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crack_van2011-10-16 10:31 am
merentha13.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2011-10-16 10:31 am
Entry tags:
With a Dark Lantern by Callisto (Everyone)
Fandom: THE PROFESSIONALS
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Length: ~5700
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
callisto65
Author’s Stories: Automated Hatstand; The Circuit Archive
Why this must be read: Nobody does angst like Callisto.
I love dark, angsty stories. This one is set after the “Discovered in a Graveyard” episode. Doyle has closed himself off from everyone, including his partner. Bodie has tried to understand, has put up with the mood swings and sulking. He finally thinks he’s had enough. But he can’t leave. This is a story of support and love and what one will put up with when the person you love is hurting.
It had seemed a necessary evil on both sides at first. Bodie, awkward in his role as flatmate, but needed for a whole host of day-to-day things Ray simply couldn’t do. And Doyle, thrilled to be out of hospital, but less than thrilled to realise how little he could do with that fact. And they had worked it out, Bodie was sure of it. A lot of tension, swallowed pride and ex-girlfriends later, and the rhythm of their lives before Mayli had somehow beat its way back between them, stronger and more sure of its right to be there. In the relaxed evenings spent hurling insults at the TV, in the meals Doyle now made an effort to cook and eat with his partner, and in the massages a white-faced Doyle occasionally requested when the Tank had hurt him, they had fucking worked it out.
So where had it gone?
Part of the puzzle to Bodie was that Doyle’s slide back to sullen coincided with him getting much better. He was now only two weeks away from the obligatory refresher course and, barring complications, reassignment to light duties, then full reinstatement after he’d turned on the charm for Kate Ross. Bodie knew, as only Bodie would, that he still tired easily and moved slowly, especially at night. But it was all so gloriously fixable now, as if the Doyle at the end of the tunnel was finally in sight. So what his partner had now found to rail against with that vitriolic tongue of his – other than Bodie, of course – was beyond him.
He was tempted to leave, he truly was. Just pack a suitcase and go, before he or Ray said something they couldn’t get back from, and before he lost the ache to have his partner back by his side. He paused in the doorway to the living-room where Doyle was still reading and conspicuously ignoring him. And then he saw a tremor shake his partner’s hand on the book and he knew, without thinking why, that he would stay. God help him, there was still something at the bottom of the well, a reserve marked ‘Ray Doyle’ that was clear and free of tar. Just about.
But it’s not all dark. Callisto has the knack of knowing when the reader needs a bit of a break. That’s when a bit of the Bodie/Doyle humour shines through.
Kate, however, had not and eventually she was driven to take off for kinder pastures. Bodie had taken one look at the face pretending to watch TV after she’d left that last time and turned on his heel, slamming the door on his way out, afraid he’d slam something on his partner’s head if he stayed. He sought out Murph who clearly knew better than to ask, and had simply steered him though a few pints, a rowdy game of darts and a heated bit of argy-bargy over Arsenal’s recent defeat of Liverpool.
Feeling less like throwing Doyle through a window, Bodie had felt even less like it when he’d opened the front door on his return, to find his partner sitting at an odd angle in the hallway, one arm in a jacket sleeve and a face pinched with strain.
“What the bloody hell are you doing, Doyle?” The shock of it made his voice angry and sharp as he froze, keys in hand.
Two pain-filled eyes looked up. “Thought I’d catch the milkman, stop you hogging the cream of the milk for once.”
Bodie read between the lines of the defiant whisper, and shook his head. He exhaled and crouched down, examining the pale figure before him.
“Pillock.” Said with an impossible stretch of a smile, his first in quite a while.
“Says you.” Doyle tried to smile back.
Which somehow made all the difference in the world.
A hand reached out and fastened onto Bodie’s sleeve. “Felt bad. . .y’know, thought I’d have a go at making things right. Only, . . .”
“Only you couldn’t quite sprint out the door, could you?” Bodie gestured for Doyle to fasten his other hand on, intending a slow rise for them both. “Though how you thought you were going to get yourself to Streatham I do not know, sunshine. More hair than sense.”
“Kate? Christ, Bodie how the fuck would I get to Streatham?” Doyle’s voice and body wavered precariously under the assault of new blood to cramped limbs once he got upright, so he stayed where he was and Bodie stayed, too. He gripped Bodie’s arm harder and glared at him. “You, y’prat. Was going to the pub to find you.”
And that was what always took the rug out from under him. Just when he had himself all set to leave the obnoxious sod to wallow in his own juices, Doyle would do that. Would hit him with something so fierce and intense that Bodie would feel winded. And then calmed. And then sure of his place and importance again. He watched Doyle concentrate, both hands white-knuckled now on Bodie’s forearm while he steadied his breathing.
Bodie bit his lip. So fierce, Doyle, in all ways. In declaration, in defeat, in recovery. And in apology, which Bodie knew this was.
He wrapped his free arm around Doyle’s shoulder and felt the man still, and then give against him, determination and energy just about finished. He turned him slowly, knowing that at that precise moment he was not going to get rebuffed for anything he said or did.
