The Professionals Circuit Archive - Food of the Gods	     Food of the
Gods

 

by Melanie Athene 

 
 

 *Written for "Discovered in the Brandy Butter," on the discoveredinalj
livejournal community, to the prompt "hot chocolate"*

 ******

"Christ, it's colder than a witch's tit out there," Bodie grumbled, an
arctic blast of air accompanying his precipitous retreat back to the
comparative warmth of the surveillance van. 

 Comparative being the key word. Hunched behind the steering wheel, only
his green eyes visible above the gaily coloured scarf wrapped tightly
around his neck, and only a few stray curls escaping the matching woolly
hat he'd jammed firmly down over his ears, Doyle shot his partner a ratty
glare.

 "Close the bloody door," he snapped, the words lingering in the air like
little, emphatic cartoon balloons.

 "The thought never occurred to me," Bodie sarkily replied. "Never mind if
my feet aren't quite inside. Or that I almost froze me best bits off
taking a piss out there."

 "Stop swilling tea like there's no tomorrow," came Doyle's unsympathetic
advice. "Maybe that will help you keep your zip up."

 "Tea is the only thing standing between me and a slow, cold death," Bodie
huffed.

 Doyle swabbed his gloved hand across the windscreen in reply, clearing a
peephole free of fog before frost had a chance to claim it. As it had
already claimed most of the glass.

 "Christ, Ray," Bodie moaned. "Where in the bleeding rule book does it say
we have to freeze our balls off? Can't you crank up the heat a bit now and
then? There's no one out there to see. This obbo is rubbish, and you know
it."

 "I know it," Doyle quietly agreed. "There hasn't been a trace of movement
over there in the past three days according to the log book, never mind
the past three hours. Yet, here we sit, like a couple of ninnies... My
guess is Harnell's lot all scarpered off home for Christmas ages ago. It's
obvious the old man has us barking up the wrong tree... But do you want to
be the one to tell him that?"

 "And chance ruining his Christmas bonhomie?" Bodie snorted. "I don't
think so, mate." He wriggled his head a little further down into his
collar and fumbled for the thermos safely stashed behind his seat.

 Doyle heaved a gusty sigh... and reached out to wipe the resulting
condensation away. "You," he predicted, "are going to make yourself sick."

 "What? On tea? Nah... food of the gods, this," Bodie said, smacking his
lips appreciatively.

 "No," Doyle corrected absentmindedly, distracted by a furtive motion that
turned out to be a moggie investigating a dustbin. "That would be
chocolate."

 "Eh?"

 "Chocolate," Doyle repeated. "Aztecs. Cacao beans. Cortés. Any of that
ring a bell?" 

 "I must have slept through the documentary."

 "And public school as well," Doyle teased.

 "Be that as it may," Bodie said loftily, "I'll take a good,
old-fashioned, hot rum toddy over a plain mug of cocoa any day."

 "As would I," Doyle nodded. "But we're not talking about cocoa -- or,
worse, that nasty instant powder. I mean hot chocolate. Pure, melted
chocolate. That's the food of the gods, Bodie. And it's not half decadent
when it's properly made. Should be right up your alley, mate. Top it off
with a Swiss roll or two. Your arteries will never know what hit 'em."

 "Chocolate, eh?" Bodie mused. "Might be you're on to something, old son.
Maybe I am due a drink that's worthy of my god-like physique. So, if
you're offering..."

 "Who says I'm offering?" Doyle barked. "Make your own damned hot
chocolate."

 "Don't know how, do I?" Bodie fluttered his eyelashes, camping it up
outrageously. "Ah, c'mon, darlin', it can be me Christmas prezzie."

 "Your mum never--"

 "My mum," Bodie said darkly, "did many things. But making hot chocolate
for me was not one of them."

 Doyle felt himself melting, moved more by sympathy for Bodie's past hurts
than he was by his partner's manipulative wheedling in the present.
"Ahhhh.... Ummm... Well, then..." he dithered. And knew the battle was
lost when Bodie began to gleefully rub his hands together and compose a
shopping list.

 "That's assuming we get out of here in time to celebrate Christmas,"
Doyle warned.

 "I've been a very good boy this year," Bodie grinned, his confidence
unaffected by the unhappy circumstances of the moment. "Father Christmas
will reward me."

 "Unfortunately, Father Cowley's not as soft a touch," Doyle grunted. "But
never mind," he said brightly, a few moments later, in response to Bodie's
pout. "If you're wrong, we can always burn the lump of coal he leaves in
your stocking."



