Pros fic: Red, White and Blue

My prompt was a Jubilee mug. It's there. Blink and you'll miss it, but it's there.*g*



Red, White and Blue

Paper bag in hand, Bodie got back in the car and frightened Anson badly by chortling at him. God knows what the bloody hell there was to keep 3.7 amused in the miserable op they’d just come off. Two days outside an abandoned warehouse in Soho, knee deep in abandoned Jubilee streamers, and not even a dirty magazine at the end of it. Or...hang about...Anson eyed with deep suspicion the crumpled brown bag Bodie was clutching.

“What’s that, then? Debbie Does Dallas?”

The withering look bounced off him as always.

“As if. Where’ve you been? Debbie did Dallas a long time ago, mate.”

The silence stretched as both men watched a light summer shower start to spit on the windscreen.

“So, what is it then?”

Affecting a deep sigh, Bodie then turned a sudden smile on Anson, startling him yet again. He tapped the side of his nose.

“This, Mr Nosy Parker is...well, we’ll call it afters, shall we? So get us home, and don’t spare the horses.”

Wondering if he was the only sane one left in the Squad these days, Anson was only too happy to oblige.

*******

Doyle, on the other hand, was about as far from chortling as a man could be. He’d been hand-holding some diplomat’s visiting mother because of the whisper of a hit from Israeli Intelligence. It had done no good, of course, to point out that there was always the whisper of a hit from Israeli Intelligence. And Doyle knew that because his right ear was still ringing from the scathing manner and volume in which Cowley had replied to his unwise stating of the obvious. The Asher Biebermann case was too recent for the Israelis to be anything but antsy, so to keep them happy ‘and out of Cowley’s office, no doubt’, Doyle had been duly dispatched to watch and protect for a week.

“Look at it this way, sunshine, she’ll shop, you’ll carry her bags, and with any luck you’ll remind her of her favourite sprog and she’ll pinch your cheeks five times a day.”

“Bloody enjoying this, aren’t you?” But Doyle’s scowl wouldn’t hold as Bodie pulled him closer and chuckled wickedly in his ear.

“’Course I am.”

Doyle bit the nearest patch of skin in reply, then settled down, rubbing his cheek across Bodie’s shoulder in an unconscious gesture of comfort. He squinted at the clock next to the bed. 12.01. He’d be up and on his way in four hours.

He curled his palm around Bodie’s left side.

“I’ll miss my birthday.”

“Thought you hated birthdays.”

"Yeah, but now that..." He petered off, unwilling to articulate the sentimental thought threatening to spill out.

It seemed he didn't have to. Bodie squeezed him and rubbed his hair. "Sentimental sod. We'll celebrate when you get back. And who knows? Play your cards right and you might get a proper pressie."

Doyle snorted, having little faith in Bodie's ability to move past the toy cars and rude T-shirts that tended to be the rule of thumb in CI5, despite the fact that they had ended up surprisingly exclusive and almost living together in the last couple of months.

Some minutes of silence passed and Doyle was sliding off to sleep when a mumble in his ear brought him back.

"You'll miss the Jubilee too. 'S a shame."

Incredulous, Doyle raised up, but Bodie had done his usual and fallen instantly asleep after a last minute mutter. Doyle lay back on the pillow and pondered both his birthday and the Jubilee. It brought out the patriotic serviceman in his partner, yet he himself had no patience for it, and why was no mystery either. Him and the Queen. One born, one crowned, two days and eight years apart. He remembered the fuss and disappointment, and all the bloody awful coronation regalia his nearest and dearest had suddenly found suitable for an eight year old on his birthday. "Be worth a fortune one day, lad."

He'd had his heart set on a fire engine, so he'd had a splendid sulk and not been much of a royalist since.

******

“Before you ask, don’t. Been driving since dawn, I’m creamfuckingcrackered, and I’m starving.”

“And hello to you’n’all, sunshine.”

The scowl he got in greeting as Doyle slumped heavily into a chair just reaffirmed that all was well with the world. Doyle rarely came off protection ops in a sunny state of mind, especially if nothing had happened to warrant them.

“Aw, tough was it? All those nasty shopping bags.” Bodie opened a can of lager and put it in front of his rumpled partner. He ruffled his hair and was not really surprised when his wrist was then caught.

