doyle. The local boys'll deal with it. If they can be bothered turning out to such a minor event."

"It's a bad neighbourhood," Doyle started, in automatic defence, "They'll be running around somewhere 'til morning..."

"As long we don't have to listen to this lot at it all night I don't care." Bodie was as exhausted as he was, was feeling the enforced inactivity just as much. There wasn't even a telly in the room, and they couldn't go out and mix with the locals here, they'd be spotted as cops in no time, especially Bodie. He was too fit, and too well-fed with it, not the scrawny street tough that they bred around here.

A lone siren rose in the distance, even as they spoke, and the small crowd started twisting their heads to see where it was coming from, if it was coming for them, began to drift away.

"Shame they had the sense to drain the tank first, could have saved us some work in the future."

"Bodie! That's sick!" Doyle turned to frown at him, found him closer than he'd thought, and felt his heart catch. He was too tired to deal with this... But at least the slight anger had gone from Bodie's voice, if not the tension in his jaw, his neck, his bare shoulders - oh Christ... Outside danger over, he had to move away, had to get away from the older, more familiar danger within.

He slid from between Bodie and the window, left him standing there watching. He needed a drink. Drink, a book to lose himself in, and then bed.

One more night.

He pulled the scotch out of its cupboard in what passed for the kitchen, rinsed a couple of glasses, and poured them both one. Bodie took his with a grunt, still following the action on the street, and that was that.

Except that, back in his refuge on the couch, glass in one hand, book in the other, his gaze kept straying to Bodie, lingered where it shouldn't, on the play of muscle and skin, on the way the line of his black trousers was so straight, so tight to his back, flowing downwards, outwards over...

If only...

If only he could stand up, could step up behind Bodie, put his hands on those shoulders and lean in... You're tense, he'd whisper, why don't we see what we can do about that... And he would; he'd smooth his hands down Bodie's arms, back up, and down, stroking away the week they'd had. He'd press himself to Bodie - naked he'd be - so that Bodie could feel his warmth, could share his heat.

Bodie'd stand still, let him do it. He'd let him reach his arms around him, let his hands play over that chest, over nipples pink and hard, down stomach, not flat, but solid with muscle, to the waistband of his trousers. Bodie would let that happen too, his fingers skimming along where flesh met fabric, would let Doyle slide his belt loose, undo the button, pull down his zip. Maybe he'd help... no, he'd stay still, he'd let Doyle do it all, do whatever he wanted...

So Doyle would reach inside those dark trousers, would feel, at long last, the weight of Bodie in his hands, and oh, the size of him, because Bodie was big, he knew he was big, and... Bodie would be his then, hard and hot for him, and Doyle... What would he do then? Would he pull those trousers down, bring Bodie off in front of the window, with everyone seeing him do it? Would he take Bodie right there, fuck him until he couldn't stand...

No, too much, too much... slow down... He'd bring him close, with his hands, with his breath hot in Bodie's ear, with whispered words, and promises, with the feel of his own cock hard against Bodie's back. He'd tell him how he wanted Bodie's cock in his mouth, how he was going to kneel at Bodie's feet, how any moment now he was going to do that to him, to turn him around and...

Bodie turned around.

Shit! Doyle's eyes, half shut in the dream of it, in the illicit, ill-advised, badly-timed dream of it, snapped open. His breathing was hard and shallow, he knew he was staring at Bodie in shock, and oh shit, Bodie knew, how could he not know...

"Doyle, get over here."

But Bodie sounded normal, he looked serious, but no longer angry, or... Normal, it was all normal. There was something else going on outside, that was all...

Doyle stood, tried to pretend that his legs weren't shaky with wanting, that he hadn't been stupid enough to let his fantasies run riot on this last night, that he wasn't very erect inside his jeans. He held the paperback open in front of him, tried to sound casual as he stepped towards Bodie and the window. "What?"

But Bodie didn't turn to point anything out, didn't move at all for a moment, just stood staring at him, hands on hips again. Then his lips curved up in a nearly-smile, and he was reaching out to Doyle, smoothing his hands down Doyle's arms, back up, and down, stroking away the week they'd had.

"You're tense," Bodie whispered, "Why don't we see what we can do about that..."

-- THE END --

September 2007