 The obbo was officially a bust. Not a creature was stirring, not even a
fucking mouse. Not that Bodie could have spotted that mythical rodent had
it poked its furry face right up against the windscreen. It was snowing
too bloody hard for that. And it was too damned cold for mice to be out
prancing about. Any mouse with a shred of sense was tucked up safe in its
wee bed, dreaming of sugar plums -- or whatever the hell it is that mice
dream about when they dream. 

 "S'too bad men aren't as sensible as mice," Doyle agreed, when Bodie
proposed the fanciful notion to him later that afternoon, both men
shuddering from the cold and thoroughly fed up with their lot in life. 

 To no one's surprise, it took George Cowley until 18:00 to grudgingly
agree to close the op down.

 Bodie and Doyle were just relieved to learn that they were heading home
at all. 

 As Doyle eased the obbo van into motion and turned the heater up full
blast, Bodie shivered and squirmed in his seat, trying to convince his
aching bladder that it could wait a few minutes longer. Until they
happened across a petrol station with a nice warm public toilet. Or,
better still, they might spot a nice coffee shop. That would go down a
treat. Not that Doyle looked as if he could be convinced to stop. Traffic
was bumper to bumper, the blind following the blind, inching their
cautious way through the vicious storm which had settled across the
greater part of Europe, seemingly in answer to someone's misguided wish
for a white Christmas. 

 "No point risking pulling over, is there?" Doyle snarled, knuckles white
against the dark leather of the steering wheel. "Might not get moving
again."

 Bodie was beginning to seriously regret those last few cups of tea.

 "Bloody Cowley," he groused. "Bloody waste of time."

 Doyle made a humming noise of agreement, and laid onto the horn as the
vehicle in front of them came to an abrupt halt.

 The cosy glow of a grocer's shop drew Bodie's eye. Wistfully, he eyed the
festive green and red lights beckoning shoppers inside, promising a little
last minute Christmas cheer at a reasonable price.

 *Why not?* he mused.

 He was out of the van before Doyle found the breath to bellow, "Bodie!"
And he was back again, bladder problem solved, a bulging carrier bag held
to his chest, before traffic had crawled more than a few pitiful car
lengths forward.

 "Stupid berk!" Doyle said by way of a greeting as Bodie slouched back
down beside him. "Don't think I wouldn't have left you standing out there
in a snowdrift."

 "I know you would, sunshine," Bodie beamed. "I'd do the same for you."



 Doyle's flat being marginally closer, by tacit agreement, they made that
their destination. It was well past 20:00 when Doyle finally bumped the
van's tyres up against the kerb outside his building. He spared an idle
hope that the suspicious mound of snow off to his right was just a drift,
not a fire hydrant. Not that he gave a flying fuck if the damned van got
towed. He couldn't care less if he never saw that bloody freezer on wheels
again. Laughing like giddy children as their feet skidded this way and
that on the slippery patches of ice that had turned the pristine sidewalk
into a minefield, they slogged their way across drifts and up stairs. The
sudden blast of warm air that greeted them as Doyle finally coaxed his key
into a stubborn lock and tugged the door open wide was almost painful in
its intensity. Bodie stifled a moan. Doyle simply closed his eyes and
sagged against the wall, too drained to even consider flicking on the
lights or closing the door. Bodie quietly managed both tasks, before
allowing his carrier bag to drop to the floor.

 "I'll rustle up something for dinner," he nobly offered. "You go and have
a soak in the tub -- save me some hot water, mind! Then you can whip us up
some hot chocolate while I have my bath."

 "Have a heart, Bodie. I'll do it tomorrow."

 "Tonight," Bodie said firmly. "You promised."

 "I never said--"

 "It was strongly implied. Ah, c'mon, Ray. It's Christmas Eve -- Christ,
it's almost Christmas! What better time for you to share your magic
elixir? Let's put a happy finish to this day from hell."

 Doyle wandered off down the hall towards his bath, mumbling something
about 'the patience of a saint' and 'the bloody cheek of some people'.
Bodie grinned, and took himself and the carrier bag off to the kitchen.

