The Professionals Circuit Archive - In Sickness and In Health       In
Sickness and In Health

 

by Ailcia 

 
 *Four colds Bodie had and one he gave*


 *1. *

 "There's something wrong with you, you know that?"

 Doyle turned round and flashed him a toothy grin, as if he'd been waiting
for him to say that. "Why? Because you've been struck with the plague and
I remain the healthiest man in Christendom?"

 "For starters," Bodie snarled, with as much venom as he could muster.

 "Ah, shut up, snotty."

 Bodie made the mistake of trying to breathe in through his nose in
defiance, choked and coughed horribly. The room erupted in laughter, which
made his head pound all the more. He threw a few pencils at Anson and Jax,
grinning at him from across the desks, but he wasn't really paying
attention and his throw was weakened and they fell just short of their
target. He felt his face get hot, so he turned back to Doyle.

 Doyle handed him a couple of tissues without even bothering to look up
from the report he was reading. Bodie took them with bad grace, shoving
his sore nose into them, embarrassed.

 "How can you be sat in a car with me all day and not get infected, eh?"
Bodie was aware that that had sounded suspiciously like whining, but he
didn't care all that much. It wasn't fair and he wanted Doyle to
acknowledge this.

 Doyle breathed out a smile, looking up at Bodie with mischievous
amusement. He put the report down with intent, and Bodie suddenly dreaded
what he might be about to say.

 "Well, for one thing," Doyle began with an air of smugness. "I don't live
off of beer and swiss rolls, so my immune system is better equipped to
deal with the trials of everyday life. You can thank those vitamins you
refuse to take for that one."

 Bodie groaned, slumping forward in his chair to rest his aching head on
his forearms. "You're a real sadist, you know that, Ray?"

 "Second of all," Doyle went on, voice rising impressively as he warmed to
his theatre. "I didn't spend half as long in that freezing cold lake as
you did, because I wasn't trying to show off my swimming skills to the
ladies stood on the bank."

 "No, because you knew it was a lost cause," Bodie countered into his
arms, weakly. Stonking head-cold or not, he wouldn't miss an opportunity
to impress his bra-evaporating masculinity onto his partner, who sometimes
forgot how manly Bodie was.

 "And so I didn't sneeze all over them when they came to congratulate me,
either." Doyle's lips were twitching viciously now, and Bodie wondered
idly if he still had the strength to punch his partner. Looking into
Doyle's gleeful little face, Bodie realised with dismay that he didn't
have the energy to beat that gloating grin off the git.

 "Third of all, I didn't insist on coming into work today in order to get
sympathy from all and sundry."

 "We have work to do!" Bodie wished he didn't sound so defensive. Doyle
could smell guilt, though, and Bodie knew it all too well.

 Doyle nodded, and Bodie's spirits lifted a little with the concession.
"Paperwork that could have easily been done in the comfort of our own
homes. In the comfort of your sick-bed," he added, pointedly. He shook his
curly head in mock disappointment. "If only you weren't so determined to
be a hero."

 Bodie winced, feeling very silly all of a sudden. Doyle was right -- that
was why he'd come into work today -- but he hadn't expected to actually BE
ill. If he believed in anything, karma would be making a very strong case
that day...

 He sniffed, pitifully. "Not getting it though, am I? Sympathy. Alls I'm
getting is grief. S'not fair to kick a man when he's down." A touch of
superiority entered his tone then, and he flicked the page of his report
over in a show of disgust.

 Doyle grinned and stood up with triumph. "Oh, so you admit it, now?
You've got a cold. Bodie the immortal has got a sniffle."

 He'd won. Doyle had won. Bodie had let his guard down, and the little
sneak had gotten in there. Bodie looked up at him, stood with his
pigeon-chest puffed out and his hands on his hips, smiling happily.
Bastard.

 Bodie sniffed in defeat, and picked up his pen, refusing to say the words
he knew Doyle wanted to hear. "Should have known you'd be like this.
You're a copper, after all." It was a crap parting shot, but a parting
shot it was, nonetheless. But Doyle didn't take the bait. Double bastard.

 Doyle laughed, and turned to leave. "Ah, don't worry. You're lucky... I
don't look half so sweet with my nose all red and rosy."

 "Shut up." Bodie whimpered at the retreating back.

 Three minutes later, a hot mug of sweet, lemony tea was set in front of
him. Bodie smiled, and didn't say another word.

 ******

*2.*

 Just as he was wondering if it might be possible to vomit your own arse
up, a cool hand rested on the back of his sweaty neck, making him jump.

