The Professionals Circuit Archive - Stultiloquy	Stultiloquy

 

by Sebastian 

  
 Doyle was considering a faint bleeping noise, the source of which was not
immediately evident. Then he gave up on the problem. "No doubt the
universe was unfolding - as it should," he thought solemnly to himself, in
his usual concerned way. He glanced over at Bodie, who was immersed in a
newspaper. The sports page. Poor old Bodie, thought Doyle fondly,
embroiled in fantasies of light, controlled movement, the disciplines of
bodily fluidity - how must it feel to be built like a tank? 

Nevertheless, the large body of his partner sent a shiver through him, and
something moved him to say: "Bodie." 

"Hmmm?" 

Doyle slipped to his knees, his wrists circled with silver, clasped
appealingly before him as he said softly, "Bodie, I want you to - take
me." He looked up, soulfully, shaking back his curls. 

"Uh?" 

"Take me," repeated Doyle more desperately. 

Bodie didn't look up from his perusal of the soccer scores. "Take you
where?" he enquired abstractedly. 

Astounded, Doyle stared for a moment, then gave a sigh of frustration,
pounding one slim and beautiful hand into the carpet. Alerted to the
symptoms of distress close at hand, Bodie threw aside the newspaper, and
stared down, his deep, blue eyes exactly like fringed navy nightlights.
Doyle was so beautiful, down there on his knees really giving it to the
carpet, his bowed head speaking eloquently of rejection. 

"Hey, curlytop," he whispered, gently. "Did I say something to upset you?"


"You really get up my nose sometimes," sniffed Doyle, sulking. 

Perplexed, Bodie knelt down beside him, saying tenderly; "But you like me
to." And he traced a reminiscent fingertip around one exquisite nostril,
watching it quiver with excited response. 

Doyle brushed his hand aside angrily. "Idiot." The strange bleeping noise
caught his attention again and he pricked up his ears, alert as the big
jungle cat he was. "What is that?" 

Bodie smirked, and proudly produced a tiny device from a pocket. "I bugged
George Cowley." 

Doyle stared. "What, again?" 

"Why not, he's buggered me often enough," said Bodie promptly, with the
expectant air of a magician producing a rabbit from a hat. It was his big
moment; he waited, almost bursting with gleeful triumph, for Doyle's
uncontrollable mirth. 

Instead, Doyle looked merely faintly sympathetic, if intensely irritated;
and it wasn't an easy mix of expressions. "You got it wrong." When would
Bodie give up on this joke? This made the fifth time this week. "He's
bugged you often enough," he elaborated, at Bodie's blank stare of
non-comprehension. "Not buggered you." 

Bodie gave meaningful leer. "Aha," he quipped naughtily hoping to elicit
interest and jealousy. When nothing happened, he said it again even more
meaningfully - "Ah-*ha*." 

Doyle was neither amused, nor jealous, nor interested. How cool he was!
Bodie was moved, as ever, by the togetherness of his partner, and he
stared deeply into his eyes, fascinated. "Your eyes are like aquariums,"
he murmured admiringly. 

"Don't you mean - aquamarines?" 

Bodie shook his head. "No - aquariums. They're sort of a murky green," he
explained. Doyle did not appear uncontrollably flattered by this, so Bodie
rushed on, "Ray, let's go to bed." 

"Why?" said Doyle moodily, remembering his earlier rejection. 

"I'm sure we can think of an excuse." Bodie applied himself seriously to
the problem. "Anyone hit you over the head today? No? Well, have you
bumped into a door?" 

"No... can't say I have," Doyle conceded reluctantly. 

Bodie wasn't discouraged. "Never mind, plenty more to go. Let's see - are
we pretending to be gay this week?" 

Doyle winced, shook his head. "Stay in character, 3.6 - " he hissed,
looking nervously around. 

"- 7 -" corrected Bodie automatically. 

"- 7.6 - this week we're infiltrating the Keep Britain Clean campaign." 

"So we are." Bodie's eyes gleamed as a sudden idea struck him. "Tell you
what - I bet you a night with George Cowley you couldn't not be turned on
by me, and you - " 

"No," Doyle interrupted the enthusiastic flow. "That wouldn't work. Lacks
realism." 

Bodie's eyes dropped to the tight trousers and saw what he meant. "Well,
OK then. How about this - we go to bed, and I have a nightmare, or I feel
ill, who cares? - and you come in and comfort me, and suddenly our bodies
naturally fit together in the unknowing embrace of sleep, and then our
eyes flash open and meet, and -" 

Doyle made a face. "Nah, hackneyed." 

Bodie was running out of ideas. "Are we drunk? I often get carried away
when I'm drunk -" "Yeah, I know, and last time it took three of us to lift
you." Doyle cast a tetchy eye at Body's solid bodie. 

"Ray, I've really got it this time." Bodie was practically hopping with
excitement. "We'll play a game." 

"What game?" asked Doyle, with cautious interest. 

"One I learnt in Africa -" 

Doyle was shaking his head determinedly. "No way. Not that game." 

"Wait, you haven't -" 

"Oh yes I have. You've told me hundreds of times - you didn't like it, but
you had to play it so you made sure you won, which you did nine times out
of ten and it's *that* bit that worries me." 

"Not that game," said Bodie impatiently. He pronounced, carefully: "Strip
Tongs." 

"Strip Tongs?" Doyle repeated blankly, searching the phrase for meaning. 

"Something to do with fire, anyway," said Bodie, puzzling over it; then
brightening. "Anyway, the strip was the important part." He eyed Doyle
with hopeful lasciviousness. 

"Oh, let's give up," decided Doyle in the end. "Go and find some girls
instead." 

Oddly, the idea didn't appeal to either of the two lustful, macho agents.
"Of course," Bodie suggested, hesitantly, not at all sure how Doyle was
going to take this, "of course, we could always..." 

"Always what?" 

"Well, we could always just admit that OK, we're two randy males and we
Just feel like having it off together." He eyed the ground nervously. 

"Having it off," queried Doyle, incredulous at the crudeness of the man.
"Surely you mean something more like - we leave the tides of reality to
commune in a glorious whirlpool of ecstasy as our beings merge at the peak
of an unbearably shattering crescendo?" 

Bodie visibly struggled to work it out. Eventually - "You mean - we come?"
he finally deduced. 

Doyle nodded. Bodie gazed at him, wonderingly. "You know, that's what I
like about you, Doyle," he breathed. "You're so - priapismic..." 

Doyle had to get the punchline. He eyed Bodie with pity. "Mate?" 

"Yeah?" 

"There's no such word."

-- THE END --

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