“Yeah, something like that. C’mere.” Hauled in for a bruising kiss, Bodie’s neck ached at the angle and he pulled back, but only far enough so that each could look and get a slow grin out of the other.

“Hello, mate.”

Two words, said a million ways in his lifetime, but only Doyle made him feel like he’d lassoed the sun to get them. He straightened and eased the crick in his shoulders. Jesus H, he’d be quoting poetry at him soon if he wasn’t careful.

“Hang on...” Doyle bent and rummaged in his holdall, extracting something from the mess of crumpled clothes. “Here. Don’t say I never give you anything.”

Bodie regarded the gilded face of the Queen smiling at him from the mug on the kitchen table.

“Gee, you shouldn’t have.”

“Didn’t, you can thank the lovely Mrs Meyer. You would not believe the week I have just suffered for Queen and country, mate.” Doyle leant back in the chair, laced his hands behind his head, and Bodie, realising he was in for the long haul, got up and took their chicken suppers out of the oven. “It turns out the lovely Mrs M is a monarchist with a capital bloody M, and she only wants to traipse around as many crumbling bits of England as she can, doesn’t she? And buy as much Jubilee rubbish as she can lay her hands on. And did I mention the fact that she doesn’t speak English? Not one fucking word, so muggins here not only gets to …”

He kept it up, around mouthfuls of chicken and chips and swallows of lager, and Bodie responded with grunts and guffaws in all the right places, entertained to the core by all the pomp and circumstance his Bolshevik partner had had to endure.

Meal disposed of, second can of lager opened, and Bodie was amazed to feel something flutter in his stomach when he reached under the sink and tossed a package onto the table as nonchalantly as he could.

“Bit late, but happy birthday.”

Doyle slowly put the can down and looked from the package to Bodie, a quizzical look on his face, and the beginnings of a shy smile, for Chrissake, which only increased the butterflies.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Was going to give it to charity, but then who’s...”

“...more deserving of charity than me. Cheers.”

But Doyle’s manner lost all flippancy as he set to the wrapping, and by the time he drew out what was inside, Bodie’s palms were sweating.

“Fucking hell, Bodie.” Doyle said it quietly, and with an awe that made Bodie’s throat tighten.

He forced himself to say lightly. “If you don’t like it, I can’t change it.”

“What’s to change? It’s beautiful.” In his hands he held a holster. Light brown, made to measure, and of the softest, most supple Italian leather Bodie’s nefarious contacts had been able to get hold of.

The idea had come to Bodie on a stakeout. He’d been half-listening to Doyle bitch about the strap on his holster for the nth time, and ignoring him whine about the amount of gun oil it needed. Doyle had drenched his original holster in seawater, and Cowley had refused his requisition for a new one on the grounds that it was Doyle’s fault he’d gone overboard in the first place.

“You’re as tight-fisted as he is, Doyle. No doubt the pair of you invented copper wire fighting over a penny. Will you just buy a new one and shut up?”

Unappreciated witticisms aside, the idea had been purely practical at first, because he knew Doyle would most definitely not just buy a new one and shut up. But it had evolved into a grand gesture, a desire to please, to make the man happy, rather than merely uncomplaining. And judging from the daft look on his face...

“Dunno what to say.”

“Blimey, I’ll wrap something up once a week if that’s-” A sudden armful of Ray Doyle knocked the end off his sentence and pushed him a step back against the sink.

“Thanks.” Muffled and spoken into the right side of his head, Doyle latched on like a fierce limpet, and Bodie knew he wasn’t going to get to see his face until it was under control. Stuff that. He pulled his head away enough to force Doyle to bring his up, and then grinned at the bright eyes he saw.

“Not a word, Bodie. Not one bloody word.”

“’F you say so, sunshine, only you might want to look in that bag over there.” Bodie inclined his head and loosened his hold, aware as Doyle stepped away that Ray’s groin would always fit his perfectly, that a week with your hand was a long time, and that expensive Italian leather aside, the best part of this day lay in a crumpled brown paper bag somewhere to his left.

He watched a deeply suspicious Doyle keep one eye on him, clearly gauging his reactions while he gingerly reached a hand in.

