The Professionals Circuit Archive - Closer Quarters	    Closer
Quarters

 

by Slantedlight 

 
 Bodie's eyes widened in disbelief. Cowley'd outdone himself this time.
The entire Scottish race would take years to live him down, and even then
he'd be a story passed through the ages to scare parents into handing over
pocket money, husbands into splurging out an extra pound or two. *The Old
Man was so tight, they'd say, you don't want to end up like him do you?*

 If this were a room in someone's house, he thought, leaning
disconsolately against the doorframe, it wouldn't even be graced with the
epithet "box". It was a twin room insofar as there were two beds -- with
maybe an inch between them and barely six between the far bed and the
window, so that the incongruously thick and boldly flowered curtains
actually brushed the bedspread. 

 At the foot of each bed was a metal frame on which to rest a suitcase,
and the far corner boasted a tiny washbasin with plastic cups resting in a
toothbrush holder. Apart from that? Nothing. Not even a kettle. And this
was their home for the duration. 

 Somewhere downstairs a door slammed. Bodie closed his eyes, the better to
gather his strength. He was going to be in this room for the next three
days. *With Doyle. *Footsteps on the stairs. He thought back to another
hotel room, how Doyle had been the one reassuring him about the state of
it, about sharing with another bloke, laughing with him at the echoing
sounds of the railway outside. Wasn't going to happen tonight. Not when
Doyle'd been stuck out in the rain all day and Bodie'd been the one on
cosy obs just three doors down the hallway. He wished he'd thought to
check their room before now, before they were both knackered and hungry
and...

 "Bloody 'ell!"

 Yup. Bad tempered.

 "You've got to be kidding."

 Bodie heaved their bags into the room, took a deep breath, and turned to
face his partner. Doyle's lips were pursed disapprovingly, his eyes dark,
every muscle taut and ready to rage. He was trying to hold himself in
check, was all but counting to one hundred. 

 Gently, gently, catchee monkey, Bodie thought and managed to pull Doyle's
gaze to his own. He allowed a wry smile to twist his lips and raised his
eyebrows, their own conspiracy against Cowley. For a moment Doyle just
stared back, hard as nails, and then Bodie could practically see the
tension melt away, his body become fluid again, as he relaxed into the
situation. Finally Doyle stepped across the threshold and closed the door
behind them, even managed a smile of his own in return. 

 "Bloody Cowley."

 "We could always go and keep the lads company if we feel the need to
swing a cat."

 Doyle snorted. "And spend the next few days reeking of Anson's bloody
smoke? I'd rather kip outside."

 Bodie became aware of other, far more aromatic smells emanating from the
carrier bags in Doyle's hands. "You bought dinner? We not going out then?"

 "In this?" Doyle gestured at the grey light half-hidden by net curtains.
"You've not been standing in it all day. All I wanted to do was get
inside. Mind you," he glanced around the room again, "If I'd realised..."
He dropped the bags onto one of the beds and pulled off his donkey jacket
and the jumper he wore underneath, finally covering his head with one of
the hotel's threadbare towels and rubbing at it briskly. 

 Bodie watched, helpless. Doyle's t-shirt was damp enough to cling even
more than usual to every twist of movement. "How the 'ell did you get wet
through to your skin?" he asked as Doyle's face finally emerged again, the
towel draped around his neck. "Take time off for a quick dip, did you?"

 "You try working in a coat two sizes too big for you, mate." Doyle
plucked disgustedly at the t-shirt and then peeled that off as well.

 Abruptly Bodie busied himself with the food, dividing chicken and chips
as Doyle ran the towel down his body, then rummaged in his bag for dry
clothes. This was *stupid*, he told himself. It's not like he hadn't seen
Doyle completely naked before. It was just... if only the room was just a
*bit* bigger, so that every stretch of arm and sway of cloth didn't waft
that... that *awareness* of Doyle through every sense he had. He opened
the second carrier, discovering not only beer but a bottle of brandy as
well. Poor sod must've been freezing. 

 He pulled back the tabs on the beer, and held them in safety as Doyle --
decently clad once more -- bounced down onto the bed. For a while there
was silence, but for the rustling of paper, the odd crunch of chips, and
the sucking of juices from fingers. Keeping his eyes decently lowered to
his meal, Bodie managed not to watch as each finger disappeared into
Doyle's mouth, sliding slowly out again to be replaced by the next.
Managed not to imagine that they were *his* fingers, or that it was *his*
mouth, or...

 "Penny for 'em?"

 "Eh?"

 "You're either thinking about something too hard, or all this grease has
finally done yer 'eart in. Knew I should've tried the Chinese next door."

 "Just wondering when this bloody weather's going to change," Bodie
muttered, a poor recovery, but one that set Doyle off again and was
therefore distraction enough.

 "*You're* wondering? You're not the one out grafting in it all day, an'
then coming home to *this*. Next time you get to be the navvy. Bloody
rain..."

 "Well, 's hardly rain. More... a thick mist. Light drizzle. Now for
*real* rain you want..."

 Ray groaned and closed his eyes in anguish. "Lemme guess -- Ireland?
Senegal? The Congo? Nah, not exotic enough..."

 "Bombay." Bodie managed a smug grin. "Took out entire streets the day we
were there." 

 "*When* were you in India?" Doyle shot him a suspicious glance, gathering
up wrappers and stuffing them into the bags.

 Bodie cracked another beer each, pulled up a pillow, and leaned against a
worn bedhead. This was better. Talk, have a laugh, forget it all. "Ship
got a bit lost on the way to Yemen." He closed his eyes, settled himself
to being enigmatic, to ribbing Doyle who had barely been over to France on
a day trip.

 "*Yemen*?" Doyle's voice was very satisfyingly pitched, and Bodie looked
up just enough to see him poised, hands on canted hips, staring in his
direction. Bodie allowed himself a smirk, and Doyle tossed his hands in
the air and shook his head. "I give up," he said, stretching out on the
other bed. "Bloody Yemen. So is there anywhere you *haven't* been?"

 Bodie pretended to consider. "Australia," he suggested, "Canada. New
Zealand." The tamer, calmer worlds where it was harder to lose yourself in
the rush and the fight. "And Manchester, obviously."

 There was a gratifying chuckle beside him, followed by the unmistakable
*glug* of an upended bottle. "Planning a good night, are we?"

 "Medicinal purposes only."

 "I'm feeling a bit throat-y myself..."

 Doyle passed the bottle. "So after all that you end up back 'ere."

 "I end up back here." Bodie agreed.

 "*Why*?"

 "Eh?"

 "Why the 'ell would you come back here? Not," Doyle added hurriedly,
"That I'm not glad you did, but... well, why not move somewhere a bit...
brighter?"

 They both turned and stared out the window. A streetlamp had come on
while they were eating, bathing them in a kind of light. It outlined the
jagged paths of water covering the pane, turned grey to orange. It poured
across Ray's face and softened away the cold and exhaustion of the day,
set his hair to glinting red. It was almost cheerful. 

 Bodie considered the question, let images of sun flick their way through
his mind, and then let his gaze slide down Doyle's body, softened too by
the folds of his old grey tracksuit.

 "Nah mate," he said softly, seeing and not seeing Doyle turn back towards
him. "Nowhere else I'd rather be."

 -- THE END --

 *March 2006*

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