By Slanted Light

For probodie who saw this in my travelblog-thingie and wondered what Bodie would've thought of it...



Bodie stared at the plate in front of him, a rainbow of health and colour so fresh that it practically stared back. That wasn’t food, that was… something green atop something toasty brown, covered in something orange. It actually looked… tasty.

“And your hippy mates think people’ll eat this?” he asked, and looked up to see Doyle smiling back at him, eyes alight with the mischief of the moment, and.... surely something else.

Yes. Now.

Bodie grinned suddenly, eyed his dinner, then his partner. Too many vegetables, rather nutty, and far fruitier than you’d expect.

“See, Doyle, I’m a carnivore…”

From the pre-holiday drabble meme, finally, for dragongirl3745, who wanted a drabble "where the guys get off a rough case and need a little slashy loving"

Nights Like These
It was nights like this, Bodie thought, nights when the moon was high and full and the smell of blood was a roar in his ears, was an ache on Doyle's face, was a memory not yet locked away... Nights when they left the birds in bars, the booze in bottles, when they turned away from the brigher side of the night... Nights like this when he pulled Doyle to him, ran hands over him, breathed him in, and pressed naked and needing against him...

...it was nights like this that made him glad for every day they ever had.

And finally for erushi - the lads and the Capri... though possibly not quite what she was thinking of...

The Capri
No room to move, tipped upside down, tipped sideways and forwards and back again, barely time to breathe, or gasp, or moan. Just gear sticks, and steering wheels, and dashboards and the dark, hands and mouths, and the feel of clothes pushed away to bare skin, of kisses, and tongues licking, and pants of air, warm and wet against ears, necks. Cocks.

The Capri had seen such things, a hundred, hundred times, had felt the pull of dreams, of hope, of love. Slipping, tumbling down the embankment; lives flashing before eyes; headlights askew; bodies braced, determined; it would do again.

For earthdogue who requested something about Doyle's chest, which really was shaved for Discovered in a Graveyard...

Dark Imaginings
It was hospital-dim, that strange, shadowed half-light that was neither waking nor sleeping, but something in between, and Bodie sat at Doyle’s bedside, wished for the nightmare to be over. Breath came quietly, barely, both his and Doyle’s, in rhythm with the machines, the blink of lights, the drip-drip that fed life to them both.

He watched Doyle’s chest, wrongly-smooth now, rise and fall, and he thought of other times, of hair against his fingers, of nipples hard under the palm of his hand, of other gasps and moans and breaths.

What if..?

He reached out, touched warmth, kept breathing.

Oh yeay for quiet mornings... A Pros-y domestic drabble for ailcia...

At Home
At the end of the day there is tea and telly, books and music. There is sometimes a long run, and an even longer soak in a a tub of water so hot and steam-topped that he imagines exotic, volcanic pools, worlds far away, where there are no villains, no guns, no blood.

But at the end of the day he’d swap nothing, because Bodie is stretched lazily in front of the box, complaining about the wetness of Doyle’s hair against his legs, his stomach, as Doyle closes his eyes, listens to the nine o’clock news. Breathes in this life.

For Siskou, who wanted a crabby, exhausted - but not too exhausted - Doyle. I hope this is close!

Just the End of Another Day

“And get these people clear before the whole bloody lot comes down!”

He scowled, turned away, knew he was trembling, grit-eyed and exhausted. It had been a long time since he’d felt so bone-marrow-tired, so worn with death and destruction and the stupidity of man. They’d not stopped this bomb; for all their panting, breathless race, the dust still rose. He stepped over bodies, around bodies, through debris, needing to know, searching…

And there.

Bodie, hand dripping blood that ran down his gun in the rain and vanished into the cracked pavement, clothes torn, face grey.

Eyes blue.

Home soon.

Four long hours until escape... Oddly enough, I was thinking yesterday that it had been ages since I'd been a-drabbling, and what was in my flist this morning - callistosh65 offering a drabble meme! I was too late to be one of the five, but since I'm waiting impatiently to be Pros-y today, and since it's quiet here in temping-land (so far, anyway!) if anyone would like a Pros B/D slash drabble, then if you comment below with a prompt or two, I'll give it a go... *g*

And of course if anyone else would like to write drabbles for a drabble meme today then... you should! *g*

Waiting
Look at him, smile stretched across his face, eyes grinning, gaze touching your skin with such warmth you can feel it. It's what keeps you going when the day is too long and the night is even longer, it's what you hold onto when you're lying bruised and bleeding on the pavement somewhere.

It's as far as it will ever go, because you work for CI5, because Cowley needs you, and your country needs you even more, and one day long ago you vowed your life away.

You press your shoulder into his anyway, wanting more. You think about divorce.


Once upon a time, in a month far far away, I offered Pros drabbles to people who requested them and I've been just slightly delayed, but I didn't forget... *g*

Happiness
The sun shone warm on the flat white paving stones, soaked into Bodie's bones, his blood, his dreams. He woke slowly, revelling in it, in the fact that there was no one shooting at them, no one shouting for them, and there was another twelve days of just the same to come. He stretched lazily, feeling sleepy, cat-like.

Beside him Doyle dozed on his stomach, face half buried in the angle of his arms, and Bodie's gaze wandered across his shoulders, down the line of his tanning back, and even further.

Holiday, and cream of his very own.

He smiled.

When I'm 64
I try and imagine you as sixty four, all grey hair and beard, staring at me across the breakfast table, but all I can manage is the beard because you had one that time you went undercover in Dover. I told you then you frightened the ferries to moving faster, that you had another job lined up one day.

Such a long time ago, mate... Nothing's the same now. I miss it. I can't picture your face looking older and I never will be able to...

You're no older sunshine, not even at sixty three.

Now cut the bloody cake.