Bodie shook his head. “Can see why you do bombs, mate. That’s a great technique you’ve got there.”

But Doyle wasn’t listening, he was frowning at the label of the Nivea-sized jar he had just pulled out. Bodie bit his lip.

He watched Doyle read the label, muttering the words under his breath at first, then aloud, after a cackle that almost convulsed him. “‘Edible Jubilee Body Paint. It’s tasty, sexy, and patriotic.’ Oh, Christ but you’re a nutter, Bodie.”

Bodie let his grin out then, savouring it. He reached out and grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the jar, pulling Doyle in close. “Red, white and blue, sunshine. The very least we can do to make up for missing Her Majesty’s party.” He flicked his nose, “so get in there, get me stripped and get painting.”

******

Doyle stood in the doorway of the bedroom and surveyed the organised scene before him. Bodie assaulted happiness, he mused, much like the Eiger he once claimed to have climbed. He planned his route, took all the right equipment, and bore onwards and upwards with ever increasing confidence that all would be well. Doyle had always believed his claim about the Eiger to be so much macho bollocks, coming as it had done mere days after being paired, when Doyle was suffering from a twisted ankle care of Macklin, and Bodie was gloating. Now he took in the neatly hung bathrobes behind the door, the light from the bedside lamp, the towels folded on the chair by the bed, the old, clean sheet stretched across the mattress and wondered. He shook his head at the corners. Military to the end was his Bodie.

A pair of arms slid around him from behind and the hair at the nape of his neck was nuzzled aside. He shivered and reached back.

“Thought I was supposed to do that,” he said. Bodie was naked and deliciously cool and clean from his shower.

“Do what?” Bodie breathed it into his ear and Doyle couldn’t remember.

“Never mind,” he turned and fastened his lips on the warm pulse of his partner’s throat, reluctant to break the contact as he let Bodie get him out of his remaining clothes.

“Why d’you have a shower?” Doyle managed to ask, as he was waltzed clumsily in the direction of the bed, his erection already grinding and rubbing into whatever part of Bodie he could get at.

He was on the bed and flat on his back before he got the answer, hot in his ear.

“A clean canvas, sunshine.”

******

“Should I blow it out then?”

Not really expecting an answer, Doyle was gratified to see his partner capable of little more than a growl. Bodie clenched the old bedsheet a little tighter and thrust his pelvis upwards, finding Doyle’s chin in the vague hope of finding his mouth.

He blew, watched the shiver travel the length of Bodie’s cock, then swirled his tongue around the head. Just the once.

“Always did like vanilla,” he murmured.

A moment’s self-conscious pause; that was all it had taken for Doyle to put his finger in the divider marked ‘blue’ and smear it on his partner, first one nipple, then the other. He had licked it off and tasted berries. Bodie’d expressed scepticism, so tongue to tongue he’d shown him and they’d gone from there.

Five minutes later and Bodie had blue balls (Doyle had been unable to resist that one), together with a trail of red in the roughest of circles around his cock . “See?” Doyle had explained softly, still playing his finger through the colours. “This here red’s the strawberry cake, and this...” his slicked-up hand had then wrapped vanilla white from base to straining tip, “...is me candle.” He’d paused, fingers round the base, mouth a breath away from the tip until Bodie’d managed the strength to raise up and look at him, breathing wildly uneven.

Doyle had grinned then, loving that he could get his sartorial partner to this state with nothing more than his hand and the promise of his mouth.

“Should I blow it out then?”

“I might kill you if you don’t.” Bodie’s head went heavily back onto the pillow.

“Wouldn’t want that holster going to waste now, would I? Not considering that no one else-”

“Doyle?”

“Yeah?”

“Happy birthday, mate. Again. Now fucking blow.”

Doyle bent to the task, inhaling the heady smell of sweat, Bodie and the Jubilee before he licked and stroked his vanilla-berry way from base to tip. Three hard, deep-throated sucks later and he found the bittersweet taste of vanilla and semen at the back of this throat, and a frozen, softly cursing Bodie suspended beneath him.

