Pros fic - Cast On by Slantedlight

[byslantedlight]

So a wee little while ago (okay, three weeks ago...) I said I'd make Pros posts for prompts, and then it took me a week to make the first one, and it's taken me two weeks to make this one (colds and babies and things having been in the way), but on the bright side - it's actually Pros fic. *g* I've written a new Pros story, the first one for ages and ages. Hurrah! *vbg*

Cast On is for the prompt that macklingirl gave me, all that time ago...

Cast On
by Slantedlight

for MacklinGirl

Bodie lay panting on the bed, arms thrown above his head and breath coming hard in a way it never did when he had sex with a woman. Christ, but Doyle was good to fuck, a right raver in bed - and it wasn’t wearing off, not like it did even with birds he liked properly, like Jennifer and Inger. He closed his eyes, smiling. It was bizarre, alright, but not something he was complaining about. Doyle was Doyle, comfortable and right to have around, just Doyle. Maybe that was why he wasn’t bored with it yet.

They’d done it three times just since coming off work in the very small hours of the morning, and God knew what state they’d be in on Monday, because even now, sated and lazy with it, he had every intention of keeping Doyle fucked and in bed all weekend.

He glanced to his left. Doyle was asleep again - he always fell asleep right after - and he’d turned onto his side when Bodie had pulled out, facing away so that the long line of his spine curled from those muscled shoulders down and down into the blankets, to where Bodie could picture his arse, could imagine his own come seeping from inside, slick and hot, Ray marked by it.

If he fucked him after Doyle had showered on Monday, just before they left for work, Doyle would walk around CI5 all day with Bodie’s come on him, in him. Christ yes - he’d like to do that, to know that Doyle was branded, Bodie’s, for the whole of London to see, if only they could look.

Maybe they could even fuck in that cupboard they laughingly called their office. It wasn’t as if it had windows, just that air vent in the outside wall to ensure they didn’t suffocate too quickly. Yeah, maybe he would fuck Doyle in all four corners of that room, and over the desk and against the door, on his knees on the floor; he could fill his arse, and make Doyle come again and again…

“’s it morning already?” Doyle’s voice was sleep-rough, deep and sexy as hell.

Bodie took another long, languid breath and shifted, reaching down to stroke himself, hard again already, then glanced at the clock.

“Almost eleven.” He felt his mouth stretch into a smirk, smug with knowing that they didn’t have to go out into the daylight that was making its way far too brightly around the edges of the curtains, with having Doyle beside him, with the weekend of amazing sex that stretched in front of them. He gave himself another pull, then turned onto his side and reached out to run a finger down that long spine. Catching a glimpse of Doyle’s skin had always turned him on, right from that first day they’d met, and now here it was, all his.

He curled closer, slid his hand down Doyle’s side, paused to put his lips to Doyle’s back, to kiss him from one side of his spine to the other, and felt Doyle take his own deep breath. That was it, there…

He reached down and around to take Doyle’s prick into his hand, kissing upwards now towards that place on his neck that made Doyle squirm - and found his wrist held in an iron grip, his hand pulled away, and nothing but air against his lips as Doyle turned.

Doyle’s eyes met his. “What is this?”

“Eh?”

“This.” Doyle gestured from himself to Bodie and back again, still holding Bodie’s hand until Bodie shook him off. “This… What are we doing, Bodie?”

What the fuck?

“Well I was hoping you’d noticed,” Bodie said, in his best Groucho Marx, grinning and reaching under the blankets again.

And Doyle stopped him again. “Will you be serious for a minute? What are we doing?”

Right. He lay back, threw his arm back over his head again, then moved it down, over his eyes, blacking out the world.

“What the hell are you on about?” It was the wrong thing to say, and he knew it before he’d even opened his mouth, but the words came anyway, because they always did. When it was a bird, he kept them as gentle as he could, but at least he didn’t have to pretend with Doyle, he could be himself.

Fuck. He didn’t want it this time - really didn’t want it. He could feel the words like a blow to the stomach, a hard blow - one of Doyle’s - a dark pit that pushed deeper and deeper. This was Doyle, he’d thought…

“This is sex.”

Bloody Doyle, of course he should have known, nothing could be easy and uncomplicated.

He lifted his arm, turned his head on the pillow. One more try to keep them on the level, to hold onto this. “So you did notice.”

But Doyle didn’t answer, didn’t give back as good as he got, not this time. This time he got out of bed, stalked the three feet to the chair in the corner of the room, and began dragging his clothes on. Bodie watched him for a moment, stepping into his jeans, breathing in hard to get them done up, pulling a t-shirt over his head, then his shirt, then his thick white jumper.

Well, it was January, and it was cold.

Doyle vanished through the doorway, and the bathroom door slammed. Bodie listened to the water run for a moment, then the thunk and hum as the boiler kicked in, and then he got up himself and started to dress. Pants, trousers, vest, shirt. Clean pullover, because he’d got blood on yesterday’s. He’d probably have to throw it out.