 "Shhh, shhhh. Don't worry. It's just me, mate."

 Bodie's stomach, which had been sinking lower and lower towards his
boots, suddenly up-jumped into his throat once more. He heaved before he
was able to help himself, his stomach twisting him in two, his brain
exploding out his eyes and his breath driven into the sour bowl.

 The hand stayed on his neck, feeling wonderfully cold against his too-hot
skin, while the other began to rub his back soothingly. Bodie shook his
head, waiting for the feeling to pass. His gasps echoed round the
porcelain and he shuddered at the sound.

 When the immediate danger passed, Bodie hauled himself upright til his
arms were resting on the toilet seat. The hands helped him straighten.

 "What're you…what're you doing here?" He panted. He didn't know if he
felt angry or relieved the sudden presence. He wiped a shaking hand across
his forehead, frowning as it came away drenched.

 "Saw you flee the scene. Thought you looked a funny colour." Fingers
pushed the sweaty strands of hair away from his forehead, gently brushing
them into place. The other hand moved from his back to rest on his cheek
like an ice-pack. "Still do, actually. No colour at all."

 Bodie refused to believe he was that obvious. He could feel himself
shaking underneath the touch, and he couldn't allow him to know. Blindly,
he pushed himself up from the tiles. The hands moved to support him under
his arms, and even though he wanted to shove them aside and do it himself,
it was clearly only thanks to them that he managed to stand at all. "So?"

 "So, what?"

 "So, what what?" Bodie was in no mood to explain himself. He concentrated
on putting one foot in front of the other, ignoring the arms wrapped round
his aching middle, or the shoulder he was leaning on.

 "So, nothing."

 Suddenly, he was sitting on the bed, waiting for the world to go the
right way up again. A rough thumb swept his chin, wiping away all traces
of illness, and Bodie felt all the more sick with shame. He breathed in
deep, trying to hold himself together as the hands deftly undressed him,
pulling his clothes from him with the minimal amount of fuss.

 The cold air of his flat rushed to meet his prickling skin, and he sighed
in relief. The shaking of his limbs increased suddenly, and almost at once
he was freezing cold. He could have cried, he felt so wretched.

 "You shouldn't." How he managed to speak when his throat was so tight
with humiliation, he didn't know.

 "Shouldn't what, now?" A warm set of pyjamas were pulled over his head
and legs. He was pressed into sinking back into his big pillows, and the
silken duvet was pulled up to his neck.

 "Shouldn't see me like this."

 A warm weight settled on his legs, and he revelled in the bizarre comfort
that weight gave him. A hand weaselled under the duvet and caught hold of
his, giving it a brief squeeze.

 "I'll see you anyway I want to see you, sunshine."

 Bodie snatched the thumb of the hand holding his, and rubbed it under the
covers. "I can't drink water."

 For some reason, that had made more sense in his head. He drifted away
from the candid words, because if he didn't think about them, he wouldn't
know how ill he felt.

 But he did, as usual. "Stomach flu, that is."

 "Ridiculous." Bodie could barely move, his limbs felt so heavy and
lifeless. He pushed his head deeper into the pillow, and forgot everything
around him as he drifted into healing unconsciousness, his stomach
loosening and his breath deepening.

 What he didn't forget, however, was the feeling of warm lips on his
forehead, nor the hand clenched round his. 

 ******

*3.*

 Poor old sod. Didn't half turn mopey when he was laid-up.

 Doyle glanced across the room: Bodie was lying, flat-out, on the sofa.
Nestled under a thick, army-issue sleeping bag, hunkered in amongst his
thick jumpers and Doyle's best wool scarf, with a rather fetching
deer-stalker hat sitting at an angle on his head to complete the picture.
Bodie was fast asleep, chin resting on his own chest.

 Couldn't be good for his back, that.

 Doyle set his book down on the table with a sigh, and crossed the room to
the sofa. Kneeling in front of his sleeping friend, he very gently pushed
Bodie back by the shoulders, so as he was leaning more on the sofa than
himself.

 He yelled in surprise as a hand thudded round his wrist, and another hand
landed in his hair, pulling it tight. Bodie's eyes flew open, cold and
dangerous, and he'd twisted both of his hands cruelly before he was
entirely awake, forcing Doyle's neck round to an almost unnatural angle.

 "Oi, Bodie, you great git!" Doyle cried out as he felt the skin of his
arm and scalp aflame with pain, his arm and neck bending dangerously.
"It's me, you stupid fucking oaf!"