 It was fortunate he'd made a mad dash into the shop. Mother Hubbard's
cupboards were decidedly bare. Not an unusual happenstance given the
irregularity of their working hours, but unfortunate indeed, when time off
coincided with a public holiday. Efficiently, Bodie set a pot of water on
the cooker to boil and emptied spaghetti sauce from its bottle into
another pan. By the time the sauce was simmering and the spaghetti was
ready to be drained, Doyle's nose had led him back to the kitchen. He
sliced a loaf of bread while Bodie set the table. Together, they sat down
and tucked into the feast, their first decent meal of the day consumed in
a comfortable, companionable silence, marked only by the whisper of
snowflakes against the windowpane and the occasional scrape of cutlery
against a plate.

 Bodie mopped up the last of trace of tomato with a crust of bread, and
leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "My turn in the tub," he declared.
"Leave this lot, I'll tidy it up later. I don't want you weaselling out of
making me my treat with some lame excuse that you were too busy cleaning
up my mess to be bothered."

 "One track mind," Doyle muttered, rolling his eyes because he knew it was
expected of him, but there was no venom behind the jibe. Dry and warm and
fed, he was prepared to be magnanimous. "Go on, then," he gestured towards
the bath, "I assume you know where everything is?"

 "Have done since I was a lad," Bodie tipped his partner a cheeky wink and
quickly ruffled a hand through freshly laundered curls, dancing lightly
out of reach when Doyle aimed a half-hearted punch his way. 

 "Prat," Doyle said affectionately.

 Bodie stuck out his tongue and swaggered off down the hall. Soon his
dulcet tones and happy splashing informed all within hearing distance that
he believed in miracles. "Where you from, you sexy thing," he warbled
joyfully.

 Doyle laughed and dragged himself over to the cooker. He took great
pleasure in the preparation of the promised drink, diligently melting the
sweet chocolate tucked in Bodie's shopping bag with a care to not
scorching it or the hot milk. A dash of vanilla... a sprinkle of
cinnamon... Doyle was just whipping cream into a froth when a familiar
presence padded up behind him. Standing close, but not quite touching,
Bodie peered around Doyle's shoulder and gave the saucepan an appreciative
sniff.

 "Mmm," he said approvingly. "That smells fantastic."

 Indeed it did, but then, so did Bodie. Doyle's eyes widened slightly, and
he quickly turned to the cooker to give the chocolate an unnecessarily
vigorous stir. 

 *Where did that thought come from?* he wondered uneasily. *That's my
soap, my shampoo and my deodorant that he's got on. Nothing new about
that... nothing new about Bodie helping himself to my after-shave
either... or my dressing gown... or my best pair of socks...*

 A large splatter of hot chocolate landed on the back of Doyle's left hand
and, automatically, he brought the droplet to his lips, gently suckling on
the flesh to ease the pain. He felt the weight of Bodie's eyes upon him,
watching his every move. But when he lifted his gaze from his burned hand,
Bodie's face was a careful blank. Not a trace of what he was thinking was
in evidence.

 "Hand us over a couple of mugs, Bodie," Doyle said quietly. Quickly he
tilted the saucepan and poured each of them equal measures of the
chocolate. A generous dollop of whipped cream, topped with nutmeg,
followed. He was vaguely pleased to note that his hand was completely
steady as he handed one of the mugs over to his still silent partner, even
though their fingers brushed as the exchange was made. Bodie's little
flinch at the brief contact did not seem worthy of mention. 

 "Careful, it's hot," he warned.

 Bodie nodded and gave the rich liquid in his mug a careful sip. His eyes
closed, a look of ecstasy upon his face as he took a second, deeper taste.

 Doyle swallowed too, though he did not touch his drink. "Is it good?" he
whispered.

 "Oh, yes," Bodie sighed, his voice a reverent murmur; a rumbling,
contented purr of delight. "It's good. Bloody good." A warm blue gaze
fastened on Doyle's lips, then slid quickly past them to focus on his
untouched cup. "Why aren't you drinking, Ray?"

 Doyle hastily took a mouthful and sputtered as it promptly went down the
wrong pipe. 

 "Careful," Bodie chided, thumping him solidly on the back. "Mind what
you're about."

 "M'fine," Doyle coughed. "Stop fussing."

 "But you've sprayed it all over me." Bodie complained, pulling the vee of
his borrowed dressing gown a little wider, revealing moist beads of
chocolate dotting his creamy bare skin, and a rosy nipple peeking shyly
out from a sparse nest of dark curls.

 Doyle busied himself with gulping down another mouthful of the scalding
liquid.

