Poetry to Protect Us by The Hag (Mature)

[merentha13.livejournal.com]

Fandom: THE PROFESSIONALS
Pairing: Bodie/Doyle
Length: ~10500
Author on LJ: hagrus
Author’s Stories: Automated Hatstand; The Circuit Archive
Why this must be read: Hagrus is a unique voice in the Pro’s fandom. Her trademarks are humor, spot on characterization, great dialogue and the ability to make the reader feel what Bodie and Doyle are feeling.


In “Poetry to Protect Us”, Bodie is in hospital and his injuries prevent him from giving clues to CI5 to prevent a disastrous event. Meanwhile, Doyle has been sent on an undercover operation that required…well a bit of a change to his appearance.
The lads are always the lads in The Hag’s stories. Her deft use of humour - and puns(!) - shows the care between the two men without making them soppy.

He could hear Bodie out of range opening drawers and wardrobe, so he
heaved himself up, rubbing his eyes, reached for the mug of tea, drank
gratefully.

"Awake an' slurpin', me old rattlesnake?" Bodie, in Doyle's purple
dressing gown, was gathering clothes from the collection that had taken
up residence in his partner's flat, sorting what was wearable from what
needed cleaning.

"Trouser snake," Doyle suggested, "needs a bit of rattlin'."

"Randy toad, you are. Dip it in your tea. Keep it warm till I get round
to it."

Doyle contemplated this possibility. "Never tried it with a cuppa. You
done it with a Swiss roll?" He tucked the image away for future
enjoyment.

"Wicked waste, that. Swiss bird, once. Rolled her all night." Bodie
stacked his sartorial gleanings on a chair.

"Did she scream for Alp?"

"Screamed for me Matterhorn, didn't she? Noisy as you." Doyle smiled to
himself. Bodie took the empty mug out of his hand. "What's that smirk
about?" Doyle shook his head, eyes half-closed. "Let's be having this
snake, then."

A while later, thoroughly mongoosed, Doyle opened his eyes and gazed
into the dark blue ones that smiled lazily back at him.

"You've got something soppy going through your head." Doyle's tone was
one of mild accusation. He ran his fingers through Bodie's short dark
hair. "Might as well spit it out."

Bodie said resignedly, *"Because I liked you better than suits a man to
say..."*

"Been reading that Housman book again?" Doyle would tolerate "something
soppy" when he was in what Bodie thought of as one of his sweet moods.
They were rare enough. "I dunno, used to be you'd dish out a line every
six months but these days it's like living with a one-man poetry
society."

The tenderness these two hard men feel for each other is expertly depicted. The Hag makes you feel like you want to give them both a comforting hug.

The bathroom was quiet except for the snip of the scissors and the
occasional half-hearted wisecrack. Doyle sat on the laundry hamper
pulled in front the mirror, observing the process with a fair pretence
of indifference. The chestnut locks fell in sad little heaps on the
spread newspaper. Bodie watched the shape of Doyle's skull emerge: his
hands knew its form, but always cushioned by the hair. The unprotected
nape of his neck was exposed, and the silvery patches at his temples.
Doyle was right: nobody else's hands should wreak this intimate havoc.

"That's about as short as I can get it," Bodie said.

Doyle ran a questing hand over the stubbly remnants, grimacing at his
reflection. He picked up his electric razor. "Reckon this'll do the
rest of it?"

"Want me to?"

Wordlessly, Doyle handed him the shaver. His eyes focused beyond the
mirror, into some private distance.

Warm skin, curved plates of bone, so thin at the temples as the silver
fell away, so vulnerable. The damaged cheek, scarcely noticed any more
save as a familiar landmark to caress, seemed suddenly conspicuous. So
many scars on Doyle's lean body, all mapped onto his own palms and
fingers. The buzz of the razor couldn't conceal the occasional uneasy
catch of Doyle's breath as he watched the transformation.

"There you go," Bodie announced. "Need anything for the weekend, sir?
Why don't you shower off the bits while I tidy this lot up, then..."

"Well, at least nobody's going to be hanging me for the colour of my
hair." Doyle stared into the mirror, stared at a stranger. "Feel the
draught whistling round me lugs." He shook his head fretfully,
exploring with his fingertips. "Mum used to say if we messed about with
the rough kids we'd catch lice and need our heads shaved. Don't think
anyone ever did, but it was one of the things we were brainwashed to
think would be the worst shame…"
…"Not going to say I don't miss it," Bodie admitted, answering the
question in Doyle's eyes when they stopped to catch their breath. "Love
the way it feels. But it's not important, not really. Just a very
desirable optional extra. Proper villain you look," he added by way of
encouragement. "Wouldn't trust you alone with the kitten."

"Makes more sense in a fight," Doyle said. "Hurts getting grabbed by
the hair."

"I suppose that's why they do it. Safer, yeah."

"Prettier with it long?" Doyle chuckled.

"Nothing pretty about you at the best of times, mate," Bodie assured
him. "Gorgeous if the light hits you just right and you're in the
proper mood, but if I hung about waiting for that I'd be dead of
terminal lover's nuts months ago."

Doyle pushed himself up onto an elbow. His free hand traced the lines
of Bodie's ribs, poised to tickle again. "What d'you mean, proper
mood?"

Bodie thought about it. "When you aren't all strung up and ratty. When
you're happy you sort of light up. That photo caught it a bit. You just
see what's in the mirror when you happen to look, don't see the way
your face changes, like your eyes change, changing all the time." He
hesitated. "Wish you could see how gorgeous you are when you're turned
on, when I'm..."

Check this out!!

The Hag “knows” Bodie and Doyle and her stories are warm and witty.
Give this one a try!

Poetry to Protect Us