 Bodie blinked stupidly under the deer-stalker. As the last clouds lifted
from his dull gaze, he let Doyle go as if he'd burned him. Doyle staggered
back, holding his sore wrist in his other hand, glaring at Bodie as if
he'd just kicked him in the arse.

 Bodie sneezed loudly, rolled over and went back to sleep. Acting, for all
the world, like a drowned puppy in a huff. Clearly, he hadn't been awake
enough to realise what had just happened -- that he'd nearly put his
partner out of a good gun hand. Doyle toyed with the idea of throwing
something at him, but decided that, in the end, it wasn't really Bodie's
fault.

 Just this one -- just this once, mind -- he'd leave it be. And when Bodie
woke up a few hours later, brighter in spirits and cheeks than he'd been
in a couple of days, he didn't even notice that Doyle was favouring his
other hand to serve the soup.

 The things you do for friends when they're ill.

 ******

*4.*

 It was one thing to be miserable. It was quite another to be miserable
because someone else was.

 Bodie couldn't sleep. His nose was too blocked up, he felt like there was
something extremely large and heavy pressing at the inside of his head,
and his chest felt like it was being squeezed by Towser.

 But it wasn't that that was keeping him awake, leaving him to stare at
the ceiling, as if he could burn a hole through it just by concentrating.
What was keeping him awake was on the other side of town, alone for the
first time since... And anyway, why shouldn't he go see him?

 He knew exactly why. He rolled over in annoyance and spent a good ten
minutes hacking nastily into his pillow. He punched it. It made him feel
slightly better, but he knew that something had to give. He had to know he
was alright.

 He was just...worried about him. The words felt foreign in his
consciousness, but that was just how things were. He did worry for Doyle
sometimes. And he was all alone in his flat, with healing holes through
both sides of him, and Bodie couldn't see him. All for some stupid,
pathetic cold.

 It'd had taken a lot of persuading to get Bodie to leave Doyle alone all
day. He'd tried to disguise the fact, blamed his bright red nose and
watering eyes on autumnal hay fever or something. Had tried to creep into
Doyle's flat to see him, even after he'd been expressly forbidden by
Cowley. It had taken a rather severe bollocking by the old man, and a
stark realisation that his head cold could possibly kill Doyle if he
passed it on.... That had been a shock, that.

 Bodie had returned with resignation to his cold, empty flat. And now he
lay in bed, glaring up at the ceiling and wondering if Doyle was okay
without him.

 It was stupid. Of course he was alright. He was Doyle. He was absolutely
unbreakable: nothing less was expected from a partner of Bodie's. He'd
survived a near-murdering, he could survive one night alone from Bodie,
who only annoyed the arse off him anyway. Nevermind that he'd been as weak
as a kitten ever since he got home from the hospital. Nevermind his
over-active mind had been working against him, pushing him deeper and
deeper into a post-traumatic depression that not even Bodie was sure he
could fetch him back from. Nevermind he'd lost all his spark, all his
enthusiasm for living, all his irritation, his edge, his bite. Nevermind
it was all buried under a ton of scar tissue that made Bodie look away
every time he caught a glimpse of it.

 The phone was in Bodie's hand even before he could sit up.

 It rung too long. It rung too bloody long. He'd taken a fall, he'd
overstretched himself, he'd fainted in the shower. Something had happened
to him. If only Bodie had been there to--

 "'ullo?"

 Bodie let out a sigh of sheer relief as the dull-sounding voice answered.
Only the sigh caught in his throat on the way out, and he started
coughing. Thick, wet coughs which weren't very pleasant to experience, let
alone have in your earhole.

 "Oh, Bodie. Right in my lug." Doyle moaned quietly, and Bodie strove to
quieten his coughs.

 "Sorry, mate," he eventually got his breathing back under control. He
realised with sudden dread that he should possibly, possibly have thought
up an excuse for checking up on Doyle. He went silent as his mind quickly
ran through a number of plausible possibilities, each more ridiculous than
the last.

 "Did you want something? Or is...or is phoning me up in...the middle...of
the night a new hobby?"

 Bodie winced at the short snaps of the sentence -- Doyle still couldn't
get a full one out without having a rest, it seemed. Bodie rubbed his eye
awkwardly, rather glad Doyle couldn't see him.

 "Um, well, you know. I just...wondered how you were doing without me
there, is all."

 What? That hadn't been a lie. That was the truth! Clearly this cold had
gotten deeper into Bodie's head than he'd perhaps realised.

 He could hear Doyle's breathing quicken in surprise. A moment passed. "I
don't like it."