With a Dark Lantern
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Length: ~5700
Author on LJ:
callisto65Author’s Stories: Automated Hatstand; The Circuit Archive
Why this must be read: Nobody does angst like Callisto.
I love dark, angsty stories. This one is set after the “Discovered in a Graveyard” episode. Doyle has closed himself off from everyone, including his partner. Bodie has tried to understand, has put up with the mood swings and sulking. He finally thinks he’s had enough. But he can’t leave. This is a story of support and love and what one will put up with when the person you love is hurting.
It had seemed a necessary evil on both sides at first. Bodie, awkward in his role as flatmate, but needed for a whole host of day-to-day things Ray simply couldn’t do. And Doyle, thrilled to be out of hospital, but less than thrilled to realise how little he could do with that fact. And they had worked it out, Bodie was sure of it. A lot of tension, swallowed pride and ex-girlfriends later, and the rhythm of their lives before Mayli had somehow beat its way back between them, stronger and more sure of its right to be there. In the relaxed evenings spent hurling insults at the TV, in the meals Doyle now made an effort to cook and eat with his partner, and in the massages a white-faced Doyle occasionally requested when the Tank had hurt him, they had fucking worked it out.
So where had it gone?
Part of the puzzle to Bodie was that Doyle’s slide back to sullen coincided with him getting much better. He was now only two weeks away from the obligatory refresher course and, barring complications, reassignment to light duties, then full reinstatement after he’d turned on the charm for Kate Ross. Bodie knew, as only Bodie would, that he still tired easily and moved slowly, especially at night. But it was all so gloriously fixable now, as if the Doyle at the end of the tunnel was finally in sight. So what his partner had now found to rail against with that vitriolic tongue of his – other than Bodie, of course – was beyond him.
He was tempted to leave, he truly was. Just pack a suitcase and go, before he or Ray said something they couldn’t get back from, and before he lost the ache to have his partner back by his side. He paused in the doorway to the living-room where Doyle was still reading and conspicuously ignoring him. And then he saw a tremor shake his partner’s hand on the book and he knew, without thinking why, that he would stay. God help him, there was still something at the bottom of the well, a reserve marked ‘Ray Doyle’ that was clear and free of tar. Just about.
But it’s not all dark. Callisto has the knack of knowing when the reader needs a bit of a break. That’s when a bit of the Bodie/Doyle humour shines through.
Kate, however, had not and eventually she was driven to take off for kinder pastures. Bodie had taken one look at the face pretending to watch TV after she’d left that last time and turned on his heel, slamming the door on his way out, afraid he’d slam something on his partner’s head if he stayed. He sought out Murph who clearly knew better than to ask, and had simply steered him though a few pints, a rowdy game of darts and a heated bit of argy-bargy over Arsenal’s recent defeat of Liverpool.
Feeling less like throwing Doyle through a window, Bodie had felt even less like it when he’d opened the front door on his return, to find his partner sitting at an odd angle in the hallway, one arm in a jacket sleeve and a face pinched with strain.
“What the bloody hell are you doing, Doyle?” The shock of it made his voice angry and sharp as he froze, keys in hand.
Two pain-filled eyes looked up. “Thought I’d catch the milkman, stop you hogging the cream of the milk for once.”
Bodie read between the lines of the defiant whisper, and shook his head. He exhaled and crouched down, examining the pale figure before him.
“Pillock.” Said with an impossible stretch of a smile, his first in quite a while.
“Says you.” Doyle tried to smile back.
Which somehow made all the difference in the world.
A hand reached out and fastened onto Bodie’s sleeve. “Felt bad. . .y’know, thought I’d have a go at making things right. Only, . . .”
“Only you couldn’t quite sprint out the door, could you?” Bodie gestured for Doyle to fasten his other hand on, intending a slow rise for them both. “Though how you thought you were going to get yourself to Streatham I do not know, sunshine. More hair than sense.”
“Kate? Christ, Bodie how the fuck would I get to Streatham?” Doyle’s voice and body wavered precariously under the assault of new blood to cramped limbs once he got upright, so he stayed where he was and Bodie stayed, too. He gripped Bodie’s arm harder and glared at him. “You, y’prat. Was going to the pub to find you.”
And that was what always took the rug out from under him. Just when he had himself all set to leave the obnoxious sod to wallow in his own juices, Doyle would do that. Would hit him with something so fierce and intense that Bodie would feel winded. And then calmed. And then sure of his place and importance again. He watched Doyle concentrate, both hands white-knuckled now on Bodie’s forearm while he steadied his breathing.
Bodie bit his lip. So fierce, Doyle, in all ways. In declaration, in defeat, in recovery. And in apology, which Bodie knew this was.
He wrapped his free arm around Doyle’s shoulder and felt the man still, and then give against him, determination and energy just about finished. He turned him slowly, knowing that at that precise moment he was not going to get rebuffed for anything he said or did.
This is a wonderful story of friendship and support. If you need a story that will bring a smile in the end, try this one.
With a Dark Lantern
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