He’d thought that it was different with them. He’d thought…

And then Doyle was back in the room, looking for his shoes, and Bodie straightened from pulling his own socks on, slid his feet into the brogues that were still in their place beside the bed, tied the laces automatically. Doyle bent low to reach a trainer that had slid under the wardrobe, then shoved his foot into it, somehow got it on without untying it at all, and then the other trainer, and then he was gone again, out the door, through the small hallway. Bodie followed him into the living room, not because it would do any good, because it never had before, but because this time he had to. Doyle paused in the middle of the carpet, as if he wasn’t sure whether to stay or whether to go, and Bodie stopped too, watching him.

“Fed up with it, are you?” he asked at last. It was hard to say anything at all, his throat tight.

Doyle turned around and met Bodie’s gaze, and something in it seemed to catch at him, to still his wild movement. “No,” he said. “I’m not fed up with it. I just…” He threw his head back as if he’d find the answers he needed on the ceiling, stood there for a moment, hands on hips, chest heaving. Then he looked down again. “I need to know what we’re doing here, Bodie. Sex for a few weeks? A few months?” A heartbeat pause. “More?”

Sex for as long as you’ll have me, Bodie wanted to say. And when you won’t, then just us again. For as long as you’ll have me after that. How did Doyle not know this, not know it the same way he did?

He looked away again and strode across to the window, because it was more than he could do to stare into the pit itself. They hadn’t closed the curtains when they came in last night, too desperate for each other, for the comfort of the dark and the warmth of the bed together, and winter cold streamed in at him through the nets. The sky was a pale blue, some of the cars parked along the street still rimed with frost.

“What do you want from me, Doyle?”

“I don’t even know who you are, Bodie! Your bedroom’s practically got a revolving door - what am I supposed to think?”

A revolving… That was what Doyle thought? That he was going to be revolved right out onto the cold streets any day now?

“You know me -” Bodie began, turning away from the window again, back into the room to face Doyle. Doyle, whose words came too fast and too hot when he was unsure of himself, when he hid himself in anger to avoid running away.

They both had their own ways of doing things, things they found too hard.

It wasn’t just sex.

“Bedroom,” he said tightly, and Doyle frowned, so he frowned back. “And you say I’ve got a one track mind. Chest of drawers. Bottom drawer.”

Doyle didn’t stop frowning, but he did finally turn and stride towards the bedroom door, pushing it unnecessarily further open as he went, and hard, so that it bounced back from the wall on its hinges.

Bodie rolled his eyes, waited until he heard the rasp of the drawer being opened, and then followed.

Doyle had crouched down, one knee to the bare floorboards, hands still resting on the drawer’s wooden handles, and he was staring wide-eyed into it.

Well, he supposed it did look a bit bizarre.

“Bodie?”

Piles and piles of knitted woollen gloves on one side, rows of matching scarves rolled up on the other. They were a rainbow of colours, everything from a rich cream through wine-dark maroon, to khaki green and black, but mostly dark shades, and more blue than anything else, because she’d always liked to bring out his eyes.

Bodie stood behind him, not reaching down, not touching him. He needed a bit of space for this, to keep just a little distance. It was hard to get too close. “Me mum,” he said. “Knits me a set every Christmas. Can’t exactly tell her they’d catch on the trigger, can I?”

But he’d kept them, every single pair, every single scarf, every single year, because what else could he do with them? He could see Doyle realise it even as he thought it, see it in the way his head suddenly tipped minutely back, the way he licked his lips, caught his bottom lip in his teeth.

Yeah, this was big alright. This was it. And now Doyle knew it too.

“Should fit you too,” he said, gruff because he had to be. “Pick a pair, put ‘em on, stop asking stupid questions, and get down the fucking stairs before I throw you down. There’s a pub lunch somewhere out there with my name on.”

A pub lunch, maybe a blazing fire, and probably, Doyle being Doyle, too many other questions that he didn’t want to answer. But maybe he could get them through all that bright, cold air and back into the warmth before it started.

“So when are we going to see her, then?”

Then again, Doyle being Doyle, the warmth was already all around them, wasn’t it - and Doyle just pitched them both into it, same as he did at work when the fists were flying.

Bodie pulled out a pair of gloves at random for himself. They were darker than navy blue; ink blue maybe, the colour of his mum’s eyes when she was backed in a corner and about to come out fighting. His own too, he supposed, because everyone said he looked most like her.

Doyle would want to know that.

“You want to head up north to the Wirral in January?” He let Doyle rise to his feet and then gave him a push to get him headed in the right direction. “Get those gloves on. Better waiting for spring, mate. Or summer - summer’d be better, much better…” He pulled open the front door.

“Bo-die…”

Bodie took a clean breath of frosty air, slid his hands into his own gloves, warm all through, and found himself smiling.