 Bodie was stunned by the plaintive tone Doyle used. Whenever Doyle
exposed his deepest, darkest emotions, he usually did it at high volume
and with a good deal of bad grace, often taking Bodie's eardrum with it.
He did not do it at 2am on a cold evening across a sodding phone-wire.

 "I wish I was there, mate."

 Who'd said that? Had that been Bodie, again? What the fuck!

 "So do I...silver-sleeves." Bodie could hear the grin in his voice as
Doyle added the throw-away insult after a shuddering breath.

 "Get better," Doyle's demand was bizarrely soft in Bodie's ears, but he'd
hung up before Bodie had a chance to answer.

 Bodie sniffed, and passed an arm over his streaming nose, his usual
impeccable manner lost in the sickness. He put the phone down, and settled
back in his bed.

 "You, too."

 ******

*5.*

 The kettle whistled happily, and Bodie joined in with his own tune as he
poured two steaming hot teas.

 "God, pick a tune, any tune!"

 The rough bellow filtered into the kitchen from the living room, and
Bodie chuckled to himself. Oh, what a glorious day this was for the world.
What a rapturous meeting of Fate and irony. The mighty health-freak
himself had fallen, fallen to his own worst enemy.

 Doyle had flu. And, best of all, Bodie had been the one to give it to
him.

 Bodie laughed again to himself, picked up the teas, and trotted into the
living room. The scowl he received could have made a weaker man burst into
tears. As it was, Bodie faltered slightly, before setting the tea down on
the coffee table in front of the victim.

 His partner took a break from scowling at him to reach forward delicately
and pluck the mug from the table top, sitting back and taking a little sip
as he did so. He balked, thrusting the tea at Bodie.

 "There's no sugar in that."

 Bodie frowned. "But...you don't take sugar! Do you?"

 "No, I don't. But I am today," Doyle handed him the cup and went back to
scowling at him.

 Dutifully, and with increasingly wearing patience, Bodie took the tea
back into the kitchen, dumped a good two spoonfuls into it's murky depths,
and returned to sate the moody prince of plague.

 Doyle took it and sipped it suspiciously, but didn't say anything. Bodie
sat on the opposite chair to the sofa, and pretended to read a magazine
that'd been left there -- one of the many Bodie had fetched in for Doyle
when he'd been taken ill. But, secretly, he was spying on Doyle.

 The scowl had gone, but in it's place was something worse: a rather
pathetic, hang-dog expression of woe. Doyle's eyes and throat were all
puffed up, and his misshapen face was pale and blotchy with dark patches
of fatigue. His hair was greasy and standing up every which way, and he
shivered underneath the blankets Bodie had fetched for him. He'd didn't
half look poorly.

 "Do you need another blanket, Ray?" Bodie asked casually, eyes returning
to the magazine briefly. When he looked back up, Doyle had a face like
fury once again. He didn't look nearly so ill when he was angry,
apparently, and Bodie's suspicions were confirmed. Lucky he knew Doyle,
because otherwise he'd have punched him around about the time that morning
when his partner had thrown a book at his head for daring to suggest he
take some Calpol.

 "No, I don't need another blanket, idiot." Doyle's words were harsh, but
a little too nasal for him to get away with it entirely.

 Bodie sighed, put the magazine down and went over to sit next to his
partner on the sofa. He clapped a hand over his knee.

 "Ray, cut it out, yeah?"

 "Cut what out?" Doyle asked, almost spitting in Bodie's face as he tried
to move his leg away from him. Bodie held on, wrapping the other arm
around his thin shoulders.

 "I know you get mean when you're ill -- nasty little oik that you are --
but not even you can keep this up for much longer without doing yourself
some damage." He started rubbing Doyle's shoulder affectionately, feeling
as the tension eased slowly out of his back and arms. "Come on, admit it.
You're poorly."

 Doyle let out a sigh, and his expression of extreme dislike dropped away
suddenly, revealing a bloke who just looked very, very tired. He hung his
head. "Alright, alright... I'm poorly."

 "There, now," Bodie grinned happily, leaning back and shoving Doyle's
head onto his shoulder. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"

 "And I know who fucking made me poorly, and all," Doyle said, a touch of
menace taking over. He looked up at Bodie, and Bodie almost apologised at
seeing the look in those hard green eyes.

 Instead, he leant down and kissed Doyle quickly, tenderly on the lips.
"'Course. And you wouldn't have it any other way."

 "No," Doyle said, with a huge sniff right in Bodie's neck. "No, I suppose
I wouldn't."

 -- THE END --

 *November 2007*

   Archive Home