 "Christ, you're a messy beggar," Bodie said fondly, setting his half
emptied mug on the counter and reaching out to remove it's tilted, still
full mate from Doyle's desperate grasp before its sticky contents spilled
to the floor. "It's all over your face..." A gentle hand reached out to
scrub at an offending spot of chocolate, fingers cool against the pink
flush which was slowly rising to Doyle's cheeks. 

 Doyle's eyes were huge as his gaze warily lifted to meet Bodie's. But if
he expected to find mockery on his partner's face, he did not find it.
Bodie's smile was sweet and unguarded. Unblinking, Doyle stared at a
matching blob of chocolate on Bodie's cheek. Unthinkingly, his hand came
up to touch the dark smear, further melting it into the pale skin. And
there they stood, frozen statues in the warm kitchen, as slow minutes
passed and the hiss and patter of the storm faded before the drumbeat of
two swiftly pounding hearts.

 Bodie was the first to drop his gaze, though it fell only as far as the
whipped cream moustache dangling above Doyle's slightly parted lips. "You
know, professor," he managed in a hushed and husky voice, "in many
cultures, chocolate is considered to be an aphrodisiac..."

 "I wouldn't know," Doyle whispered. "Never needed to, did I?"

 "No... No, I don't suppose a sexy little bugger like you would need any
outside assistance..."

 Whatever response Doyle might have made to this startling pronouncement
was interrupted by two very firm lips capturing his own. 

 And, oh, the taste of chocolate might be sweet, but the taste of this
first kiss was sweeter. Bodie's arms were sure and warm and welcomed Doyle
home; his tongue carried the heat of the hot chocolate deep into Doyle's
soul, warming every corner of his heart.

 Doyle melted into the embrace, returning it as fiercely as he could,
demanding more... and Bodie eagerly complied, deepening the kiss, his
hands petting and soothing, exciting and inciting all at once. 

 Bodie licked the final remnants of cream and chocolate from around
Doyle's mouth, then meekly submitted as Doyle returned the favour. Nor did
he offer a word of protest when Doyle's head bent down, chasing the
scattered drops of chocolate on Bodie's chest. But a startled gasp of
pleasure escaped his lips as Doyle's clever tongue began a thorough
investigation of a sensitive nipple, and Doyle's heavy-lidded gaze
instantly lifted, a shy smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

 "Like that, do you?" Doyle murmured.

 Beyond words, Bodie merely nodded.

 "Yeah... thought you might." Doyle's head bowed back down to its
self-appointed task. "Can think of some other things you might like," he
whispered wickedly, rubbing his cheek against Bodie's breast, and he felt
the startled hitch Bodie gave as he gulped in a breath of air. 

 Again Doyle's eyes lifted, and he felt his own breathing quicken as he
took in the dazed look of longing suffusing Bodie's face.

 "You're beautiful," he said quietly. "Told me you are often enough... but
did you know that I happen to agree with you?" Lithely, Doyle straightened
from his folded pose, and reached out to hold Bodie's face between his
hands. "Did you know that I've wanted to paint a portrait of you for, oh,
forever? That I've tried a hundred times, but I can't capture your
likeness on canvas..." 

 "Ray--" Bodie started, but Doyle leaned forward to silence him with a
soul deep kiss.

 "I've worked it out, Bodie. I've finally worked out a way to paint you."
Doyle reached past Bodie and dipped his fingers into a slowly cooling mug
of chocolate; deliberately, he smeared a line of the creamy liquid down
Bodie's ribs. A second dip into the cup, and Doyle traced a careful path
to Bodie's heart. A third time, and his touch inched its way down, down
towards Bodie's straining cock. And, then, Doyle's lips followed where his
hands led... 



 "Happy Christmas, Ray," Bodie murmured, much, much later, as dawn found
them curled around each other in Doyle's rumpled bed. The litter of their
eager unwrapping of each other lay strewn in a telling trail from the
kitchen to the bedroom. Stubborn remnants of melted chocolate stained
twined limbs and dribbled onto twisted, satin sheets.

 "Happy Christmas, love," Doyle replied, contentedly nuzzling his way
southward on the finest gift he'd ever found stuffed in his stocking.

 And a very happy Christmas it was. Quite the best either man had ever
known. On this, and many other delicate points, they wholeheartedly
agreed. But it took considerable persuasion on Doyle's part to get Bodie
to concede that, from this day on, they would take it in turns to make
each other hot chocolate -- and they'd share in cleaning up the resultant
mess as well!

 -- THE END --

 *December 2007*



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