“Ray...Christ...went off like a fuckin-”

Doyle swallowed the end of his sentence this time. Whole, with a swathe of colour and tongue, as urgency drove him upwards to cover Bodie’s mouth with his own. He pulled back just enough to say his partner’s name, then moved back in to lick blue off his chin, timing every lick, every swooping kiss with a rhythm and rub his body was pulsing for. Two hands on his face suddenly held him still and away. He opened his eyes slowly, unwilling to give up what he was doing, where he was going.

“Ah, Bodie...”

“Ssh...don’t you waste it, Ray. Not on this tatty old sheet.” And then Bodie was already turning under him, onto his side, left leg drawn up, his arse and back a wonderful array of creamy skin, dotted here and there with blue and red smears. Doyle swallowed and looked around for the jar, too far gone to hunt for the lube. He found it and scooped out what was left, a riotous swirl of red, white and blue. He stretched out behind the length of his partner, keeping it all carefully in his fingers. He let his forehead fall forwards to rest on Bodie and kissed a shoulderblade while he smoothed most of it on his erection.

“You’ll drip the Union Jack for a fortnight, mate,” he said huskily.

“You always said I was the patriotic one.”

Doyle chuckled, low and dirty, then he leaned in and opened Bodie with two fingers straight off. Bodie jolted across the bed and Doyle followed. He found the prostate with ease, loving the cause and effect of his fingertip touch to six tall feet of now-writhing testosterone.

Another stroke, another groan, and all the control was his.

And that’s what choked Doyle when he let it. All his life Bodie’d shouldered his way through the world with nobody beside him. Oh, there’d been squaddies, girlfriends, even the occasional partner dragged along, and occasionally for great distances. But Bodie always reached his summits alone, control and dependancy given freely to none. So to discover that Bodie would not only give such things to him, but demand that he take them – and in bed, of all places - had touched Doyle profoundly over the course of the last few months. He had got to Bodie, or maybe Bodie had got to him. It was hardly an issue now, not when he was buried balls-deep - so very, very in.

Wanting to prolong it, knowing he couldn’t, his left hand reached round and found Bodie hard again. Hand and body in perfect co-ordination, he thrust and pumped, fast and deep.

“Fuckin’...miracle...of...engineering...you are...my..fuckin’...miracle...of...engin..”

He stilled on the last, feeling the rush build and hold, wanting to keep it, wanting to lose it, fearing even to end a word and forget the moment. And then everything spasmed forwards and he had no choice but to tip over and fall, caught as always by the strong back beneath.

******

Minutes passed, maybe three or four, before Doyle found the presence of mind to unglue himself and roll aside onto his back. Bodie made a noise.

“Eh?”

Bodie picked his head up off the pillow, just enough to be heard.

“I said, I thought it was supposed to be your birthday, mate.”

Doyle let his right hand lift and rest on Bodie’s lower back.

“Who needs a sodding fire engine? God save the Queen, I say.”

Bodie shuffled and turned his head to face Doyle, who would have kissed him if he’d had the energy to move those few inches and explain.

“Never mind, mate. Let’s just say I’m a royalist again and have a kip, eh?”

Doyle waited with his eyes shut, knowing that Bodie was surveying the colourful ruin of the bed and the pair of them in it. He wondered if his partner’s more fastidious nature would let it all be until morning.

He got his answer when a head arrived on his right shoulder, and an arm clamped itself across his ribcage. He stretched across to his left, switched the lamp off and smiled in the dark.

“Not bounding up to make use of all this careful plannin’ then?”

“Can’t be arsed,” came the mumbled reply. “Waste of time planning things around you anyway.”

"So I'm like your Eiger then, am I?"

"Climbed that, y'know."

"Bollocks."

"Did so. Just like I climbed you."

Silence.

"Was me that planted the flag, though, mate."

Doyle laughed so hard at his own joke that he actually found the energy to fall out of bed.

******
Author: Callisto
Title: Red, White and Blue
Genre: Slash
Pros Lib/ Circuit: Certainly
Notes: Thanks to Izzie for the beta, and Kaye for the enthusiasm. And thanks to Kat for the idea of body paint when I told her I was fixating on the colours! (Debbie does Dallas here a year before she actually did, and MS may have been born in January ’53, but Doyle was born in June for my purposes:))