The Professionals Circuit Archive - A Pint of Truth	    A Pint of
Truth

 

by Bistokidsfan 

 
 *Written for "Discovered in the Brandy Butter," on the discoveredinalj
livejournal community, to the prompt "Theakston's Old Peculier"*

 ******

*He drew a circle that shut me out 
 --Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
 But love and I had the wit to win:
 We drew a circle that took him in.
* **Edwin Markham (1852--1940)

 *Gin for executions, beer for birthdays, wine for weddings.*
 **John L. Balderston (1899--1954)


 A birthday ought to be special, a young WAP Bodie had always suspected.
Not that he'd much experience with that, none really. Any attention in his
household was not special, it was just bloody painful, especially if you
mentioned wanting a present for your birthday.

 The day had never gotten any better. Year after year, it knelled a
certain doom. If it was your birthday Bodie, best go to bed and cover your
head, old son. It was guaranteed to be a total shite of a day. Jobs were
lost, friends died, hell, bush wars had started on his natal day.

 He'd driven home last night in a fog of exhaustion from their last op,
mumbling something to Doyle he'd immediately forgotten as he dropped him
off at his flat. Falling like a stone onto his bed after stripping off his
clothes, he'd awoken to a feeling of dread he'd not been able to
immediately diagnose the cause of.

 After a few minutes, he remembered, then wished he could forget.

 Stumbling to the loo, he splashed some water on his face, deliberately
not looking in the mirror. After dressing, he went to the kitchen, plugged
in the kettle and made a pot of strong tea. He drank a cup standing at the
window, looking out into the tiny garden at the back of his flat. It was
dormant for the winter, plants huddled up against the cold. The clouds
were grey, heavy with the promise of snow.

 He poured himself another cup, and walked to the bookshelf in his living
room. Since starting with CI-5, he'd allowed himself to accumulate some
possessions. Chief among these were books. He read all he could in his
spare time, and allowed himself to purchase good copies of the works he
valued.

 Choosing Yeats for no reason other than he felt the absurdly romantic
need to read *Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven* yet again, he settled
into his comfortable chair to pass the day safely away from the wrath the
birthday gods.

 Several hours passed, and he exchanged the tea for some cheese toast and
juice, the Yeats for Ginsberg, and returned to his chair.

 The light was just starting to go when his door buzzer sounded. Only one
person would have the temerity to disturb him today -- Doyle. He pushed
the speaker button and caroled, "I'm sorry, Mr. Bodie's not at home
today."

 "Open the door, Bodie, or I'll break it down," Doyle's less than dulcet
tones came through the speaker with all the finesse of a lorry. He
released the outer door lock and went to the door, opening it on the first
knock.

 "Don't understand the Queen's English, Doyle? I'm not receiving visitors
today," he made to close the door.

 "Yeah," Doyle smiled brilliantly, blocking the move. "Know that, I do.
Your birthday, innit?"

 "Don't want to celebrate, mate," Bodie said exasperated. "Just want to
endure until the damn thing's over."

 "You can endure it all you like," Doyle put down the carrier bags he had
brought on the kitchen counter. "But, you're not doing it alone." One bag
was from a local curry house, the other from the off-license down the
street. He pulled out a couple of trays of Vindaloo and put them in the
oven. Then he took some familiar brown bottles with gold lettering from
the other bag and put them in the refrigerator, keeping two out.

 "Decide you're my keeper, then?" Bodie was disgruntled, but the curry
smelled delicious, and Theakston's Old Peculier was an old favorite.

 "Somebody has to be," Doyle retrieved two pint glasses from a cupboard,
popped the tops, and poured out the beer, expertly building a perfect head
of foam. "Cheers," he said blithely, drinking down a good amount.

 Bodie just looked at his glass, then at Doyle. Sighing, he muttered,
"Cheers" and drank.

 The evening moved on. Doyle was relentless. He poked; he prodded; he
discussed. The curry was devoured and the bottles of Old Peculier were
drank. Moving on to the single malt Bodie had stuck away, they were
well-lit by the time the clock struck mid-night.

 "S'ok now, Bodie," Doyle informed him in the precise enunciation of the
truly inebriated. "No more December 15th. S'all gone away."

 "'til next year," Bodie replied morosely, he head flung back on the back
of the lounge.

 "Be all right," Doyle assured him, nuzzling his neck. "Be here next year,
too."

 "Can't get rid of you, can I," Bodie, tugging his golly into his lap,
nipping an ear.

 Doyle just smiled lazily, tracing the outline of Bodie's face with his
fingers. The kiss was light, just a meeting of lips.

 For some idiotic reason, Bodie felt a stinging in his eyes as he looked
at his partner. "You," he began.

 "Yeah, me," Doyle agreed. "You, too," he added in a husky almost whisper.

 "A right pair," Bodie sighed.

 Doyle reached over for one of the books on the end table, and it fell
open to a well-visited page. "Read it," he requested, holding it out.

 Bodie took the book in one hand as Doyle slid into the crook of his other
arm and settled in comfortably, and began, "Had I the heavens' embroidered
cloths..."

 -- THE END --

 *December 2007*


 *Note:* My favorite poem of Yeats is worth reading in its entirety,
because, in my opinion, it embodies Bodie and Doyle's relationship. Thank
you for reading.

 Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven **William Butler Yeats (1865--1939)

 *Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
 Enwrought with golden and silver light, 
 The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
 Of night and light and the half-light, 
 I would spread the cloths under your feet: 
 But I, being poor, have only my dreams; 
 I have spread my dreams under your feet; 
 Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.*

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